Having enjoyed the food and the peace and the general sense
of bucolic isolation, I spent an hour wandering the churchyard and reading the
inscriptions on the headstones. I realised that I respond quite differently to
different groups of edifices.
The old ones from the 17th and 18th
centuries invoke a dispassionate and, one might say, academic sense of history.
The newer ones going back around fifty years or so are much easier to read and
I find myself piecing together what information I can about old residents now
lying beneath the hallowed earth. And it’s often the case that I know some of
the family of the occupants, so there’s a vague sense of personal connection
involved. And, of course, I paid my customary respects to the ladies Isabella –
the mother and daughter who both died young over a hundred years ago (and whose
grave is the only one on the east side with a kerbed surround, so the family
must have been reasonably well off.)
But there were two which stood out. The first was a recent
grave with the earth still fresh and a simple wooden cross noting only the
man’s name. Lying on top of the mould was a blue stone, over-painted with a
rainbow which has become the symbol of the coronavirus crisis in Britain. That
one was obviously topical and led to the suspicion that the virus might have
been the agency which brought him there. And then there was the small, highly
polished headstone which said:
Bethany Louise
Born sleeping
R.I.P.
Sitting on the plinth was a small stone teddy bear, a small
stone sheep, and a small stone book with a simple memorial rhyme written into
it. That was the one which got to me.
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