Scattering The Ashes

This is a shot of the beach at Tisvildeleje, and old fishing village in North Zealand, Denmark. My great aunt and great uncle had summer houses within a few miles of here. My grandparents honeymooned here. My dad came to the beaches here when he was a boy, and he brought Anna and me to the beaches here, when we were kids.

Dad didn't specify what he wanted done with his remains. We decided to scatter his ashes into the sea around Tisvildeleje. There is a beautiful little jetty that seemed the perfect place.

We decided to do it at sunset Monday August 24th. It was a lovely sunny day and the wind was blowing away from the shore (probably a good thing when scattering ashes). Anna's family had come up from Copenhagen on Saturday with us and Uncle Alick, Dad's younger brother, arrived on the Monday morning. We had a proper Danish lunch and played on the beach and in the sea in the afternoon. It was good fun. Alick, Anna and I made a little tour of the aunt and uncle's summer houses and he also showed us where our grandparents spent their honeymoon; the black cottage just back from the beach, below.

We had had a late lunch and didn't fancy returning to the summer house, so we went down to the ice cream shop at the car park and bought the most amazing (and expensive) round of ice creams to keep us going; flavoured scoops, soft ice on top, 'guff' (meringue whilst still soft), flodeboller (a kind of marshmallow encased in chocolate), with coatings. It was great. Rupert took the pictures. Firstly, Anna and I (don't worry about the moustache, it was a bad holiday experiment, it's gone now)...

and then the whole group:

Then we got down to the business at hand. The wind was blowing off the shore, and the tide was going out. We felt that we should be discrete, so Anna and I chose a site amongst the rocks on the seaward side of the jetty.

We all gathered about twenty minutes before the sunset. Those who wanted to say a few words did and Anna read this short poem;

Do not stand at my grave and weep

I am not there; I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow,

I am the diamond glints on snow,

I am the sun on ripened grain,

I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning's hush

I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circled flight.

I am the soft stars that shine at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry,

I am not there;

I did not die.

We had given everyone an egg cup with ashes and some lovely purple petals that Anna had picked from the bushes just behind the beach, and after the poem was read, we stepped up, in our own time, and placed the ashes and petals into the water.

And they drifted, slowly and gently towards the setting sun.

It was all lovely and sad and beautiful and poignant.

Bye Dad

x

c