Visiting Richard

The mist fell along the country lane. We had passed a big beige stucco farmhouse with gingerbread balconies like the kind found on jigsaw puzzles that used to be sold at Woolworth’s. As a child I never thought I would see the real Switzerland with out the jagged lines of a puzzle running through the scenery.

A stone wall was hidden in the underbrush to my right with an unbroken field with grass ready for haying on the other side. On the left were trees their leaves bent from the water.

If it were not for the lilacs and wisteria turning part of the world purple, it would have seemed more like late October or early November thanks to the chilled air.

The dirt path dipped past a cemetery.

“It’s hard to believe a village as tiny as Céligny has two cemeteries,” my writer friend said.

The second cemetery was tiny, less than 50 graves spaced in two rows sheltered by trees. We pushed the grey metal gate open. The sound of a small river could be heard in the distance.

I stood in front of one with the arm pit high menhir cut in half. Already the jagged stone was moss covered. This was the reason we came.

“The stone if from Wales,” my friend said.

There was a pot of red flowers and a second mud-splattered pink pot with greens. Pine boughs were piled at the front of the grave. Someone had laid an orange plastic heart next to the pots.

The name was in simple metal letters: Richard Burton with the dates of his birth and death. Hard to believe it was 22 years ago. Hard to believe a man that lived with such flamboyance and pursued by his own demons was buried in such simplicity.

He and Elizabeth Taylor had made this tiny village their home for many years. Stars like Switzerland because the Swiss don’t bother celebrities. Burton could stand in line at the pharmacy along with everyone else and no one would ask for an autograph.

I have always liked visiting graves of famous people. Years ago in Westminster Abbey standing by the tombs of Elisabeth I, Mary Stuart and Mary Tudor it was as if I had a personal introduction to these three strong women.

I’ve a stone next to my computer that was touching Collette’s tomb as a talisman to help me write. She is buried at Père La Chaize in Paris as is Oscar Wilde, Chopin and Jimmi Hendrix.

Years ago when my daughter was studying in Germany, she and her friends went to Paris and ended up at Père La Chaize. They stopped a guard to ask for Chopin’s tomb. The guard was thrilled. These teenagers wanted something other than Jimi Hendrix. Neither my daughter nor her friends wanted to ruin his joy and tell him that they had just come from Hendrix’s tomb.

We didn’t spend a long time in the cemetery. Instead we opened out umbrellas and walked back avoiding the puddles. In my mind I could hear the deep Welsh voice saying, “watch your step.”

http://switzerland.isyours.com/e/guide/lake_geneva/celigny.html

http://www.celigny.ch/