way anyone could get in was to climb onto a bin and scale the walls. Those pointy rock things they built it
with slice the fuck out of a man’s flesh though, so mostly folks would just stand outside and look in, and
say “ooh, is that a ghost?” and then another person might say “don’t be so fucking stupid.”
Scary stuff goes on, though. Like, someone calculated how at least 80% of the graves are filled with
corpses.
Eerie shit, is what.
sorts, and you can get all kinds of leaflets and so on. There’s even A Web-Site, which,
while hardly as fucking astounding as this one, at least has some stuff about the oldest
gravestones and what not.
climbed in and wrecked the place, doing all sorts of damage to the memorials and what not. The papers blamed Satanists, but who the
hell knows? Anyway, the result was that they covered the wall in gunk what would stain the fuck out of all those Cradle Of Filth t-shirts.
The tower that stands at the foot of the yard, though, is locked to the public still, although this is on account of it would probably fall
asunder if anyone so much as sneezed in its direction. And it’s a big tower, man. You don't want that falling on your skull is what I’m
guessing. It’s actually all that remains of a church built in 1637, and there’s a stone inside the tower inscribed with the legend – “THIS
CHVRCH VAS BYLDED TO THE GLORYE OF GOD 1637”, just in case y’all doubt the validity of The Duke’s historicalised accuracy.
about how there was a tunnel that led from the Graveyard to various other locations in
the town. At the time, I was fascinated is what, but later on came to the conclusion that
it was all a load of the bullshit, horseshit, other animal waste what means “lies”. Turns
out, though, that this is actually the case. Holy shit, I hear you all thinking.
Fuck knows where it starts, but most folks assume that underneath the graves and
stuff there is indeed a tunnel, perhaps once used to hide from United Irishmen or
some other organization what wanted to plunder the town and so on.
The Road Service were building a car-park across the road from the graveyard about
30 years ago, according to This Here Web Site, and managed to uncover an arched
passage about three-feet underground. There were photos and what-not taken, but
they all seem to have been vaporized or some-shit.
Thomas Hutchinson, or Bloody Hutchinson. Again, I heard so many tales when I was a
pre-pubescent malcontent, that I eventually assumed it to be a load of the proverbial.
He was indeed a real person, though, and a ruthless motherfucker if ever there was
one.
He was a judge, and specialized in hanging the hell out of those aforementioned
United Irishmen. His grave is reportedly the location for any amount of supernatural
shenanigans, but alas, I have never witnessed any.
Probably the most famous of Hutchinson’s antics is the hanging of Alexander Gamble,
a United Irishman who also made soap for a living. He was tried and hung at the clock-
tower at the top of Main Street. Apparently he would have been spared this rope-
related horror if he would inform on his fellow rebellious types. Reportedly, he
replied with an answer along the lines of how “He would die some day, and he knew
not how soon; but it should never be cast in the face of his children that their father
betrayed others to save himself”.
uncovered the ghastly remains. Following a bout of chin stroking and saying “hmmm”, it was decided that Gamble would be buried in
the Old Graveyard what I am relating about, not very far from the fella what hung him.
down here and sit on the bench and do all the canoodling and stuff, and also poke
about and look at the places where the dead folks are. The result is that there is a
tranquility in my mind when I think of the place, although there are also plenty of less
soft-focus affairs, like when I was scrambling through it in the dark one night, pissed
on cider, and slid into a fucking foot-wide gap under one of the headstones. That was
fairly unpleasant, is what.
There’s a story along the lines of a fella was dared to stay in the graveyard for a
night. Being one of those types with the puffed-out chest and the gut-full of ale, he
accepted the challenge. Apparently he appeared the next morning, bollock-naked,
his hair white, gibbering incomprehensible nonsense about “the ghosts” and so on.
Who the hell knows? Still, it’s a nice place for a stroll, is what The Duke would
suggest.
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