Málaga's English Cemetery

‘Ingles?’

          The man who asks this question has clearly taken stock of my ungrammatical Spanish and sun-starved skin. He’s elderly and has the deeply tanned face of one who has spent his life in warm climes. His eyes hint at a great intelligence, and I’m not especially surprised when I discover later that he was once the British government’s representative in this handsome coastal city. Now he oversees Málaga’s English Cemetery, a tranquil spot near the sea, hidden away behind a curtain of vibrant purple bougainvillea. 

          I like cemeteries, which I guess puts me in the minority. They are peaceful, and full of mystery and hidden tales. Like horror stories, they can exert a magnetic and paradoxical fascination. This explains my decision to explore even the overgrown, topmost extremity of this arid and thirsty burial ground. A strange pull led me up there, and it wasn’t until I reached a grave whose covering slab was cracked wide open that I beat a hasty retreat downhill. 

          This cemetery is full of stories. A shrouded urn atop a column coloured a soft shade of orange marks the final resting place of a man who rose from poverty in Berwick-upon-Tweed to become British consul in Málaga. It was thanks to the efforts of this long-forgotten diplomat, one William Mark, that this beautiful graveyard was founded. 

          When Mark became consul in 1824 deceased Protestants were simply taken down to the beach by the Mediterranean and buried upright in the sand. He wrote that his 'blood curdled at the thought' of his countrymen being treated in so infamous a fashion, and his determined lobbying led to the founding of the English Cemetery in 1831. It was the first in Spain.  

          Another obscure figure, Robert Boyd of Londonderry, is commemorated on a cracked monument nearby. He ‘fell at Málaga in the scared cause of liberty’, or so the inscription tells us. After a bit of research I discovered that this freedom fighter was a sometime soldier who poured his inheritance into an ill-starred insurrection against the Spanish king in 1831. His comrades are buried beneath an obelisk in Plaza de la Merced, one of the city’s most famous squares. 

          You don’t have to be a history aficionado (or a cemetery enthusiast) to enjoy the graveyard though. An abundance of exotic flora is on display: palm trees; cacti; false pepper trees, with their drooping clusters of berries; the brilliant orange flowers of the cape honeysuckle; and an unknown (at least to me) and nightmarish green plant whose tentacles protrude menacingly. Two pines catch the eye, their boughs stretching out at crazy angles above the oldest section, a small enclosure of flaking white walls called the Inner Cemetery.

          I walk downhill, past the white lions and gabled lodge that mark the entrance to the grounds, and find myself once more on busy Avenida de Pries. Gone is the peace of the graveyard, where I could even hear the soft breeze blowing in from the sea. I walk to a restaurant close to the bull ring, order a plate of gambas pil pil and a bottle of Alhambra beer. Suddenly the English Cemetery seems very far away.