By Christine Swan
I thought long and hard about what to do with my parents’ ashes. My dad died four years ago and my mum last year. In 2015, my parents moved into a little bungalow opposite my house leaving behind their larger property in St Margaret’s at Cliffe, Kent. Dad wasn’t coping and had had a series of falls as well as a number of health problems. He was also developing dementia and becoming increasingly confused and befuddled. They had also experienced a traumatic burglary, which terrified my mum so much, she did not feel safe any longer in such a remote setting. Mum was happy to make the move as she could not manage my dad’s falls and recognised that she needed help. My dad hated the idea initially and then swung between understanding and not fully understanding what was happening.
My dad was a seafarer. He joined the Royal Navy in 1941, aged just 15. After some basic training to become a stoker at HMS Duke, in Malvern of all places, he was deployed to the battleship HMS Anson. He told me about becoming lost on the huge ship and ending up in the officers’ mess for which he was soundly reprimanded. He remained in the Navy for the next few years and was stationed aboard the destroyer HMS Southdown, corvette HMS Pink and the minesweeper HMS Hythe. On D Day, he was deployed to an Assault Landing Craft. After the invasion, he was redeployed from the Navy to the Army, firstly into the South Wales Borderers and then the Royal Welch Fusiliers as part of the 53rd division. Fresh troops were deployed into regiments and battalions where they were needed rather than by the geography of their birth. My dad was an East Ender through and through.
in later life, my dad’s hobby was deep sea fishing and eventually, he was able to purchase his own boat. He completed all of the necessary certification and was a highly competent skipper. To remove him so far from the sea at the end of his life, even in his helpless and confused state, was always going to be distressing for him, even if it was done with the best of intentions. The only alternative would have been a nursing home in Kent, on his own, separated from his entire family, which seemed unthinkable.
In the years before he died, I saw him every day and he told me innumerable stories of the war but, as his memory faded still further, even these became less frequent. He would ask me questions instead. Sometimes the same question five or six times over. “Who is that nice lady from over the road?” He would ask Mum. “I don’t know why she comes here every day,” completely oblivious to me being his daughter.
My dad died in May 2019 and after the pandemic lockdowns began in March 2020, my mum had two massive and devastating strokes. She survived and came out of hospital towards the end of May. From then on, her life and mine changed dramatically. My role as carer restricted my movements but, during periods of lockdown, so was everybody else’s. After lockdown ended, my restrictions continued. I became very adept at compacting walks into one hour circuits to ensure that I could be back at the designated time to make a cup of tea or a meal and to spend time talking to her as her main source of social contact. After an active life, Mum had lost all will to move. I bought decorative writing materials, investigated one-handed knitting, brought in physiotherapists but she didn’t want to engage or take part. Her sole joy was watching others going about their daily lives from the window.
When Mum died, my life changed. I did find myself still watching the clock, still picking up my house keys at the designated visit times. I could travel further from home. I never wanted to be selfish and resent my loss of freedom but to regain it was bittersweet.
I thought long and hard about what to do with my parents’ ashes. This summer, I felt ready for closure and knew that there was only one possible resting place. I must go back to Kent.
I have previously written about my love of walking so I didn’t bother to look at the weather prior to leaving. I was going to do this no matter what. As it turned out, I don’t think I could have picked a better day.
A view of Folkestone from the train
I left London and arrived at Dover a little before midday. I had some bottles of water and a few sweets but I guessed that would be insufficient to power me during the afternoon. I purchased two bottles of fizzy drink and two chocolate bars and off I went. As I hadn’t booked a hotel in Dover, I was also loaded with my rucksack containing things for a few days, including my trip to the theatre the previous evening, as well as the ashes sealed in large, thick boxes.
Along the East Cliff
The initial part of my journey was flat. Through the town and then alongside the thundering A20 heading towards the Port of Dover. Google Maps then took me along the East Cliff which includes, on the right, the back end of some magnificent houses that face Marine Parade, as well as small cottages, a rather interesting old pub, backpackers, hostels and other assorted properties. One bears the traditional Kentish flint stone rendering and another, wooden clapboarding. The ascent then begins.
Dover port
Magnificent Dover Castle
I took sips of my fizzy drink and chomped one of the chocolate bars to give me the sugar I needed. A poor diet choice but light and convenient to carry as my load was quite heavy. The sun was beating down and the wind surprisingly warm. My shoes had turned from black to grey as the chalk dust coated them. This was a physical toil but felt more like a pilgrimage.
Common Blue butterfly
The edges of the paths were bordered by wildflowers and flitting butterflies, mostly stunning blue species. The sea appeared turquoise against the brilliant white of the chalk cliff, the azure sky and fresh green grass. Everything seemed to add to the spiritual element of my quest – nature’s stained glass window.
On the White Cliffs
Holly Blue butterfly
After some time, the white shape of the South Foreland Lighthouse came into view. First, it appeared to be peeping over the top of a summit but gradually, its entire structure was visible to me. Nearly there.
The South Foreland Lighthouse
Past the lighthouse and along the footpath I remember walking with my children so many times. It became more quiet the further inland I walked. I was now protected from the wind and there were fewer walkers. The lighthouse entrance acted as a further filter until I was completely alone.
A buzzard soared overhead, goldfinches twittered among the trees, the tall grasses wafted wildflowers and yet more butterflies. This was the place. I sat with my parents for some time. I could almost hear my mum telling me to drink my second bottle of fizzy pop and to eat the other chocolate bar. Everything was quiet, just me, mum and dad. I told them I loved them. I thanked them for everything. The sun moved in the sky and it was time for me to leave this place.
The walk back was symbolically and physically easier. The declines outnumber the inclines and the physical weight I was carrying was less. I panicked a little when I lost track of time and realised that I didn’t have as much time as I thought to catch my train to Canterbury. I then relaxed when I realised that my phone was displaying French time, as it sometimes does walking along the White Cliffs. Upon turning a bend, the time retreated by a whole hour.
I walked alongside the thundering traffic heading to the port. I was dusty, sweaty and tired, with twelve more miles of walking on my fitness app. I arrived at the station in good time for the next part of my journey. As I relaxed into my train seat, I reflected on the day. I had not slept well before and was silently dreading carrying out my task but, we all have to let go of people we love. When the time is right, we find the strength and it can be a very connecting experience that brings you closer not only to them but to yourself.
Awful Rigours and Wretched Pay 