If I hadn’t queued for so long to see Marx’s grave, I’d have had time for more than a quick dash around Highgate West Cemetery. I was lucky they let me in at all. The last entry is supposed to be at four thirty, and I ran through the gate at four thirty-six. The gates close at five. In the twenty odd minutes left to me, I abandoned hope of searching out any of the famous graves, stuffed the map into my pocket and climbed the steep stone steps. What I saw would be whatever I stumbled upon.
The first grave that caught my eye belonged to Sir Henry Knight Storks. Among his many achievements, Storks was in charge of the British military bases in Ottoman territory during the Crimean War and was a supporter of Florence Nightingale. He became governor of Malta and Jamaica in the 1860s and was later a Liberal MP. For all this, I’d never heard of him, but the crossed swords on his headstone and the need to catch my breath after running up the stairs drew me to his grave.
The path wound ever upwards, and I tramped along it, glancing at the graves I passed, annoyed I had no time to stop and explore. Despite the pleasant greenery, I was hot, tired and in need of a bench to sit on. Of course, even if there had been a bench, I had no time to sit.
Occasionally, I paused to snap a photograph of an interesting-looking grave, but trying to decipher inscriptions was beyond me. The time constraints and the steep climb sucked the pleasure from my visit. Much as I wanted to keep climbing and exploring, the minutes ticking away made me afraid of being locked inside, and I looked at my watch as much as the stones I’d come to see.
Then, by luck more than judgement, I came upon the asymmetric pink granite stone of Alexander Litvinenko’s grave. I had heard of him. In fact, his name was on the list of graves I hoped to see. Litvinenko was once an officer of the Russian Federal Security Service, tasked with tackling organised crime. In late 2000, he and his family defected to the West, and in 2001, the British Government granted him political asylum. His criticism of Vladimir Putin and allegations against the Russian Government finally caught up with him in 2006. On 1 November, after a meeting in London with two former agents, Dmitry Kovtun and Andrey Lugovoy, he fell ill. They had poisoned him with polonium. On 23 November, he died. Before his death, he claimed Putin had directly ordered his assassination. Despite an extensive investigation and an extradition attempt, no one was ever brought to justice for his murder. Lugovoy was later treated at a Moscow hospital for suspected radiation poisoning but declined to say whether he had been contaminated with polonium. Kovtun died at a Moscow hospital on 4 June 2022 from COVID-19.
I walked on, remembering the news reports about Litvinenko’s death and the photographs of him, pale and hairless, in a hospital bed. When I came to a crossroads, I reluctantly turned right. Much as I’d have liked to keep climbing, I didn’t fancy scaling the tall wrought-iron gates or spending the night locked in the cemetery with the fox I’d seen earlier. According to the map, this path would lead me in a long circular loop back to the courtyard.
At least I had the place to myself. The only sound I heard was birdsong and my own footsteps on the narrow path. At one point, I caught a whiff of bluebells and turned to find an intriguing little fairy-sized gate with stone steps beyond. An Angel holding a wreath guarded the grave, but the inscription was too worn and time too short to make out a name.
A few steps further, the name Marie jumped out at me. Seeing my name inscribed on a large tomb surrounded by what looked like wild garlic flowers made me pause. I suppose if I’d been called something more ordinary, I’d be used to seeing my name on graves by now. Above the inscription stood a headless figure. It seemed bizarre until I looked closer and saw that the poor decapitated thing had once been a chubby angel or cherub clutching a wreath.
Before long, the path began to curve and descend. Soon I saw the tightly packed row of family mausoleums marked on the map as Cuttings Catacombs. They reminded me of all the mausoleums I saw in Pere Lachaise Cemetery in Paris, and I wished I could stop and admire them for longer.
Opposite all the wrought-iron gates and locked doors, a simple slate stone gave me pause for thought. The words seemed fitting on this warm spring afternoon, with the sun sinking in the sky and time at such a premium. Close by, I discovered the grave of author Beryl Bainbridge, bursting with bluebells and daisies. Another chubby cherub stood amongst them, grinning and holding her skirt as if about to curtesy.
Moments later, the gate was in sight. Much as I’d have liked to stay, my time had finally run out. With one last look around for Mr Fox, I stepped into the street and began the long, slow slog back to Hampstead Heath and the runners. At least it was mostly downhill.
Of course, I couldn’t resist peeking into the cemetery as I made my slow descent, and I did find a bench near the bottom of the hill to sit and drink the last drops of water in my bottle. Hopefully, this will not be my last visit to Highgate. Maybe next time, the trains won’t be delayed, and I’ll have longer to wander.
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The cemetery sounds and looks so interesting, I wish you’d had more time too!
Maybe I’ll have chance for another visit one day.