When I was in England, in Leicester ("It has a cathedral? Oh, well I guess it's a city, then..."), I did a fair bit of exploring, at least considering how long I was actually there. Leicester is a Medieval city, its city centre bears testament to it with its bizarre winding roads and narrow lanes and alleys. There was a sprawling, park-like cemetary across the street from the university where I was attending the conference and when the lectures became too stuffy, I took myself off to it for a walk. I do love cemetaries. I'm really not sure what fascinates me about how people manage their dead, but I have always been interested. I've never been a death-bunny, hanging around in cemetaries and moping about, nor do I have an interest in corpses. No, I'm only interested in what happens after all that. From prehistoric burials and Ancient Egyptian mummies, to catacombs and modern cemetaries; I read articles and make visits to sites and museums to bear witness. This extends to preserved remains, too, like bog people, but that's not related to this particular entry. Anyway, the cemetary across from the University of Leicester reminded me of a slightly older, far less aesthetically beautiful Mount Pleasant Cemetary, in Toronto; not so conducive to picnicking, but still nice enough.

It wasn't so much this cemetary, though, that will stand out in my memory from Leicester. No, it was on the following day, when Gareth and I stumbled upon a gem of a find right in the middle of the city centre. Leicester is a typical city in that it has a vibrant surface life, the feeling of urban sophistication, of things going on. But, like so many cities, if you scratch at it, the veneer begins to peel back exposing a starker, less polished, and sometimes worm-eaten base. Leicester isn't worm-eaten, it's not riddled with holes that threaten to buckle the structure, but it is suffering that particular blight called Urban Decay. Look around long enough and you're bound to discover that there are far too many rental signs and closed-up shops. There are dirty buildings that show scars of age and a lack of concern for defacement. The people who live there, not the students or tourists, but the average folk have a blankness in their faces, a roughness sometimes, and occasionally something darker, like an emotional hunger. Oh yes, Leicester is a city, but not because of its cathedral.

At any rate, while wandering around and getting relatively lost in the process, we stumbled upon a beautiful old church wedged between typical blocky architecture, worn industrial buildings (complete with peeling paint and broken windows), and a construction site. The church is St. George's Church, and the neighbourhood is appropriately named St. George, based on the "Way" that cuts through it. Apparently there is a plan to redevelop the area, which can be read here. On that day, it was like we walked back in time. In fact, that's kind of what we did. Dusty city streets were left behind, their bustling people and vehicle noises and exhaust left behind as we wandered up the lane to St. George's. The church yard, amazingly still intact for an urban church, wound around it, overgrown with lush vegetation of all kinds, headstones covered in moss and leaning precariously. Edwardian lampposts marked out the walk past the church and a chest-high black, iron fence separated the graveyard from the walk.

I immediately wanted to wander amongst the graves and read (where I could) their inscriptions, but Gareth balked at the idea of hopping the fence and, in his mind, disturbing the dead. My argument was that we wouldn't be disturbing anything, instead, we'd be paying them respect that they obviously hadn't experienced in a while. Rubbish was strewn throughout the yard, caught in the long grass. I hopped the fence and knew immediately that no one was going to care. The graves seemed to date from the mid-late 1700s to the early 20th century and were surprisingly thin to still be intact. There are a lot of broken headstones in the UK, be it from moisture or vandalism. After a while, I hopped back out of the yard and joined Gareth again. We followed the lane around the church and realised something. This was a church that hadn't been in use for a long time. The sign, where services were listed, was hand-painted and peeling, using old fashioned lettering that suggested, at the most recent, the 1950s. The stained glass windows were black with soot and no light was going to pass through them. No, St. George's had been dark for a long time. In a way, it was very sad. This was a dead church. While we imagined a few elderly parishiners caring as best they could for it, the reality seemed to suggest otherwise. If anything, the Council would probably send someone to cut the grass once or twice a season.

And yet, surrounded as we were by the dead, a memorial to the fallen soldiers of the "Great War", and a deserted church, life was springing up all around us. Daffodils and other flowers were bursting from the earth and blossoms and leaves were exploding from the trees in the church yard. It was amazing. In the end, Gareth agreed that our exploration of the grounds and reading and photographing the headstones was far greater respect than the site had been paid in a long while. I hope that the church is preserved. I hope that it is allowed to remain and even if it never takes a congregation again, I hope that it is saved as a piece of Leicester's beautiful architectural history and that it's given the care it deserves. Considering Leicester's balancing act as a vibrant living city and a city threatened to be overwhelmed by urban decay, I suspect St. George's future is uncertain. As a university town boasting a strong liberal arts core, there is hope. Perhaps we visited right when Leicester is at the turning point and is actually undergoing renewal. I hope so - it was a fascinating place.