This weekend in London was one for the history books, all thanks to the glorious temperatures and puffy cloud skies.  And since I spend my days working in a windowless coal mine, I made certain to take advantage of every moment that my waking hours offered. There are a great many places in this city that I know nothing about, so while the days are of this caliber I will be out my front door and doing my best to see everything in short order.

On Saturday I walked about an hour through the Heath in order to reach Highgate Cemetery.  It’s one of London’s so-called Magnificent Seven, and most people who do visit come because they’ve learned that Karl Marx is buried there.  Imagine that—the champion of the proletariat lies in eternal repose in one of the richest areas of London.  And I haven’t even shown you the size of his tombstone yet…

And maybe it’s for their serenity, and perhaps also for their aesthetics as much as my own internal contemplative need—but I really do like ducking into a cemetery every now and then. Paris does a great job of fostering visitation throughout each of their large patches of post-retirement retirement.

The Highgate Cemetery is divided into East and West, and it’s the western side you can only visit by appointment.  The East side, however, is open for you to wander liberally— but I’d recommend purchasing a £12 ticket on the West side first because it gets you into both sides (otherwise you pay £4 to see Karl Marx, George Eliot and folks in the East). If you’re there on a gorgeous day like I was and have to wait 90 minutes to catch a tour, then I still recommend doing it.  Just be like me and haul along a 600 page book to read in the peace and quiet if you’ve got extra moments to spare.

While I didn’t take the optional tour on the East side, I did appreciate the map and list of notables personalities contained within. Yeah yeah Karl Marx….that’s great. His enormous melon is impossible to overlook. But there are others laying around too.

My favorite find was the largely unremarkable marker for Douglas Adams. Author of one of the smartest books I read as a teen, The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, his site was embellished a few pens sitting in a container below the slab. The stone read simply: “Douglas Adams, Writer, 1952-2001”.

After decades and decades, Highgate is grown over and has become rather dilapidated in most parts. Since it is usually up to families of the departed to maintain the gravesites, Mother Nature and Father Time have proven their superiority as much of East and West look like a setting for a fantastic Hallowe’en story. As such, I didn’t mind paying the entrance fee because proceeds get reinvested into maintenance by the Highgate Cemetery Trust. Which ensures that Karl, Douglas— and yes even George Michael— don’t get battered by the elements and vandals.

When 15:30 rolled around, I closed my book and entered the chapel on the West side to join my fellow plot spotters. Our guide was a volunteer of 70 years named Neil who wore a big traditional cross along with with thumb rings and at least one other ring on his index finger.  This seemed to reconcile the light transitioning sunglasses with frames that bore Nike Swooshes down each side. Later I’d learn that Neil’s day job was working in a funeral home where Monday through Friday, he got the departed “ready” for cremation or burial. I don’t need to tell you that the man had a fantastic sense of humor, and was perfectly suited to be our guide.

The West Cemetery boasts quite a clutch of super rich dead people, but beneath the thick overgrowth were many neglected and nearly unreachable plots with everyday folks. As we left the chapel entrance and moved past the colonnade, very soon I realized that I could draw connections to my own existence as an America in London.

Here’s a small bit of the sights and stories—as my memory recalls them two days later:

What I really liked about most of this namespotting was the approach to death:

A good many of the epitaphs had clever additions such as, “Tomorrow do thy worst, as I have lived today” or “In memory of my beloved husband, who fell asleep 17th August 1934,” “Thrice Widowed by Three Loving Husbands” or simply, “be still.” It sounds a bit odd to say, but this neighborhood really has a diverse cast of characters– and these are only the folks that I got to skim gloss over after a couple of hours. There is so much more behind these walls. It was well worth a venture.

As I was wrapping up my tour, I got a text from a friend who had spent the day drilling her brain into a book while in Regent’s Park. She proposed the idea of a sundown picnic on Primrose Hill, and it took me reading only half of the text to decide this was the best idea ever. It was still warm outside, and we both made a plan to converge at the Hill’s corner with procured victuals in hand.

Now tucked in with the land of the very living, the two of us sat, chatted, and watched the world creep by.  As the sun finally disappeared behind the hill, we packed up our things and made our way toward the home. Another day in the books. A day filled with great stories—and yes, perhaps another day closer to whatever will ultimately become of us all walking around.

So long, Saturday. And thanks for all the fish.