A Tear In Provence

Friday morning Mary and I got up bright and early - something of a sufferance for Mary since she retired and has enjoyed the privilege of getting up when she chooses. We wanted to get on the road as early as possible and carry out the mission we had chosen. We had a sixty mile drive to the Grand Canyon du Verdon, known more popularly to we Brits as Verdon Gorge.

Back in 2006 Brian bought a copy of Bike magazine and on the front cover were two bikes riding side by side round a right hand bend. When you opened the magazine they showed a photo of the same bend but the photographer had panned back and you could see the surrounding scenery. It was stunning. Brian read the article, followed the route they had taken on his map and determined he was going to ride those roads himself. Well, when I say himself I mean he was going to talk someone into going with him. Someone who had experience of riding abroad and especially in France. Someone who he had shared riding through France before on his previous trip. Someone who could speak a bit of the language and knew how to book hotels and find his way around. You just know who that someone was.

Brian and I actually ended up going there three times altogether over the years. He wanted to have a photo of us two going round that same bend and that was how many attempts it took before we got the picture he wanted, courtesy of the lovely Janie. We never tired of going there and although I would never claim it was my favourite part of my beloved France it was nevertheless a lovely area to go to. Brian also went back there with his wife, Mary, and again with his daughter, Stacey.

If Brian was to end up anywhere this would be the place for him. He absolutely adored it, the scenery, the warmth, the roads, everything about this place drew Brian back time and time again.

Mary and I had our wires crossed about where we should leave him. I had assumed it was to be at the bend which started his love affair with Verdon and Mary had assumed it was going to be where he used to take so many of his photographs and video pictures from. Eventually it was to prove that Mary thought those pictures were taken at the bend; she just thought the background of those photos was down near the lake, the Lac de Sainte Croix. I took Mary first of all to where the shots were actually taken and as soon as she saw it Mary knew this was where Brian wanted to be. It was a stunning location, the view of the gorge and the lake were beyond compare and, most importantly, down near the lake you could see that bend.

I spotted a place quite quickly which looked ideal for our needs. Just beyond a wall was a drop of about two metres but with the ground then sloping down very steeply towards the River Verdon. There were some trees and shrubs there which would help prevent the ashes immediately blowing away or rolling down the incline. There were a few tourists, French, German and Dutch there but suddenly it seemed as though they all decided to pack up and go. The time seemed to be now.

We took the box, a six inch cube, from the car to the wall and started to open it. We hadn't expected a paper inner which looked for all the world like an envelope. That took us a few seconds to open by which time another car had arrived and its two occupants started gazing at the scenery and didn't seem to be taking any notice of what Mary and I were doing. I had used the time honoured method of licking my finger and holding it up to check the wind direction which was coming from behind us. Perfect. And so the moment arrived. Together Mary and I tipped the box and watched Brian's ashes fall onto the ground below with some of the remains drifting off with the wind into the trees and shrubs.

Mary put the box back on the wall and then her face visibly changed. It didn't take a genius to see that she was talking in her mind to Brian - I would guess saying her final goodbyes although I never asked; the thoughts were for Mary alone, naturally. We looked at each other, smiled, and then the strangest thing happened.

It was now at least thirty seconds, if not more since we had sent the ashes down. And suddenly a white cloud of them rose up over the wall and drifted on, over and around Mary and me. It lasted five or ten seconds. It wasn't a sparse cloud, a few random, specks. It was a very dense cloud of many, many particles which, if they had been watching, the other tourists there would have seen clearly. And remember that by rising up over the wall and then washing down over Mary and me those particles were going against the prevailing wind, although I guess common sense and elimentary physics says that the wind had to have changed direction at that moment. At that moment.

I know both Mary and I never felt anything bad or scary about what had happened. It almost felt as though Brian was either saying goodbye or showing his approval of what we had done. Whether it was something like that or simply a freak of the wind at the time I guess each person will draw his or her own conclusion.

I really don't know what caused it. I just know what I saw.

From there we drove down to beside the lake and stopped at the bend Brian loved so much and whilst we were there we looked back up at the spot where Brian's ashes lay. That was when Mary realised she had misunderstood where all those photos had been taken.

And from there we started our journey back both feeling as though it was time for lunch and wishing we could find a restaurant where we could sit outside on this warm, sunny day and enjoy a beautiful French salade.


And we did exactly that in Moustiers-Sainte-Marie. Mission accomplished.