The Dead Tell Stories

Today I went to the cemetery to put some flowers on my parent's grave. I dawdled on the five-minute walk home, chosing narrow pathways between the graves and watching a jay that was screeching in a tree.

It is a beautiful place that I make use of when I need to reflect or get inspiration.

I find that the gravestones tell their own stories. There is the footballer, near to the front gate, and the tobacco tycoon up in the wood. The philanthropist who built a big orphanage lies next to a hidden path and a famous singer is opposite the grand tomb of a raj. But there are also the smaller stories of the 'beloved wife of', or the heart-breaking words for a child who died too soon, or the nickname lovingly added in case they forget. There are stories in the details of where the dead lived - other parts of the city or further afield - family tombstones and great monoliths now hidden among ivy and trees.

Just before Christmas I needed a surname for one of my characters and realised the cemetery was the perfect place. I took a long saunter around, muttering names out loud, and fixed on the just the right one.

This cemetery has a story all of its own. It was built when city officials realised that cholera burials were contaminating the two rivers that are the lifeblood of Bristol. It sits just outside the sprawl of the city and originally had lawns and chapels serving both Anglican and non-conformists. It fell into disrepair towards the end of the twentieth century and was due to be sold for development but local pressure persuaded the council to prevent that. It is now operated as a charity and, normally, hosts weddings as well as funerals, retains the wild space that is home to birds and small mammals.

Cemeteries and graveyards are always good places to look for stories and inspiration - I hope you have access to one that is even half as good as mine!

https://arnosvale.org.uk/