In the afternoon over to the British cemetery. We often pass it, but usually when carrying groceries, or at least rye bread from the bakery. It's a small graveyard and sunny. Some corner of a foreign field that is forever England? Not quite, but close. Some Scots and probably the occasional UK spouse. The oldest graves late 19th century - so far from the onetime home - and the most recent this month. A couple of excavations not yet filled. Even personal, as J spots the headstone of John, chief volunteer at the animal shelter charity shop we frequent, who died the summer before last. And there are a couple of graves belonging to men whose widows we know. Saddest, as always, are the small children, but there aren't many, as this is largely a cemetery of expats, though many died younger than they should have. It's moving, but not without charm. No regimented rows and many individual touches, like the tiny dinghy forming the outline of a grave or the small (often cheerfully painted) stones carrying names of survivors or beloved mourners.
Posts