Holy Trinity Church - Washington

Hidden beside Washington Old Hall lies an overgrown and forgotten, lonely looking graveyard. When exploring the grounds of the house I found myself repeatedly catching glimpses of this moody looking graveyard. Over walls, through gaps and just about anywhere. There it was silently waiting. Its probably largely down to my incredible ability to sniff out cemeteries everywhere I go, a morbid gift I seem to have acquired over the years.

After an enjoyable visit to the ancient family residence of George Washington (though he never actually set foot there) I eagerly rushed off to see the shady churchyard which it turned out belongs to the Holy Trinity Church next door.

The graves in closest proximity to the church were well tended, tidy, trimmed and mowed. As you moved into the darker recesses of the graveyard nature had taken over, with nettles and ivy lining the floor and trees taking over wherever they can rest their limbs. Often this is the type of graveyard I love to see the most. Nature taking back what is rightfully hers. Interacting with the stones which are all that's left to represent the people nourishing from below. The relationship between the stones and the trees certainly made for an interesting and unusual photo opportunity, which of course I grasped with both hands.

The Holy Island of Lindisfarne

The Holy Island of Lindisfarne is one of those strange, mythical places that until relatively recently I knew very little about. Of course I'd heard of the Lindisfarne Gospel (as a long time illuminated manuscript fanatic) but honestly I knew little else about this distant place.
A good friend of mine recommended visiting Holy Island and sang its praises as an amazing place to visit. Also, after watching the fantastic TV series 'Vikings' I gained a little more basic knowledge about Lindisfarne and its role in history. A few documentaries later and a bit more basic reading later and my appetite was suitably wetted.

Nothing had in actuality quite prepared me for Lindisfarne. I wasn't expecting what this incredible place had to offer or how it would make me feel. It was honestly nothing short of magical. And in reality, I cant wholly explain why.
The approach across the miles of causeway was in itself an unusual experience and felt like the beginning of an adventure. Knowing that the times of the tide are crucial and how quickly the causeway is lost to the sea there was a mixture of fear and excitement about it all.

The landscape itself was increasingly breathtaking the further from the mainland you go. This incredible swathe of low land which looks as though it could be washed away in an instant. Sand that goes on for miles, but you know it wont be that way for long. And there it was, on a mound of land erupting from the sea, Lindisfarne Castle. Everywhere around heather and wildflowers dance in the breeze and the grass which is pale as straw seems to sway with the sea. The sandy shores seem reflected in the buttery stone of the old ruins of the Priory which the Vikings plundered centuries ago.

I can't deny that Holy Island had a special feeling. Ancient, deep rooted, celtic. At the edge of England and the farthest North I've ever travelled in the UK I felt strangely at home. This rugged coast line is not something a landlocked Nottinghamshire lass gets to see very often, and it was just perfection. 

And to top it all off, as with most great places people have lived, there was a lovely graveyard. Perched behind the Priory ruins surrounding the quaint little church sit many graves of varying age. Looking out to the sea almost surrounding it I never fail to see some beautifully poetic, hopelessly romantic aspect about being beside the sea for all eternity.
Seaside graves are always interesting. 'Lost at sea' 'Died in a great storm' 'Shipwrecked' are often some of the untimely deaths recorded, and generally stones decorated with anchors and ships pepper the cemeteries, showing the importance of the sea to these people, in life, and death.

My only regrets regarding Lindisfarne are that I did not visit this otherworldly place sooner, and that I did not get to spend more time in it on this occasion (down to the timing of the tide unfortunately). Lindisfarne was one of those rare places that before you have even left, you're planning your return. I desperately hope to make it back to Holy Island in 2019 and explore more of this breathtaking place.

For me The Holy Island of Lindisfarne felt like my own little Summerisle, only, I'm no Sergent Howie ...

Spital Cemetery

During a civilized Sunday out in Eyam the decision was made to come back home via Chesterfield, namely Spital Cemetery. Spital Cemetery was something that had occupied our minds for a number of months, and for good reason. The old Church within the Cemetery grounds is for sale, and we have long dreamed of living in a Church, restoring it to its former glory, saving the building and worshipping its beauty. But due to timing, finances etc, my partner and I had agreed that a visit would be a bad idea and risk us falling in love with the place. Yet against out better judgement we found ourselves rolling through the gates in my Morris Minor and parking at the bottom of an embankment peppered with graves.

First impressions were of a sprawling hillside with two quite distinct personalities. To the right is a neat, compact modern style cemetery, with tidy rows of small grave stones, all relatively new and shiny, adorned with flowers, ornaments and the like. To the left however, upon the rising hill towering lofty trees and a ragged meadow of grass stretch out across the bank, with graves and monuments protruding forth every now and then, some temptingly hidden from view by the rippling hillside. The left had a far wilder, more ancient temptation, and its winding paths create a certain intrigue to dig a little deeper. So I did ...

Picking my way up the hillside, I realised all manner of wild flowers, trees and wildlife have almost claimed the cemetery for their own, with Ivy slowly eating gravestones with its grip of greenery, tree roots erupting mercilessly through stone and a carpet of pine needles and autumn leaves lingering on to join those below. The afternoon sunshine filtered through the trees in mottled drabs, falling on graves and wildflowers, then proceeding to dance with the wind. It quickly became apparent what a tranquil, idyllic space the Cemetery is, with the dead silent as ever in their eternal rest. 

