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Graveyard fetish

Absolutely nothing to do with running:

As the river of time flows on there are two things I can say with confidence that I have a more than passing preoccupation with.

1.  Pregnant women

2. Old graveyards

I can’t quite place the pregnant women one in terms of what it is. It seems, from my experience as the father of three, at least to be an uncomfortable venture.

The graveyards one is more straightforward:

Think of the stories that lie behind every headstone, the lives lived and now gone to dust.

This summer, as something to do at the end of our summer holiday in France we walked up the Eiffel tower (impatient children rather than a fitness test) and we went down under Paris to see the catacombs. 6 million skeletons exhumed from the overcrowded graveyards of Paris and stacked in neat order. It was fascinating and the only let down were the American students taking selfies – the modern equivalent of picking your nose while sitting in your car in traffic.

This photo is from a rural hilltop graveyard in Cork – taken on a stormy January 1st of this year:

What story lies buried here

What story lies buried here

Remember Death from whom you cannot fly

Conquer him to gain eternity

Behold you man that doth pass by

As you are so once was I

As I am now so must you be

Prepare yourself to follow me. 

I couldn’t find it on the website that catalogues this sort of thing but I did find a grave for this guy. Charles Lefebvre-Desnouettes, check it out, what a story!

 

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