I recently stumbled upon a burial ground near my home whose existence I had been completely unaware of: Ridgeway Park Cemetery in Eastville Park. One section is still accessible, but, wonderfully, much of it lies hidden in a wood that has engulfed it. As I carefully crouched and stooped my way among the brambles and close knit trees, I discovered gorgeous Victorian grave stones (the earliest I saw was dated 1884), weathered and overgrown, quietly forgotten and neglected. Nature had taken the sleepers back to itself. As I always do when I visit grave yards, I made a point of reading the inscriptions and whispering the name of the occupants so they would know they had been remembered. Usually, I say 'hello' to the occupant, but sometimes, if I had to step on the grave plot to get past, I would apologise and thank them. I think they would be pleased that somebody took the trouble to visit.
