Boneyard

By Claire Margaret Howe:

There are very few places I would happily spend the rest of eternity. The graveyard in Miobhaigh is one of them. It’s a stone’s throw from the seashore, lapped by the cold water of the north Atlantic. It sits squarely between the sea and the sky and on a sunny day it throws up a solid blue vista. The air is so clean that it is frequently thronged with midges, making it almost unliveable. It is surrounded on four sides by a dry-stone wall clad with lichen, ivy and a few flowering bushes. On the seaward side there is an accommodating dip in the wall that makes for a scenic seat. I like to sit there and watch small fishing boats trawl up and down checking their lobster pots. On a calm day the noises of busy work and conversational shouts carry up from the boats. In early autumn seals bask on the rocks at low tide and their occasional barks break the easy silence of the valley. Delicate sea pinks grow along the high tide mark. Strategically speaking, the graveyard is well placed to avoid surprises. Guarded on one side by a long stretch of sea, the east and western reaches are swathed in high grass and marshland. The occasional industrious beast grazes them; usually a donkey with an alarm call that reverberates for miles around. The sprawling brambles house birds that will alight noisily at the sight of any intruders. It is accessed only by a long, winding lane that twists steeply down the valley. The graveyard’s inhabitants – myself and the spirits – have ample opportunity to survey visitors before their arrival. 

This graveyard is very old. Local tradition puts it at ‘chomh sean leis an gceo agus nios sinne faoi dho’. Roughly translated, as old as the fog and twice as old again. Its earth is packed to capacity. It has been decommissioned as a burial ground, but exceptions are made. My grandmother is here, one of the last burials allowed. And my grandfather’s ashes – there was room for an urn, but not a coffin. Often, gravediggers would disturb an old grave, or unearth a coffin, or old bones. I remember hearing about occurrences of it as a child. It was never a cause for unnecessary ceremony. Coffins were re-buried. Bones were lifted from the ground, placed in a small sack and put to one side while the funeral of the day took place. After all the mourners had left, the old bones would be placed carefully alongside the new coffin, and the grave was filled. When the remains of several bodies were disturbed, they were grouped together and placed in one coffin. After decades of this practice, it was not unusual to open a coffin and find six or seven skulls. Once or twice, I have watched the gravediggers at work, silently sweating, and heard the rhythmic clink of spades on stony soil. The ground is treated with respect, but no solemn pomp or pageantry. It is a place of peaceful purpose. 

The graveyard is multi-denominational, much like death. It was used by every village and household for miles around. The deceased from across the peninsula were rowed over in currachs, traditional skin boats. There is a ‘coffin stone’ on the shore were the bodies rested before being carried to the grave. Surrounded by fishing villages, many of its inhabitants are victims of drowning. The locals believed that those who drowned lasted longer in the earth due to the salt in their bodies. The graveyard has seen epidemics and war and famine. There are hundreds of children buried here from the tuberculosis outbreaks in the 1900’s. Sitting on the wall watching the grass rustling over the graves, unwelcome thoughts must intrude. The southernmost corner is clear of headstones. This corner, not unique to this graveyard, is known as ‘the lonely corner’. Unchristened babies and suicide victims were not permitted on consecrated ground. Traumatised families, fearful of their lost ones spending an eternity in hell, would bribe clerics to bury their dead here. Buried at night, the graves weren’t marked, and the deceased were not spoken of again. This graveyard saw the rise and fall of Ireland’s booming trade in graverobbing in the 18th and 19th century. Fortunately, I can find no evidence to suggest that the trade disturbed the inhabitants of this soil. There would be little anonymity in small rural villages to protect graverobbers. It is comforting to think that for all the hardship my companions might have endured in life, they at least didn’t see this ignominy in death. This ground is, in all respects, a final resting place. 

Perhaps that’s why the graveyard is a peaceful place to sit and think. Here, where so many were committed to the earth, I am never lonely. Still, when I look at the unmarked corner and the flagstones where desperate people made offerings to a wealthy church, I can’t help but think that graveyards would be decidedly more pleasant without the oppressive religious overtones and the distressing histories. But then, I reason, they would be parks, and parks are often boring – with history as featureless as their lawns. This old boneyard has a history and a presence that will keep me sharp and keep me humble. I am happy to sit with these spirits, these old grafters. Soldiers, sailors, scholars. Crowded and muddled as they are, they have a quiet place to observe the fishing boats haul in their loads. Only the keening of the gulls to disturb them. 

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Claire Margaret Howe is a freelance writer and mixed media artist based in Ireland. She divides her time between the sea and the hills and draws inspiration from both. She can be contacted at clairehowewriting@gmail.com