Ashes to ashes

We’ve started scattering the Numpt. Ed & H & D dropped a little into the flower bed at the English church near Pat, who has her own plaque, the size of a credit card on the coping of the stone at the base of the wall. Apparently the town council’s historic buildings policy now means that Nancy can’t have her own permanent little plaque like Pat’s, but she can have a label in the flower bed, like the ones in botanic gardens with the species and genus names on. The other evening we drove up to the café on the border with its view of Menton that Nancy so adored. We tipped a few small handfuls over the side towards the sea, and some of it blew back over us and we laughed. We’re not morbid or over-solemn. We drove again down to the sea and cast a little more of her adrift. Some floated out in the ripples between the smooth rocks, and some came to rest in a pool with a crab scuttling under. Some landed in the big horned agaves that sprout along the roadside.

Meanwhile, the unpronounceable Icelandic volcano produces clouds that spread across Europe and keep us from flying until Wednesday. The tiny granules of glass floating in the ash can destroy the jet engines. Hopefully in the extra week we now have here we can distribute our own little clouds of ash along the Riviera from the border, past the marina and right up into the old town. Local air traffic control has been informed and precautionary measures are being taken.