“I am therefore a ready believer in relics, legends, and local anecdotes of goblins and great men, and would advise all travellers who travel for their gratification to be the same. What is it to us whether these stories be true or false, so long as we can persuade ourselves into the belief of them and enjoy all the charm of the reality?†― Washington Irving
There is a sign on many cemetery entrances that they are closed at sundown and no one is allowed in beyond that time.
There are also many cemeteries that don’t have gates or watchers to make sure no one enters beyond sundown.
On the cusp of the day when the veil between worlds is at its least substantial and most permeable, this post recalls a recent visit to a cemetery overlooking the Mohawk River. At the entrance was the warning that it was closed at sundown, and I was cutting it close a little after 5 PM. But the sun was still strong, the wind has quieted, and there was such beauty that I ambled the Mini Cooper slowly along the leaf-littered path as a few ancient, drooping pine trees closed their curtains of boughs behind me.
It appeared I had just missed the main foliage show and most of the leaves had already been ripped from the maples, but a few still clung onto their branches despite the lofty breeze. The golden hour was at hand, and as the temperature began to descend I stood mesmerized by the falling sun. Such a brilliantly tricky fellow, he shone his rays behind the trees and over the river, peeking from behind bark and branches, all in a game that would end with his disappearance.
The wind picked up. Whispers were heard like the rustling of dry leaves, and I told myself it was just the wind, because what else, or who else, could it be? Behind me the cemetery and its headstones made their own murmurs. More whispers on the wind, I reasoned.
It’s rather remarkable how much power the sun holds – more remarkable perhaps when that power is suddenly taken away by the winding river, and suddenly we were plunged deeper into shadow. I did not wait for the chill to arrive, though I had an appetite for the edge of danger, even as I drove a little quicker than was necessary to make it out before total darkness fell.
The forest had me hooked.
I would be going back the next day, to a longer path, a deeper path, and I’d start a little earlier to catch the light.
“He is indeed the true enchanter, whose spell operates, not upon the senses, but upon the imagination and the heart.†― Washington Irving
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