The beauty of graveyards

 

My favourite book store

A bit hesitatingly, it seems, the bell from St. Mary’s Catholic Church across the street counts out the four beats announcing the full hour, then seven more, and immediately launches into its bright and clear morning chime. It lasts but a few minutes before it dims and stops altogether. The deeper, more measured voice of old St. Kilian, one of the two big Gothic churches in the historic centre of town, sounds a bit longer before it, too, fades and gives way to the early morning sounds of a town in the twenty-first century. 

Once again I am in Korbach in Northern Hesse for a visit, and for the last week-and-a-half I have enjoyed the beautiful early summer landscape. Germany had to endure a long, harsh winter this year, followed by a dismally wet spring that culminated in flooding in large areas of Southern and Eastern Germany just before I arrived. Reports of the terrible devastation found their way even into Canadian news, and of course it was even more prominent here. Only in the last few days the people along the Elbe River, too, can breathe a bit easier since the flood wave has crested and the water is finally receding, leaving behind a huge mess and likely years of clean-up and rebuilding. 

Nothing of this has touched the area where I am now. Here, all that’s evident from the long weeks of rainfall is the lush, though compared to other years somewhat delayed vegetation. I was delighted to find groups of tall purple, white-tipped spikes of lupines along highways and picturesque narrow winding country roads, the yellow blaze of gore on drier hillsides, the first red splashes of poppies in barley fields, royal blue cornflowers, shiny yellow cock’s foot and graceful stands of daisies: all the ingredients of childhood bouquets, just as precious as they were then. I am amazed how, one after the other, the names of wildflowers come back to me. Even more, however, I am amazed at the variety, and even here, within the confines of the city, I find them in many little corners.

When I walk into the centre of town I especially love to follow the path through the old graveyards, situated between the remnants of the two parallel walls once protecting the city. Here, though lawns are cut and the most unruly growth is trimmed back from time to time, things grow more or less according to Mother Nature’s menu rather than the careful planning of a human gardener. In the last few years efforts have been made to restore some of the headstones to make the inscription legible again. Some of these graves date back into the early 18^th century, the inscriptions on the stones showing not only names and dates of birth and death, but also profession or social standing. One of them, dedicated to a devoted mother by her loving son, also reveals that he lives in Paris and is the recipient of the ‘Big and Small Order of Honour’, rewards for excellence in one or the other military campaign. Others bear witness to the deep faith of the family with bible verses or reference to the brevity and fleeting nature of life on earth and the glory of resurrection. Moss and algae thrive in the humid climate, however, and soon will start to reclaim their territory. 

These graveyards are integrated into the system of walkways, and I much prefer to take this route than the parallel one on a sidewalk beside a road with heavy traffic hugging the outer city wall. The instance I step through the small gate I feel I have set foot in a sanctuary, and the hustle and bustle I had been part of a moment earlier miraculously fall away. Suddenly bird song is all around me: finches, robins, red-tails, chickadees and many others are part of this choir, unperturbed by what goes on beyond the walls.

It is hot now, temperatures in the thirties, and even at night it doesn’t cool down the way it does at home. Fog, having crept in overnight, is starting to lift, the promise of another beautiful summer day.