Warriston Cemetery: arise up and call

Old Yew, which graspest at the stones
That name the under-lying dead,
Thy fibres net the dreamless head,
Thy roots are wrapt about the bones.
Alfred Lord Tennyson, In Memoriam (1849)

Sometimes death hides, and sometimes death is hidden from our view by other actors in the drama. In the case of Warriston Cemetery, which sits to the north of Edinburgh, Nature has woven her spell of entanglement on a litany of names etched in marble, reclaiming what was always hers long before the dead arrived to set up home.

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At first glance, the paths are clear and the graves well tended, but move deeper in and things become less certain, the way more troubled.

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This was Edinburgh’s first garden cemetery, established in 1843 from a design by David Cousin the previous year, and at approximately 14 acres in size it was a grand gesture for its time. Cousin went on to design Dean Cemetery (1845), Dalry and Rosebank Cemeteries (both 1846) and Newington Cemetery (1848).

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Compared to the many other, more recently constructed necropoleis in the city, Warriston’s scale is still impressive, but more than half of the cemetery is in need of renovation or, more fundamentally, urgent reclamation, with whole swathes of ground engorged by creeping vines and a groundswell of green.

The vigorous onrush of time has helped to engineer this exquisite memento mori, a dark, mouldering Victoriana that feels almost deliberate.

There is no commemoration here as outlandish as some of the examples in Dean Cemetery, but Warriston’s reach is longer, and decay has twisted its roots around stone and soil alike in a much more transformative way. What remains is an archipelago of half-drowned headstones in a sea of verdant waves, alive in the breeze.

Overgrown in the Undergrowth.

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Silence and solitude hold sway here. For the full duration of my three hour visit, I’m alone, apart from the ever-present rustle of leaves and the occasional, unnerving snap of branches.

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At times, I manage to convince myself I’m being followed or that someone is behind me on the pathway—watching—only to turn and spy a fox eyeing me warily from a distance, or glimpse the grey flash of a squirrel scampering from a tree.

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Warriston Cemetery is more alive than many others places I’ve visited in this city, but it’s a hidden life, secret, protected: an occulted world of birds and insects and small mammals, co-existing in the floodtide of decay and rebirth.

A tumulus rises ahead of me, barely perceptible on what is a sloping site anyway; on it, a pillared memorial or obelisk meshes with the trees, its colours their colours. This location feels different from what I’ve already encountered here. The ambience is different, too, and I pause awhile to reflect on the grandeur of the place, largely forgotten and all the more striking for that.

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The cemetery runs on, the darkness increasing as the tendrils of greenery clutch ever more tightly. I come upon the old Victorian railway bridge, sitting quite incongruously in the midst of the proceedings.

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Shortly after the cemetery opened, the Edinburgh Leith and Newhaven Railway scythed its way through the site dividing the grander northern part of the cemetery from its more modest southern end.

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It’s impossible to ascend from this spot to the level of the bridge itself, although once I suspect it would have been easy. The stairways and paths are choked and soon, if left unchecked, perhaps even the Gothic mouth of the tunnel itself will be smothered by emerald fingers.

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I can’t resist the odd acoustics of the tunnel itself and I set up the recorder again for a few minutes to capture the sound underneath. It feels unreal, and much more enclosed than the few feet of the arched space would suggest.

Atop the old bridge, an occasional cyclist flashes past, as though flitting into existence from some future timeline and then winking out of the frame forever. Nearby is a set of grand steps that take me up to a level adjacent to the top of the bridge, although, I find, not actually onto it.

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Up here, the light sits differently somehow and, at first blush, I see that Nature doesn’t appear to dominate as readily as below. I feel like an interloper as people wander over the bridge, now used as a public walkway following the closure of the railway line. None of them sees me, or maybe they think I’m a revenant peering out of the gloom of the undergrowth. I am my own ghost for a few moments. And in this place, it’s curiously fitting.

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There is still a war being raged even up here; gravestones and tombs battle against a sea of green that appears to be winning. The residents of Hilldrop Crescent can only watch and wait.

And books haunt me even here.

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I stop awhile at the long terrace of catacombs that sits silently brooding in the midst of the cemetery. Once, a small chapel sat atop these tombs but it has gone completely.

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Again, the sound here is strange and my eye is caught by the holes in the walls: surely, only bats and birds use these as portals of ingress and egress.

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An inky darkness seeps out to enclose the silence and—unless my imagination is getting the better of me—to bolster it. I leave the recorder running and wander away for a few minutes.

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I pass beneath the railway bridge again, to explore the even more overgrown half of the cemetery.

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At its southern boundary, the Water of Leith flows past, protected now by recently installed flood defences.

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As I crouch down to look through the trees to the water, feeling as though I’m gazing out at a new civilisation from the darkness of an ancient forest, I see him: no more than a few metres away, a heron making his stately way along the river, unhurried, stopping for food as he goes.

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I don’t think I’ve ever witnessed a heron eat anything other than fish before, but he doesn’t seem to be objecting to the fare on offer—as the short film below shows. Choice pickings from the riverbank.

There is almost too much to take in here and the overgrown nature of the tombs and graves means that surprises wait around most corners; that is, if one can even make out what lies beneath the grassy mounds.

