There were people paraponting, and Chuffs playing - catching the currents for no other reason than they can, and the sky was bitter pure blue, and the air was icy finger-burning cold, and the snow was so white it hurt our eyes. And there was ash in my mouth and my hat and my hair, and in my eyelashes and in my scarf and down my top, and I cried like a hysterical child, and I loved the fact that once again I was physically touching him. And I toasted his life with a glass of ice cold Prosecco from a bottle we'd buried in the snow, and my son threw his arms up in the air and covered himself in ash and shouted as loud as he could, "Bye-bye my lovely Grandad."

And it was as perfect as it could ever have possibly been.

How many people have trekked up a mountain carrying their (heavy) father? And how many who have died get to be scattered in such a beautiful, inspiring place?

And, well. Ha, ha...at least he can't complain about the view...