The sun shone down on us

A unique errand brought a diverse group of people to the Dorset coast on this brilliant summer day. All of us were connected by the  person who was with us only in a granular form: The Old Man, my half-brother, who died  last year, aged 93. 

25 years ago he brought  us here to show where he wanted his remains to be scattered, at the rocky inlet called Winspit where  generations of quarry men  risked life and limb  to carve the famous Purbeck stone from what is now known as the Jurassic Coast. This place was The Old Man's boyhood paradise, his Land of Lost Content, where, as an introverted, solitary child, summer holidays at a cottage in the  nearby village  allowed him to explore the hazardous quarries, scramble on the fossiled rocks and swim off the inhospitable ledges. His only companions were the birds, his only deadline sunset. For a boy trammelled by boarding school routines and confused by toxic family dynamics this was a place of freedom and relief from anxiety.

The reason for The Old Man's connection with Winspit go back 90 years to the occasion when his (and my) father, on a country jaunt from London with his good friend L., discovered what is known as The Isle of Purbeck.  Not actually an island but, isolated and exclusive even now, before the war this area of land really was the back of beyond. Quarrying, fishing and farming were the only occupations and hard ones at that. The local pub was the sole social resort, remote enough to operate according to its own anarchic rules. (It still exists,  little changed.)

Captivated by the village and its entrancing surroundings, L. bought a tiny cottage next to the church which became a holiday home for his family (generously including his friend's son whose own parents were not into family life). I too had 3 memorable seaside holidays there between the ages of 7 and 9, and his grand children spent their summers there too - all were touched with the magic of the place.

And here they are: L's grandson and granddaughter, on the left,  are, along with my sons,  the third generation of connection here. What started with a random visit by two Londoners  became the place for the two of them to put down roots: as a sailor he knows the coastline like the back of his hand, while she farms the rolling Wessex acres with her own folk (and is also the blipper Saffi! (See her version here.)

In addition to them and my own family, the group includes a young couple from Hungary. S. was a volunteer visitor  who made a close connection with The Old Man in his final years. Bonding over their shared love of history, languages and London, it was a friendship that transcended the age gap and meant a great deal to both of them. Now she and her partner have travelled down from London to this rugged spot to share in the informal ceremony of tipping The Old Man's remains off the edge of the land into the English Channel, the sea that drew him as a boy but also the sea he crossed as a young soldier taking part in the Normandy landings in 1944. This time he won't return but his ashes will drift with the tide and become one with the waves and the rocks and  the marine life  of the coast he loved so well.

Additional images show 1.Winspit cove; 2. Ashes ready to go; 3. Where they went; 4. a 1930s photo showing The Old Man as a boy with his mother and (our) father and  L. at Winspit ; 5. a 1991 photo taken at Winspit when The Old Man showed us where he wanted his ashes to be scattered. (From L to R: self with younger son, L's grand daughter with her son, The Old Man with elder son.)