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A walk, a new pub and Karl Marx’s grave…

March 7, 2010

I’m not morbid, really, honestly, am not usually embracing of the gothic black dress codes, stripey socks brigade, wierd, wierd hair. But, see, i’m reading this book – about two twins and a ghost – and they live near Highgate Cemetery, and it’s all very dramatic and gothic – there’s a ghost and she lives in a drawer in the desk. I know, like, seriously.

And then I discovered I live quite near Highgate Cemetery too. BIG plannage. YB and I have been having an ‘us’ weekend as house and wedding related madness is keeping us pretty busy for the next month or so. He’d come up with the plan for Saturday (see The Hurt Locker, drink wine, fall asleep in front of the tv) and it was up to me to come up with Sunday plan, so this morning, over a boiled egg and some coffee I mooted my great plan.

“Honey, I thought it would be nice today if we went to see some graves. Sound good?”

Ever the trooper, confused and befuddled by my every whim, (but stoically accepting of the daily madness), he said: “Yeah, alright then, why not?”

So – over eggs, soldiers and Steve Wrights Sunday Morning Love Songs – we hatched a plan that involved a long walk across Parliament Hill, then finding a new ale house, before heading to the cemetery and on to Waitrose to buy our dinner.  And it was such a perfect day for it. We wandered in the sunshine up the big hill to take in the amazing view of London, before walking into Highgate and coming across a gorgeous pub, called The Flask, where we stopped to enjoy a few beers, sitting in the baking sunshine. It was blissful.

Then we walked to the cemetery and the bliss sort of faded away…you need to pay to get into it, and we had NO cash, so this meant a massive trek back up the biggest hill in the world, to a broken cash point, so we then walked down another hill, got cash and turned around to walk back up said hill, and back down the other hill. It was a whole hill drama, with  a side of me swearing not under my breath about how shit walking up and down hills was. I don’t think YB loved me very much just then.

When we finally got into the cemetery though, it was worth it. The most amazing place with ancient Victorian graves and the afternoon spring sunshine filtering through the trees. A really peaceful place. Marx’s grave was impressive, but much the same as all the others, it was just sort of there. It was the other graves that touched us more…the grave of a sixteen year old boy, beautifully covered in flowers, the grave of actress Shelia Gish, close to her that of her daughter’s, or the clever grave of the man who wrote Sleuth, covered with wild rosemary:

We walked via the supermarket home and now are watching Last Woman Standing, while our dinner of chicken thighs, lemon, chilli and potatoes is baking in the oven. Ace.

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One Comment leave one →
  1. March 8, 2010 6:18 pm

    I recently updated my blog, but all of my followers were deleted. If you would like to follow my blog, please do. Thanks!

    I love reading your posts. And you are definitely not morbid, lol!

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