“The truth is that wherever men live, work, and make their homes – whether by fishing along the coast, farming in the country, mining, building; whatever their occupations by circumstance and choice to be – they write themselves into the nature of things. The trees and hedges, the fields and lanes, the skies over the landscape they have helped to shape, take on something of their humanity. When we have buried the dead , we remember the ways they worked, their jokes, their peculiarities, their characters, the ways in which they lived and enjoyed and endured their fortunes and tragedies. We use their tools, their ingenuities and ideas, after them. In thought and feeling. as in physical fact, we walk the many ways they made. The dead have made the very fabric of our lives. They have entered into us. Their nature is in our flesh and blood and bones, and, in a thousand ways, their sentiments form part of our spirit. To seek to know ourselves is, therefore, to some extent to seek to know the communities of the past which have made us what we are.”

In a Country Churchyard
by Ronald Fletcher