I couldn’t stop thinking about the emails I needed send, the work I had to complete, all far from the thoughts of nothing, the thoughts of walking and meandering absorbed in the landscape and nothing else. I struggled to allow my thought to wonder for a long while. Not often do I think of the natural phenomena of walking. It comes about so unconsciously I often don’t notice my feet proceeding to move with acknowledgement of the space around them.  However on this occasion I drew my attention to the rhythmic beat, considering each step to avoid any striking bluebells.

They gathered in clusters, masses of them on display, yet discreetly tucked away at the back of the paths not arouse attention. An abundance of colour scattered around waiting to be discovered. That light delightful purple, dominating the ground, with scatterings of pure white and a delicate pink. After about half a mile, I stopped and smelt the air; fresh and sweet. Yet surrounding the bluebells, other than the budding trees, are gravestones. The cemetery is 27 acres with its first burial to take place on 8 May 1846. Each stone carries so many stories and you only get a glimpse into this life through the short text on the stone. Graves associated with the Titanic, Battle of Waterloo, Charge of the Light Brigade, the Indian Mutiny and Boer War, all sit amongst each other waiting to be uncovered.  Each walk I read a few more stones, unearthing new information. I recently discovered the last man to die after surviving the Battle of Waterloo. The life he must have lived, the sights he must have seen and consequently the stories he must have told. I don’t feel frightened or nervous to walk these grounds, quite the opposite. It carries such beauty and tranquillity, although I would disagree after dusk.

Yet in the day with a little spring sun, the colour from the emerging blossom flows throughout the grounds. Some gravestones stick out over other, some have fallen, some are relatively new, others have been their years and house gorgeously intertwined roots. I enjoy reading small snippets of others’ lives, although I often wish for more detail. I will never know these people and most likely never find out any more about them but they are surrounded by beauty; surrounded by the sweet chirping of the blackbird, the colour that emerges in spring, and the people that read their small passage. I walk back snaking through the paths, they aren’t really pathways but the grass is beginning to flatten around certain stones and I stick to these, off the main drag. Here it is peaceful and more remote, despite being in a graveyard.