The winding road takes us through light and dark as we progress through a city of leaves and reappear into the sunshine. One after the other, we are a pack of vehicles, in pursuit of the hearse in front. We ascend the mountain side in single file to achieve our goal, and I stare down at the town, which is just now a memory of suffering and sorrow. We reach the peak, but appallingly, there is still more to come.
The car comes to a halt; my heart beats. Sweat drips from every pore. Nothing happens. No one moves. Could this be the end of this tormenting monstrosity? I peek out of the window. Suddenly we begin to accelerate, and I fear it has not ended. Confused and desperate, I lunge my head out of the opposite window. Another mysterious shadowy figure swings open a gate, and we pass through. The agony is not over. We repeat the event again and again, and I hope that one of these obstacles obstructs us.
Our car reduces speed and the driver climbs out. I think to myself, “This is no gate”. A gate would be an astonishing gift to me right now. The only thing I can do now is pray and hope. To pray that I will not have to go through this anguish, suffering and endless hell once again. In one sudden movement, my hopes and dreams are crushed into minute pieces of terror and misery, as the hearse driver opens the door. Resistance is pointless. We are already here. A foot away from the gates of fire.
I push open the gate upon its rusty hinges. Though, I know, cemeteries are supposed to be depressing and solemn places, this is out of the ordinary. I am welcomed by an old, decrepit yet elegant chapel, that has been abused by weather and man, but preserved and decorated by Mother Nature. Ivy droops over the freestanding wall and fades away into the rubble and ruins. Through a slight crack in the wall I see the remains of a derelict altar. I continue on, picking up my drained feet off the grassy surface from under them. They are comforted by the pleasantness of a spongy carpet of autumn leaves. A mosaic of infinite colors. A mild breeze slithers past my face and cools me throughout as we enter a kingdom of beauty.
My eyes ascend up into the branches of an oak that has past its prime, but nothing can steal the radiance of something so pure. The sunlight seeps through branch after branch upon a spotless tombstone, where the serenade of twittering birds soothes my corrupted mind. I fix my eyes upon the further tombstones. I see some that are being nurtured and cared for, by people who are still in the depths of grief. Others have been long forgotten, as age has wilted their flowers and withered away their names.
I trudge up the strenuous, steep slope where beds of orchids grow, their heads nodding in the sway of the wind. I arch my back, and a strong syrupy scent inflates my lungs. I extend my weary head and glance over a wall, which overlooks the town. The peaceful town of Dolgellau. I turn my head once again to the graveyard. This to me is a paradise. A place where people came to be at peace and re-united with their families. An imaginative sepulchral nirvana. I dash over to the solemn funereal procession that gathers round his resting place. I burst my way to the front line, in time to see his body placed delicately into the sacred earth, and the scent of freshly dug soil surrounds us. My burning eyes gaze impassively upon the tombstone, and I read a name that will echo through the ages.
Robert Gwylym Lewis-Jones
I have sailed from my last harbour, with God’s mighty right hand supporting me.
In God I trust, and in his golden dawn I will drop anchor.
‘Islow Dref’- The place above the town.
