Graveyard Goals
Today I went searching for graves.
At a time when the world has been overburdened with grief it sounds like a strange activity to undertake in the pursuit of personal satisfaction but there I was, standing in front of century old stone in the heart of Cathcart Cemetery as an unexpected sense of achievement washed over me.
It all started with a Twitter post I’d seen a few summer’s ago alerting me to the fact that Hugh MacColl, a Scot and first ever captain of Spanish football club Sevilla, was buried an hour’s walk from my Glasgow home.
Prior to today I had attempted the search once before, a week or two after seeing the initial post, an ill-thought out late evening whim soon abandoned with the summer sun descending to black as the midges became increasingly ravenous. I had underestimated the graveyard sprawl, a reach far further than I had imagined.
The heavenly views that mobile apps afford you create the illusion of order, row upon row of eternal tributes seem to mark the way but once you pass the well manicured gatehouses and head towards the forest the order begins to fade. The tree that I thought could be used for reference looks the same as that one, and that one, and that one too. From the few pictures I’ve seen the skeletal winter leaves and autumn hues of gold and brown have been replaced with a verdant green canopy, blue sky peeking through and scenting the air with summer. A tombstone design that seemed unique is actually just the style of the time and twigs tangle around your feet to obscure names and epitaphs that are a mix of heartfelt and straight-laced.
I could have sidestepped some of these hazards. The references pointing to the exact zone and lair of each are out there but by taking away the adventure of discovery would I not miss the opportunity to add my own epilogue to the life story already written?
Graveyards seem to be a dog walkers paradise. I make many canine friends along the way, and while I find the sight of a Labrador bounding towards me not quite in keeping with the reverence the surroundings have been built upon, I still can’t help but feel reflective, my eyes sometimes gazing upwards thinking of the ones that I have lost before.
Focusing back on the search a sight that I had never noticed lies before me; a road. I remember a road being key from the vague descriptions I had been told of MacColl’s final resting place and on the other side another expanse to explore awaited. Crossing the road I scan my refreshed horizon noticing something out of step with what had gone before, a pasture of humble black tombs each carrying an inscription of prayer in lettering that I guess as being in either Urdu or Arabic. The stones look new compared with the weather-beaten contemporaries that surrounded them and I would later learn that they mark the ground where followers of the Islamic faith would be laid to rest.
I knew that MacColl’s grave lay near and a few minutes later, after meticulously walking down each and every channel, I found myself standing in front of my final destination, that of a man who had helped blaze a footballing trail over a hundred years earlier. I suddenly feel unsure, what do you do once you find the grave you’ve spent the preceding two hours looking for? A thought dawned upon me, “who else is buried here?”
I unplugged my earphones and began searching quickly, everyone thinks better with the volume turned down, and soon discoverd that the first managers of both Rangers and Celtic, two of Scottish football’s biggest institutions were buried on the same site. Having already spent hours scrambling this time I cheated just a little using a quick Google scroll to point the way.
Closest to MacColl was the resting place of William Wilton, Rangers first manager and the man I assume instituted the need for brown brogues. As I took in the messages written and the views across the city I was joined by an elderly man and his whippet. Idling up to me he asks, “Do you know who that is?” as a wagging tail excitedly ricochets off my lower limbs.
“I come up here almost everyday”, he continues, “I know it sounds strange but I’ve been giving it a little rub for luck this season.” He pauses, “Fifty-five.” he says, eyes widening before going on to explain that his visits have increased since the death of his wife and that he plans to bring a souvenir to celebrate when the title moment for the Ibrox side finally arrives. Wilton is not the only Ranger buried there though as close by, no more than a couple of yards away, lie the bodies of former chairman William Craig and player-turned newsagent RS McColl. An area of the cemetery dubbed “The Rangers Triangle.”
“You know Willie Maley is buried here too?” he says of the man who led Celtic for the very first time as we start to edge our seperate ways, “despite their alleigances they all got on well I believe.” I don’t ask how he could possibly know this but instead thank him for the rare moment of unfamiliar conversation as I head downhill towards my final stop, the grave of William Maley.
Whilst Wilton’s tomb sat at the cemetery’s peak Maley’s is nestled just off a workers track near thicket on lower ground. Despite it’s more secluded locale it’s easy to spot, a sodden green and white scarf wrapped around the head of the cross like a beacon to those in search of the place where Maley and his family were laid to rest.
The sound is much softer here and as I read the names on the green-grey stone my mind awakened to the serenity I had suddenly found. A satisfaction from discovery and the gentle delight of discovering stories unexpected.
Today I went searching for graves.
Want to find the graves: Friends of Cathcart Cemetery Map.