The Non-Conformist Cemetery

Stories and tales from the seemingly nondescript cemetery on New London Road - a place full of history and wildlife.

Photo by Kenny Eliason on Unsplash - a view not too dissimilar to the cemetery near me.

Inspired by

Paul Kingsnorth

and his Holy Wells series, this is the first post in a new series here on Over the Field: Reflections From the Field. In these short posts, I will document my explorations in the beauty and wonder that is all around me: whether that be in spectacular landscapes of obvious beauty and sublimity or in places that yield their secrets (in the words of H.J. Massigham) seemingly reluctantly, and only to those who faithfully seek to get to know them¹. I hope that my reflections and explorations will inspire you to take note of the places around you with new eyes to see.

So to begin the explorations, why don’t you join me on a walk around my local cemetery — there is more to see and discover here than first meets the eye…

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At the back of our tiny urban garden lies an old, wild cemetery, full of the bones and bodies of the nonconformists of Chelmsford past. It is a wonderful place, a veritable wilderness hidden away in amongst the busy urban streets that surround it. A refuge for creatures great and small alike, it makes for an interesting place to take a stroll and gather one’s thoughts — the kind of place that essays have their genesis. As well as being full of life, as places associate with death often paradoxically are. It is also densely packed with rich local history and offers many stories that deserve to be retold.

I have taken many a walk around the perimeter of the cemetery, reading the biblically-infused inscriptions on the graves which tell of “threescores and ten” faithfully lived, or lives tragically cut short (as in the case of the 17 year old Ralph Luckin Smith, who disobeyed his mother by picking a spot — and died of sepsis as a result!). These old, weathered stones tell tales of missionaries to India, battles fought in Germany and France, proprietors of local businesses that are now lost, and of mothers weeping for their young child. Time and time again one reads “IN SACRED MEMORY” and I like to think that in taking the time to stop and read the names and inscriptions I am, in a sense, holding the memory sacred of these ordinary but faithful saints of old.

One gravestone stands high above them all. It may not be the grandest — in fact it probably is the most plain and obscure — but of historical importance and intrigue it is second to none. Indeed, a visitor from afar has probably come for only one reason — to visit the grave of Joseph.

Joseph (surname unknown) was a remarkable man, who even more remarkably found himself in Chelmsford. He was a slave in New Orleans who escaped in 1861 and somehow made his way to England and then on to Chelmsford as a ‘Freeman’, and became — as the stone tells — a free man in Christ. He married an english woman, Sarah Farrow, and worked in the London Road Iron Works, though tragically he died at the relatively young age of 47. Who would have thought that such a fascinating story could be found nestled away in the inner reaches of a small secluded cemetery in the city that Charles Dickens said was “the dullest and most stupid place on earth.”?

ERECTED / by his Christian friends / to the memory of / JOSEPH / once a slave in New Orleans / who escaped to England and / became also a FREE MAN / in Christ / He was employed for several years / at the London Road Iron Works / until his death at the age of 45 / on the 28th Novr 1875 / Reader! Have you been made free / from the slavery of sin’.

In the summer, the brambles which, up until recently, covered the cemetery become laden with juicy blackberries. I am sent by my industrious wife to go out and avail of this abundant bounty so that she can make delicious cakes, muffins, and crumbles for us and our Sunday guests. Whilst picking the berries last year (and attempting to avoid getting scratched), I pondered on the fact that I was the only one making use of this easily available abundance — whilst down the road in the Supermarket, blackberries were selling for £3 or more a punnet. This essay eventually resulted from these thoughts:

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The cemetery is far from the most attractive of places. For a good long while, it was an overgrown jumble of bramble bushes and evergreen trees, with the bramble so voraciously sprawling that it covered most of the graves: impenetrably guarding the secrets held within. The volunteers who manage the site have now started to clear away the scrub, but it will be a while yet until beauty and order is restored. However, the chaotic disorder of the wild, though not pleasing to the eye, is pleasing to many creatures great and small who find a refuge here amongst the concrete (or, more accurately, London brick) jungle.

The number of species that I have stumbled upon over the years has been surprisingly high. Tawny owls and red foxes have been the most vocal residents (but the hardest to spot), whilst in the spring and early summer, the onomatopoeic song of the chiffchaff forever seems to chime from the trees. Some of the species I have witnessed have been coveted rarities, none more so than the Firecrest who darted around the graves a few feet in front of me whilst I stood and watched in awe with a huge grin on my face. For Firecrest, as well as being very rare, are outstandingly beautiful (and tiny!). Other species have been more exotic, such as the flock of wild ring-necked parakeets that made a terrible racket as they raced overhead one summer’s day.

In the far corner closest to my own garden, stands a tree that bears my name: a Turner Oak. One of only three in the country, (apparently) this rare oak has a secret which becomes apparent only in the winter. Looking at the tree as I am now on this cold and bleak February day, one could be mistaken for believing it was mid-summer! Most of the leaves are still on this giant oak tree — and have been so all autumn and winter — for this is an evergreen oak, a quirk of nature produced by the hybridisation of the holm oak and pedunculate oak. A male sparrowhawk can often be found sitting high up in the branches of this tree, sometimes along with naive (or ignorant) wood pigeons who seem unaware that their would-be killer is resting just above them.

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What about you? Do you have any stories to tell from your local cemetery? If so, I would love to hear them in the comments. And of you have not yet taken the opportunity to explore the cemeteries and graveyards around your neighbourhood, I encourage you to do so. Who knows what treasures, secrets, and beauties you may find?

I will leave you with a short poem that was inspired by this precious little place. I hope you will enjoy it.

The Cemetery

On my little walk I pass,
centuries of life decaying under grass.
Names erased by the passing of time,
weathered away as water stains the lime. 
Grey stones tell of days faithfully lived,
of stories and memories now irreversibly hid.
'Till death us do part' these bodies once did say,
still death though unites them, side by side as they lay.  

Hadden Turner
Chelmsford (2024)

Thank you for taking the time to read.

Warmly,

Hadden

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Another essay that was inspired by walks in this cemetery:

1. H.J. Massingham, Country.