More tales from the Old Cemetery

8 April 2017

Even if you’re not a runner there are some advantages to getting up early on a Saturday morning for parkrun. For me this usually means a walk of some kind while Commando is running and, for the second week in a row my feet took me to the Old Cemetery on the Common. At this pont you might be thinking two Saturday mornings walking round a cemetery sounds borderline obsessive. Maybe you’d be right but there was so much still to see I couldn’t resist. This time I took the fancy pants camera with me.

It was a bright morning with the makings of a beautiful day but, at such an early hour the air had a sharpness that kept me moving.  A hint of mist still swirled around in the shady places and the low sun threw long shadows giving the place a slightly spooky atmosphere.

Hoping to find new stories I deliberately took a path I don’t remember walking before then let my feet take me wherever they wanted. This is not a very systematic method granted, but the place is so large and rambling it seems like a plan to me. For the most part my feet kept me in the sun,  not from any fear of the ghostly shadows but to keep warm.

The first of the graves I passed were so worn I couldn’t even make out names, never mind details and I began to wonder if my feet had betrayed me. Perhaps this was an area so old all the stories had worn away. Then I hit what I thought was the sepulcher jackpot. The name on the grave sounded very familiar. In fact I was sure there was a war poet called Henry Reed. I vauguely remembered his poem Naming of Parts. When I looked a little closer though, the date on the grave was 1899 so obviously this was a different Henry Reed.

With a slight feeling of disappointment I wandered on looking for more graves with inscriptions I could read. The next I came to was the grave of another Henry, this time Henry Bullen and his wife Ellen. The poor man died terribly young and his wife was a widow for a long time. Their grave was beautifully carved with ivy and roses and had little marble pillars at the sides. A little research later told me he  was an oil merchant and dealer in lamps in Beovis Street, so must have been a fairly well to do man in his day.

My next find was so unusual I had to leave the path for a closer look. By the look of the stone it was fairly old and it was certainly one of the more ornate stones in an area of simple slabs. The centre piece was an oak branch with leaves attached. At its foot two children, or maybe little angels, looked up adoringly. The really unusual thing though, was the photograph. It is a rare thing to see the face of the deceased, although the photograph was weathered and faded. Edith Operti was obviously much loved and missed by her husband Giuseppe and her children.

Apart from a few scattered bluebells here and there, there was a decided lack of spring flowers in this part of the cemetery. Along the misty paths I walked, wondering if I’d have been better choosing a different route. Right when I was thinking about changing direction I came upon a grave with exactly the kind of story I love, enough detail to get the imagination working but not so much the mystery is lost.

This was obviously a family plot with no less than four family members buried together. It was Harry Kinnard whose story really captured my attention though. Poor Harry died aged just nineteen on his first ever sea voyage. The date was 31 May 1889 and I could find no record of shipwrecks around that time so I couldn’t help wondering exactly how he died. He was buried with his parents and brother. Through the light and shade of the trees I walked on wondering what had happened to him.

My next stop was for a glittering cobweb dancing with rainbow colours from the morning sun. Sadly, the photographs I took did well enough capturing the structure but not the shimmering colours. Those I will have to leave to your imagination.

A little way alng the path a few daffodils brightened my morning further. By now time was beginning to run out and I turned to head back towards the parkrun finish. There was one more story still waiting for me though.

Quite close to the gate I found the grave of Zillah Gear. The name was so unusual it made me stop and look. Poor Zillah died in 1896 aged sixty four. Below her name was that of her husband William who died in 1917 at seventy five. A husband and wife buried in the same grave is not such an unusual story, even if the wife has an unusual name. The final name on the headstone though, got me to wondering. The third person buried in this little grave was Isabella, William’s second wife. She died two years after him aged eighty two. From the dates it seemed William was a man who liked older women but I couldn’t help wondering what the two loves of his life would have made of ending in the same grave?

My walk today may not have uncovered the excitement of fame and shipwrecks like my last walk, or the spring flowers but I like these little glimpses into personally histories just the same. This will certainly not be my last Saturday morning wander around the Old Cemetery.

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