kerepesi cemetery (budapest)
While studying the map of Budapest this morning, I noted a large cemetary near the train station. I wanted to make a reservation for the train journey to Bratislava so it made sense to check out things in its vicinty. It took about 40 minutes to walk to the train station as I stopped en route for a sneaky beer. While rummaging through my little black bag, I discovered I had forgotten the interrail ticket. Boll*cks. So I set off to find my secondary objective.
Being a right gobshite and stubborn with it, I took a route based on my interpretation of the map. This resulted in a walk of some 2 km around the whole perimeter of the graveyard. I was getting p*ssed off at each turning, no entrance was to be found. Moreover, I would have jumped the wall. It is only 6 foot or so but it is garnished in barb wire and other obstacles. Fancy that. A graveyard. Anyway, I eventually found the entrance. It is some 300 m from where I started.
It was worth the walk. I like to think of it as been a kind of pilgimage. The reason for the macabre choice for sight seeing is I think that the manner in which a culture honours it dead can say a lot. And in this cemetary, it does. Reverence. I have never seen such beautiful tomb stones. The older ones have statues of the deceased. Worthy of any museum. There is huge variations in style. Some have the deceased depicted with the things they loved. Their family, a painters palate, a musical instrument, a chessboard, a book and so on. It was truly wonderful. I accept that these graves were those of the rich as the ordinary Joe wouldn't be able to commision such things. But at no time did I see some grave stone depicting the person with a bag of dough, a bundle of shares or a portfolio of properties. That struck me. Death is a great leveller.
I happened to hear some classical in the distance so I moved toward it. There I witnessed a very moving and beautifully dignified funeral. It was so serene. The music was Liszt (predictably) and the departed had been cremated. The deceased was in a golden urn. The mourners stood back a few metres from a stone circular platform. In the centre of this circle stood a plinth. One member of the family walked with the urn and placed it on top of the plinth and returned to the others. Then a most magnificent fountain surged up from the edge of the circle and danced in different patterns with the plinth as its target. It was a truly beautiful spectacle. That was the moment that my eyes watered. Then the fountain stopped and the family member went to the plinth to collect the urn. The urn must have had holes in it as water poured out of it when it was taken off the plinth. I could only guess that the ashes were distributed by the fountain into the hallowed area. Just lovely. I later confirmed it.
On my way out I came across another grave that had me rubbing my eyes again. Yes, I'm a big softie! The grave stone was black polished granite with a Roman doric column at its head. Five feet from the ground. The deceased was born in the same year as my brother Robert. 1979. The person of undiscernible gender died in 2002. I reckon my little weep had something to do with Robert. Not that there#s anzthing wrong with him, of course. The key observation was that this doric column was only partial, unfinished but beautifully sculptered. To me it signified the tradegy of an early death. It was a well crafted, thought provoking sculpture.
Made me think of my departed father too. God rest his soul. Then I thought about my own eventual death. I had said I wanted to be buried in Glasnevin cemetary along with the Irish patriots and the other ramble, riff raff, like me. Now I think that in the absense of something like I saw today, I would like to be cremated and stuffed in an urn of some sort. This urn should be stuck in a cannon and then my remains are to be fired out over Dublin bay. Got that, Family?
Being a right gobshite and stubborn with it, I took a route based on my interpretation of the map. This resulted in a walk of some 2 km around the whole perimeter of the graveyard. I was getting p*ssed off at each turning, no entrance was to be found. Moreover, I would have jumped the wall. It is only 6 foot or so but it is garnished in barb wire and other obstacles. Fancy that. A graveyard. Anyway, I eventually found the entrance. It is some 300 m from where I started.
It was worth the walk. I like to think of it as been a kind of pilgimage. The reason for the macabre choice for sight seeing is I think that the manner in which a culture honours it dead can say a lot. And in this cemetary, it does. Reverence. I have never seen such beautiful tomb stones. The older ones have statues of the deceased. Worthy of any museum. There is huge variations in style. Some have the deceased depicted with the things they loved. Their family, a painters palate, a musical instrument, a chessboard, a book and so on. It was truly wonderful. I accept that these graves were those of the rich as the ordinary Joe wouldn't be able to commision such things. But at no time did I see some grave stone depicting the person with a bag of dough, a bundle of shares or a portfolio of properties. That struck me. Death is a great leveller.
I happened to hear some classical in the distance so I moved toward it. There I witnessed a very moving and beautifully dignified funeral. It was so serene. The music was Liszt (predictably) and the departed had been cremated. The deceased was in a golden urn. The mourners stood back a few metres from a stone circular platform. In the centre of this circle stood a plinth. One member of the family walked with the urn and placed it on top of the plinth and returned to the others. Then a most magnificent fountain surged up from the edge of the circle and danced in different patterns with the plinth as its target. It was a truly beautiful spectacle. That was the moment that my eyes watered. Then the fountain stopped and the family member went to the plinth to collect the urn. The urn must have had holes in it as water poured out of it when it was taken off the plinth. I could only guess that the ashes were distributed by the fountain into the hallowed area. Just lovely. I later confirmed it.
On my way out I came across another grave that had me rubbing my eyes again. Yes, I'm a big softie! The grave stone was black polished granite with a Roman doric column at its head. Five feet from the ground. The deceased was born in the same year as my brother Robert. 1979. The person of undiscernible gender died in 2002. I reckon my little weep had something to do with Robert. Not that there#s anzthing wrong with him, of course. The key observation was that this doric column was only partial, unfinished but beautifully sculptered. To me it signified the tradegy of an early death. It was a well crafted, thought provoking sculpture.
Made me think of my departed father too. God rest his soul. Then I thought about my own eventual death. I had said I wanted to be buried in Glasnevin cemetary along with the Irish patriots and the other ramble, riff raff, like me. Now I think that in the absense of something like I saw today, I would like to be cremated and stuffed in an urn of some sort. This urn should be stuck in a cannon and then my remains are to be fired out over Dublin bay. Got that, Family?
posted by Ciarán at 2:40 p.m.
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