London Part 3: I'm Done This Time, I Promise

The West Wing of the Highgate Cemetery was bizarrely compelling and fascinating. This had to do in no small part with our tour guide, an enthusiastic retiree. This was only his twelfth tour, but he peppered our walk with the kind of stories and historical anecdotes that I always want to know when wandering alone between tombstones: that this one was the very first grave in the cemetery, that this one is one of the few stones that describes cause of death (fire; a 19 year old woman); that this one has a statue of a lion because the man was London's first entrepreneurial zookeeper. He wore a "Free Tibet" shirt under his windbreaker. Here is is, the lovely man:

This is the Egyptian mausoleum, built by Egypt-mad Victorians. It turned out, surprisingly, to be quite unpopular, or at least quite difficult to fill with bodies; apparently the love of the exotic did not extend to the afterlife, which should be highly Christian and respectable. 

Proper Christian burial grounds. Each door is a family plot; like a friendly, suburban neighborhood of dead people. 

Our guide left us with a delightful story about his enormous mausoleum, resting place of a wealthy merchant and his daughter, who died very young. (That part isn't relevant to this tale, but I found it perversely fascinating how few people lived to grow out of the childrens' sizes. Or, if they managed that, how few lived to retirement age. Strange how we don't see what luck we have to be alive.) 

This man was a merchant, and a wealthy and successful one, but for all that he was never truly accepted in the upper social circles. There were a few strikes against him: he was a German emigré, he was a merchant (so he was not born into his wealth and was therefore inferior) and, last of all, he was Jewish.  So when he began building his family mausoleum, he had resentment to spare. He selected a spot near the top of the hill, and made the building about 25 feet tall. The spot he chose was right in front of the very popular promenades well-frequented by the well-to-do, who would take strolls there to have fresh air and views over the entire city. Well, up to the point when a towering mausoleum was erected directly in the way. The cross on top was also a nice touch-he converted in the later years of his life in order to be allowed into the cemetery at all; it is highly doubtful that it was a sudden belief in our saviour Jesus Christ that spurred this. 

At this point, the intimidating and domineering grande dame in charge of the High Gate tours radioed our guide to inform him that our tour was running late. He took us the long way back, stopping to talk about a few more of his favorite headstones, while confessing that he was somewhat frightened of the mistress of High Gate. He also made faces while he was talking to her on the walkie. Did I mention we all loved him?

London: Part 2 1/2

This is London, Trip Three, Day Two, Part 2 1/2, to be sure, but to be even more specific, this is London's High Gate Cemetery, East Wing. (Part 3 will be West Wing.) High Gate is London's oldest cemetery, and was well worth the multiple pounds that were milked out of us for the privilege of looking at carved stones and tumbling memorials. 

Okay, this is from just outside the cemetery, but I like it. How many is too many chimneys? Not possible!

Again, we're not quite in the cemetery proper yet, but we loved this park. The sun was thin and there was a needling wind, but it was green and lush in the right places, but also terribly English in other, equally right places. There were families with tots scrambling on the gentle lawns, and solitary old gents with wizened terriers. It was perfect.

I hope when I die, I have as good of a sense of humor as this fellow. Yes, his tombstone reads "DEAD". 

And finally, the main draw to the East Wing for a lot of tourists: Karl Marx's grave. A bit overwhelming, no? The one I feel sorry for is that modest little grave to the left there; how would you like being buried right next to Karl Marx? At least he seems to be coping; Marx doesn't have any bluebells on his tomb. 

We took turns dancing on his grave. Okay, no, we didn't, but we seriously thought about it. 

Some Norman relics, and: tombstones of Canterbury

The Norman walls that cradle the city

I'm trying to avoid morbidity, but life sometimes conspires to thrust it on me. If cemeteries are your sort of thing, then consider this post instead to be a hint of things to come in my next London update. I agree they are lovely, in their own way. 

I like the one who looks tired from years of standing watch; he is just resting a moment on his partner's shoulder

A shining day, lying on the grass, and a run to catch the bus before we get left behind