A Final Walk Home

I am proud to publish this edited extract from Awful Rigours & Wretched Pay by a graduate of my writing course. Christine Swan set out to write her family history and other stories.

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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 home in St Margaret’s at Cliffe, Kent.

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 fifteen. On D-Day, he was deployed to an Assault Landing Craft. After the invasion, he was transferred from the Navy to the Army, firstly into the South Wales Borderers and then the Royal Welch Fusiliers as part of the 53rd division. Troops were deployed where they were needed rather than by the geography of their birth. He was an East Ender through and through.

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, in 2020, my mum had two massive and devastating strokes. From then on, her life and mine changed dramatically. My role as carer restricted my movements. After an active life, Mum had lost all will to move. Her sole joy was watching others going about their daily lives from the window. When she died, my life changed again, I could travel further from home. I never wanted to 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 did not bother to look at the weather prior to leaving, I was going to do this no matter what. As it turned out, I do not think I could have picked a better day.

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, so I purchased two bottles of fizzy drink and two chocolate bars and off I went. As I had not 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.

The initial part of my journey was flat, through the town and then alongside the thundering A20 heading towards the Port of Dover. The path took me along the East Cliff which includes the back end of some magnificent houses that face Marine Parade. Then the ascent begins. The sun was beating down and the wind surprisingly warm. My shoes turned from black to grey as the chalk dust coated them. This was a physical toil but felt more like a pilgrimage.

The edges of the paths were bordered by wildflowers and flitting butterflies, mostly stunning blue. The sea appeared turquoise against the brilliant white of the chalk cliff, azure sky and fresh green grass. Everything seemed to add to the spiritual element of my quest, nature’s stained glass window.

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.

Past the lighthouse and along the footpath I remember walking with my children so many times to St Margaret’s at Cliffe. It became quieter the further inland I walked. I was now protected from the wind and there were fewer walkers. The lighthouse entrance acted as another 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. Everything was quiet, just me, mum and dad. I told them I loved them and I thanked them for everything. The sun moved in the sky and it was time for me to leave.

The walk back was 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 did not have as much time as I thought to catch my train to Canterbury. I 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. I arrived at the station in good time and, as I relaxed into my train seat, I reflected on the day. I had not slept well before and was 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 an experience that brings you closer not only to them but to yourself.