[Margaret Pilkington]

I think that somewhere in the dim and distant past I blogged about the disposal of my Dad's ashes.

My Father loved Ronda, and when he died my mother decided she would take his ashes and scatter them over the deep ravine there.
His ashes were transported in a Nescafe Frappe jar, up into the mountains went my Ma and a sister Vanessa (heavily pregnant).
They travelled by public transport, though my sister had offered to drive, my mother was fearful that she wasn't fit to do so.

On reaching Ronda they chose a spot on one of the viewing platforms that jut out over the deep ravine(there are a few of these)......they were waiting for an opportune moment to toss the ashes over the side.
On the next viewing platform were some young men from Birmingham....with thick brummie accents.
Ma and Vanessa waited and waited for these young men to vacate the platform so that they could hurl father over the side and into the ravine in relative privacy and with some solemnity.
It was not to be..... the young men lingered and ma and Vanessa ran out of patience.
They chucked father out over the ravine. A thermal current picked up the ashes......up into the air they soared......then down, then up again and down......suddenly a gust of wind came along and blew fathers ashes all over the brummie lads.
They made some comment about the dust being sand from the Sahara......Ma chuckled, she said the ash was from a very hot place but not from the Sahara(this was under her breath and not to the lads in question) Ma then took a photo of father out of her handbag, she tossed that over the side of the ravine too. It experienced the same fate as the ashes.....up and down it went on the currents of air, and was eventually blown back into the road where it was run over by a truck that was heavily laden with watermelons.......Poor Dada, run over by a truck.
I am sure my father would have been tickled to little mint balls if he had been aware of the trouble he had caused in the disposal of his ashes.....I like to think of him having watched the whole performance with a wry grin on his face and a glass of Fundador in his hand.
Solemnity just wasn't his bag.