Saturday, 28 September 2013

St Oswald's churchyard, Grassmere, reflections on poets' graves ...






After we'd lolled in Allan Bank, myself gulping fine coffee, Anne sipping tea like a dowager, we knew that we had to visit Saint Oswald's Church, down in Grassmere -

We'd just meet two elderly women in the kitchen, still in their walking boots - they were staying in a cottage - they had wry, clever, expressive faces - one had been a teacher - I imagined her refereeing a hockey match - I could see the beautiful wild girls, like Maenads, racing across the school fields -

Walking down the drive, we called in, briefly, at the chapel, behind the house - we turned away quickly from the sad wreckage inside - I was, however, charmed by the sign in there which read - Magic Lantern Cinema and Restaurant - 

Saint Oswald's was a church of ancient foundation, established during the heptarchy - I remembered the maps I'd seen of those furious, transient, kingdoms -

I was a little disappointed, in truth, by the outward appearance of the church - it appeared to be coated in grey pebble dash - but the interior was soothing, with its worn flagstones and dark pews -

Outside, in the gentle churchyard, we saw the graves of the Wordsworths - I stared for a long time at the severe lettering, carved into the pale stones - poets' graves, I thought, were like sewn up mouths -









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