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The sheer number of graves is overwhelming. How many more lie hidden amongst the leaves? A roll call is necessary.

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Near the modern part of the cemetery, closest to the main gate, sat the Robertson mortuary chapel, erected in 1865 for Mary Ann Robertson (1826–58), daughter of Brigadier-General Manson of the Bombay Artillery.

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This white marble shrine contained a sculpture of a reclining female figure, visible from the outside, the whole being topped with a ruby glass roof with glass sides which led to locals christening this the ‘Tomb of the Red Lady’ because of the rosy light cast on the figure within.

Sadly, the shrine was badly vandalised over the years and had to be demolished in the late 1980s. All that’s left now are the foundations and the recumbent sculpture, fittingly set in a bed of red flowers, but there are some fascinating older images of how the sepulchre looked here. The interior must have been very eerie in its day.

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I end the walk close to this part of the cemetery; there are still interments being made here in this modern section but even these are suffused with a bitter melancholy.

As the light begins to fade, I make my way out of the gate and back into the land of the living, but all the more energised by this striking landscape of contemplative decay.

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Further reading: the Friends of Warriston Cemetery have an excellent page that describes their sterling work in trying to bring the cemetery back from the brink.

Author: Brian Lavelle

Sound artist and wanderer. Curator of the Edinburgh Drift project. Cat-aficionado.

13 thoughts on “Warriston Cemetery: arise up and call”

  1. Marvellous post! Warriston Cemetery has been among my favourite places in Edinburgh for some years now. It is tradition for me and my father to visit it on the 31st of October, as the place reminds me of Lucio Fulci’s CITY OF THE LIVING DEAD. The rusting gates on the east side, that lead out to the crematorium, are called by me and locals the ”Gates of Hell” (thus reinforcing the Fulci association for me); William Peck, a nineteenth-century astronomer and member of the Golden Dawn, is buried in the northern portion of the cemetery, his tombstone an obelisk with an ankh and, I think, a sun motif; lastly, I believe one episode of THE OMEGA FACTOR was filmed in Warriston Cemetery, right next to the catacombs.

    I wonder where your next esoteric stravaigings will take you? Keep up the fantastic work!

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Thanks for this, Liam! Fascinating! I’m a Fulci fan myself and that’s a wonderful tradition you and your father have: I can certainly see the visual comparison with ‘City of the Living Dead’. I’ll need to go back and try and locate Peck’s grave; an interesting association. I was very taken with the Tomb of the Red Lady and its (original) eerie qualities. Must seek out that episode of ‘The Omega Factor’, too!

      Thanks for your continued enthusiasm for the project. It’s very much appreciated.

      Like

  2. A fascinating read and listen, thanks.

    I was brought up in the area and the ‘cemy’ and surrounding area was my playground as a child. I’m old enough to remember watching the last of the trains running in the late ’60s.

    It doesn’t look like the cemetery has changed much. We used to play hide and seek and other games amongst the headstones but the biggest dare was to go and look at the Red Lady. It was terrifying at the time as you crept up to the door and peered through the glass to see the reclining stone figure, bathed in a pink glow from the red glass. Such a shame that it was vandalised and reduced to its current state.

    My memories are mostly good ones but of course children and neglected cemeteries are not a good mix and there was a terrible tragedy involving a young boy I knew who was killed by a falling headstone. We had so many freedoms as children back then, which are often romanticised, but there were real dangers too.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Rod, thanks so much for your comment. It’s fascinating to hear from someone who knew the cemetery back then—and who can confirm my suspicion that the Red Lady was a terrifying spectacle! It must have been something to see, and no doubt, when it was constructed, a very expensive memorial.

      Very sorry to hear about the young boy who was killed. I didn’t come across that in my research for the piece but, as you say, those were different times and nostalgia can often gloss over these tragedies.

      Thanks again for taking the time to comment.

      Like

  3. Great piece Brian and enjoyed this visit. Another space in a busy part of Edinburgh that appears to have come adrift from the local moorings of the city. Some fascinating sound recordings as well, particularly the opening, underlying drones in the tunnel.

    Liked by 1 person

  4. Excellent post for what must have been a fascinating and atmospheric wander. It looks the kind of place that rewards repeat visits during different seasons. Your photos and sound recordings really bring the place to life.

    I remember finding a similar but much smaller cemetery in Shropshire where the council were deliberately allowing nature to reclaim it so that it became a small wildlife reserve. It was a beautiful and tranquil spot. More info here: https://adcochrane.wordpress.com/2015/10/08/wandering-a-disappearing-graveyard/ (sorry for the blog plug)

    Looking forward to reading about more of your explorations in 2018!

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Thanks, Alex. Glad you enjoyed it!

      I’ll definitely be revisiting to see how the seasons affect the place. And no apologies necessary for linking to your own site – I’m always happy to read of like-minded wanderers!

      Liked by 1 person

  5. What an amazing place, although your photos clearly show that some work is needed to conserve it.

    I lived opposite Kensal Green cemetery (north west London) for several years and never tired of walking it’s lengthy avenues. The catacombs tour was also a highlight.

    Liked by 1 person

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