Originally, we were heading up to the town graveyard on Good Friday to sit with the Dead of Lancaster, pay cultus to Lord Ashton, 1st Baron Ashton who rests in the graveyard, but circumstances dictated we went up yesterday, on Saturday.
That Saturday, when it’s heavily implied by the Apostles Creed that Christ went to hang out with the Dead in Hades aka Sheol.
See, I and the usual suspects have little problem with the fact that Christianity was the dominant belief for over a thousand years in these lands ( and even longer in places where the Celtic church was stronger). So we meet our Christian ancestors ‘half-way’ as it were.
So we headed up here around 11pm:
What may not be clear is that this is one arm of a four-way crossroads, with a war memorial at its centre. At the ends of the other three are funeral chapels for Anglican, Catholic and Non-Conformists. The Williamsons (the Baron’s family and the man himself) are all buried just on the left arm of the crossroads here.
This is the highest point in the cemetery, which overlooks the town, and even despite the town’s light pollution, you can see stars for miles. Plus of course, if you head beyond the leftmost arm, you’ll see the River Lune upon which Roman ships sailed nover two thousand years, and the merchants in the 1700s bought the profits of the slave triangle back to town.
As is usual, words were spoken from the heart, offerings were made to the Dead and the Baron, rum was drunk and I smoked the requisite cigar.
Truly, it’s one of the most peaceful places to be there, meditating on death, in this time when we rember that even gods may die.
Plus, as seems usual, a shooting star was spotted. And apparently what little light there was from distant streetlights mixed with shadow to give me a skull mask.
The latter is apparently not unusual when I perform rites at crossroads, or so I am told by multiple witnesses on multiple occasions.
So yes. That was my Easter Saturday.