It is cold, dank and muddy and I’m contemplating a barely defined path from the paved road into an ever-darkening wood. I should have brought a torch, but I didn’t, and before the light fades completely I need to find the ‘idyllic’ woodland burial ground I have shortlisted as a possible resting place for my late husband’s ashes; and also, when the time comes, for my own.
When I get there, the site is glorious: on a slope, on the edge of a real forest — the sort of place the woodland-obsessed Germans probably have a special word for. The colours are sombre in the evening light and flights of birds wheel overhead. It’s the closest thing I’ve found to a place that feels right, but then, what is the right place to be buried when you’re a citizen of nowhere?
As a family, we had it easy with my parents. They retired to a classic English village.
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