Skull and Cross

In the undergrowth surrounding the church of St John the Baptist, Old Lakenham.

November

A drizzly Sunday morning in Earlham Cemetery, Norwich, trying to get a few snaps before the rain got too heavy.

Grave Peelings: Hidden in Rosary Cemetery

The historic nineteenth century Rosary Cemetery, Norwich - notable for being the UK's first non-denominational cemetery, and the burial ground for many prominent nineteenth and early twentieth century Norwich figures. As with Earlham Cemetery, the older sections of the grounds have been allowed to grow old gracefully, headstones growing beautifully crooked and weather-worn.

This is simply one of many that caught my eye - tucked away in the shadow of an overhanging tree, most of its facade having peeled away over the years. Far from seeming ignored or disrespected, I find a real quiet dignity in this crumbling stone.

Mark of Respect

"Once Our Foe:" The Grave of Jean de Narde, Dereham

In the churchyard of St Nicholas, Dereham - the same churchyard in which St. Walstan's Well can be found (as detailed in an October 2012 entry), lies a memorial for a French soldier called Jean de Narde. The imposing-looking bell tower of St Nicholas actually stands apart from the church proper - apparently the actual church tower is not strong enough to hold the bells, making this separate structure necessary.

Supposedly dating from around the early sixteenth century, in the late 1700s the bell tower had something of a different use - that of a holding prison for French prisoners of the Napoleonic wars. On October 6th 1799, one of these prisoners managed to escape the tower, only to be shot, and killed, by a guard. He was buried in the churchyard.

The memorial was erected in tribute to de Narde in 1858, and includes a line I found particularly moving when I read it: "Once our foes but now our allies and brethren."

The Raunchy Rector, The Prostitute's Padre: The Grave of Harold Davidson, the Vicar of Stiffkey

In the quiet churchyard of St John the Baptist, Stiffkey, up on the North Norfolk coast, lies the grave of a figure who scandalised early 1930s Britain. Harold Davidson was the Rector of Stiffkey from 1906 to 1932, when he was defrocked following the sensational revelations of the less respectable company he kept. It emerged that he would regularly travel to London and wander the streets of Soho, approaching prostitutes and claiming to attempt to help save them from vice by helping them find employment within the theatre industry.

The scandal was reported nationally. Even at the time, opinion was divided over whether his intentions (and, perhaps more importantly, behaviour) were honourable: however, he was thrown out of the church in 1932 and, today, amongst those who are aware of the story, is often the source of a wry smile or two. His appearance (short, middle-aged, toothy) certainly feeds well into the tradition of the utterly-unsexy British sex comedy. (Indeed, a raunchy British comedy in the early 1980s, 'The Missionary,' may have been loosely based on the case).

He his also notable for the bizarre nature of his death. In 1937, he began working at an amusement park in Skegness, where he would stand, with tame lions, in a lion cage (a reference to Daniel in the lions' den, apparently) and talk to the audience of the injustice he had recently experienced. (The fact that this was seen as a draw highlights Davidson's continuing celebrity). During one performance, he accidentally stepped on the tail of one of the placcid lions, and was promptly mauled to death.

The quotation on his grave is from Robert Louis Stevenson.

The Dying Angels: Broken Figures in Earlham Cemetery

Walking around Norwich's Victorian Earlham Cemetery. This Eastern, older section, much wilder, is effectively left to its own devices by the council: groundskeeping work is kept at a minimum to encourage wildlife in the area. As I wandered, I kept noticing the decaying graveside figures - mostly angels, occasionally children, with heads, wings, limbs broken off at some point over the years. These graves were all of children who died sometime between 1918 and the late 1930s. The decyaing of gravestones - edges of statues breaking off, as here, or the more usual weathering into an indecipherable smudge - seems almost a second, gentler death, a softer reminder of the inevitability of the erosion of all things - life, flesh, stone.

Cemetery Cat

A cat nonchalantly sitting on a grave in Earlham Cemetery, Norwich.