A note to readers

Writing is supposed to be enjoyable. There is nothing pleasing about the constant struggle to publish on Blogger. There will be no more postings on this site. I will notify you when I have migrated elsewhere

Highgate

Here from my eyrie, as the sun went down,

I heard the old North London puff and shunt,

Glad that I did not live in Gospel Oak

Betjeman

I was at that eyrie yesterday and I know why he chose the word. We started way below the clouds at Gospel Oak and climbed up Parliament Hill and Highgate Hill into the sunshine of the fantastic cemetery, 446 feet above sea-level.

I could do with some water says Bridget

I’d like a cup of tea says Jane

Pass the oxygen I gasp.

Worth it though.

 There are 169,000 souls buried in Highgate. That’s a lot of people. I suppose there must be some records somewhere but it would take several lifetimes to locate anyone that isn’t vaguely famous. It’s the crumbling edifices of the unknown amongst the overgrowth of almost antediluvian plant life that makes this place so hauntingly beautiful. 

Here’s the final resting place of George Wombwell, owner of a travelling menagerie of exotic animals. Unsurprisingly, some of them died as a result of the English climate. It didn’t stop George though who, on one occasion, simply changed his notice to ‘the only dead elephant at the fair’.

There’s Thomas Sayers, bare knuckle fighter. His most famous fight was his last, against John Heenan, which thousands of the Fancy travelled to Farnborough to see. Sayers was three stones lighter and five inches shorter than his opponent but the fight lasted for forty rounds before the ropes were cut and the crowds invaded the ring. The referee called a draw as both men were deemed to be near death. Good shout ref.

Looking for the recently departed? Here’s the understated headstone of Douglas Adams, author extraordinaire, who hitchhiked his way to another galaxy in 2001

 And, leaving in slightly more suspicious circumstances, Alexander Litvinenko. Interestingly, all the newer residents are in the East Cemetery, but Litvinenko now resides in the West

And who is this?

I don’t know, but while the rest of the place is eery, this was scary. Trailing through the woods behind my companions, I glanced to the left and saw a fully clothed body asleep, I hope, (but why do they write ‘fallen sleep on headstones?) on the top of a grave. Not funny. It was only when we were half way back down Highgate Hill, we realised we’d forgotten to tell anyone.