I like this about old Victorian graveyards: they are not the obsessively tidy visions of Los Angeles cemetery parks, with lawns mowed to golfing-green perfection and marble headstones shining and white. Those are a display of constant battle against the encroachment of nature, while cemeteries like this are places of death overtaken by the relentless force of life, and moss. Graves are engulfed by vines and leaves as if in an embrace of ownership. Death is part of life, they say. Death is part of all of it.