At the crown of the hill, surrounded by a whole host of graves was the Church. At first it emerged between the trees, peaking out in faint glimpses, until it rose proud and bold in a clearing. Its Gothic Revival style is my preferred architectural aesthetic for Churches, and I was hugely impressed by the grotesques adorning its humble facade. Carved stone faces peered for from the edges of windowsills, each one entirely unique, and Medieval inspired monsters loomed in guttering, jutting out harsh against the sky. The roof would once have been a work of art with its pattern of fishscale tiles, but many years have passed and patching up and essential repairs to save the building from decay have given it a quilt like quality still hinting at its former glory. The Church was certainly larger than photos had me believe, and its exquisite details and honest personality make it a charming little gem.

Many of the monuments and graces close to the Church were large and must have been a grand sight to behold at one time, their slow decay and faded magnificence has a kind of romantic charm which reminded me of Highgate Cemetery, having a similar mixture of wildness and faded beauty.
Spital Cemetery's similarities with Highgate are no mere coincidence. Many Victorian cemeteries like this were most probably modelled on Highgate and the Magnificent Seven (which in turn was modeled on Pere Lachaise) and the concept of a picturesque cemetery. From 1852 onwards many Burial Acts were passed reforming the rites and laws of death in Victorian Britain. Severe overcrowding in inner city Churchyards was causing a public health hazard, and two cholera epedemics and tens of thousands of deaths had bought burial and safe internment of remains to the forefront of public concern. In 1857, the same year Spttal Cemetery opened, a national system of public cemeteries was established and Burial Boards were formed to manage and maintain the new Cemeteries. Cemeteries became a planned park-like space, where you could mourn, be remembered and set your place in history for eternity.

Spital Cemetery is a truly beautiful, special slice of Victorian Cemetery, and I envy, and commend the lucky soul who may one day get to save Spital Church and call its rolling hill home.

Cimetiere marin de Sete

'The Cemetery by the Sea' was a very fortunate discovery indeed. While wandering through Sete searching for the Art gallery which was hosting a Yves Tanguy exhibition I'd found out about during our stay, I happened to peer over the wall of the street we were wandering down, convinced we were lost as we were on the very edge of the town, and that's when I saw it. The cemetery by the sea.
And what a sight it was to behold. I wandered through the neatly packed rows of graves which snaked their way up the hillside, staggered by steps and sprinkled with great trees. It was unmistakably a French graveyard, they are always so neat and perfectly formed, and have a gleaming sense of pride.
As I climbed the hill, the monuments became larger and more ancient, with the brow of the hill covered with wonderful miniature chapels often found in French graveyards. Each one is an absolute work of art and I could spend countless hours admiring their architecture and the unique personalities given to them by each family and their stone mason.
There is something so serene and unashamedly, but silently beautiful about French cemeteries. They reflect an attitude and respect for death which is not found everywhere anymore. These little empires of the dead are always so private, with their high walls and gates, if you did not glimpse a glimmer of white stone, or see a sign post, you would most likely pass them by never knowing they exist. 
I have wandered many French graveyards before, but this one was different, its location perched on the side of Mont Saint-Clair, looking out to the vast, infinite blue, with the bright sun beating down relentlessly giving the stone the appearance of bleached bone, was enchanting and breathtaking.
I can understand why French poet Paul Valery wrote the poem 'Le cimetiere marin' about the cemetery. Its opening verse (translated from French):

'This quiet roof, where dove-sails saunter by,
Between the pines, the tombs, throbs visibly.
Impartial noon patterns the sea in flame -
That sea forever starting and re-starting,
When thought has had its hour, oh how rewarding,
Are the long vistas of celestial calm!'

I can see why Paul Valery adored this graveyard and chose to be buried within its walls upon his death. I can think of no finer resting place to eternally lay, with the sun on your face and the sea by your side as 'Into flowers the gift of life has passed.'

Highgate Cemetery

During the 19th century every city with a population boom suffered the same social and economic issues; overcrowding, famine, disease, unsanitary conditions, an endless list of problems bought on by the ever evolving, and growing, world. Victorian London was no exception. The conditions in London worsened as the population increased, the church yards overflowed and diseases spread like never before. Every great city had it's own solution of what to do with it's dead when the room finally ran out. Paris built the catacombs, and the vast park like cemetery Père Lachaise, which inspired the solution to Londons problems; Highgate Cemetery and 'The Magnificent Seven'.

Highgate at the time of its creation was a place to bury your dead far from the metropolis of London. A green park on a distant hill, free from the Victorian obsession of miasma, where your loved ones could be buried in peace, without fear of being exhumed, and you also guaranteed your own resting place, by buying a plot with a contract which is still binding today. This new system gave peace of mind in a time when the threat of disease and death were ever present.

Highgate was a popular choice of final resting place for many well to do Victorians, with many notable figures of the age buried within the cemetery. Though, as attitudes towards cemetery's changed and Victorian indulgence and grandeur gave way to the sorrow and mourning of the Great War, Highgate fell into a state of neglect. Eventually it's gates were closed, and both vandals and nature took over.

Now reopened, thanks to the Friends of Highgate Cemetery, and available for visit by guided tour, the cemetery is a beautiful, tranquil treasure, hidden within ordinary suburban London. Highgate has so much to offer as a slightly 'alternative' activity to partake in when visiting the capital. History, exemplary craftsmanship, wild plants and flowers, a registered nature reserve, and importantly, the human story behind the stone. The lives (and deaths) of those interred at Highgate are wonderful stories, and capture the true reality behind the thousands of monuments.

Next time you're in London, I urge you to indulge in something a little different and visit Highgate Cemetery. By supporting the Friends of Highgate Cemetery, you are helping to keep a slice of history alive, and ensuring the maintenance and preservation of this incredible place for future generations.