Frankie Goodway in praise of a city secret

Nestled on St Cross Street, between the hulking law and English faculties building and the stretch of Magdalen College’s wall, Holywell Cemetery is a slice of calm.

Oxford is awash with green spaces, from the coiffed quads of Keble to South Parks, but Holywell Cemetery is special; not meant for the living but the dead, it’s not particularly welcoming. That, however, is as it should be.

The moment I walk in I feel like a trespasser, even though visitors are perfectly welcome. The frisson of excitement grows with every step away from the pavement, as if at any moment a disgruntled vampire will rise up to berate me for disturbing his sleep. I’ve often watched people hurrying past the fence, casting a single wistful look at the tombs before moving on. However, if you dare to go through the wooden gate, you’ll find yourself in a gloriously Gothic landscape, replete with Victorian tombstones looming out of the earth at strange angles. Part of the cemetery is left to grow wild and foxes have been known to prowl among the graves. It gives the impression of neglect, even though the cemetery is well kept.

The effect is instantly Romantic, with a capital R, though I’m sure some moody Oxford couples must have trysted amongst the trees.

It would be a shame if no one had — the symbolism alone, of life and death together, would make most English dons salivate. Only a few feet in and the sounds of the road drop away. It’s the perfect place to indulge your melancholy — to pretend, for a few minutes, that you’re the heroine of a Victorian novel, eking out a pathetic but ultimately symbolic existence under the thumb of a cruel author.

I’ve often walked through the stones, indulging my sense of self-importance. If you’re feeling cheeky, you might have a Tess of the D’Urbervilles moment and take a quick nap next to a tomb.

If light-hearted literature is more up your street, you could visit the grave of Kenneth Grahame, author of The Wind in the Willows. It’s a satisfyingly apt tombstone — solid stone, with a sweet inscription: “To the beautiful memory of Kenneth Grahame, husband of Elspeth and father of Alastair, who passed the river on the 6th of July, 1932, leaving childhood and literature through him the more blest for all time.” Old cemeteries are special places where death loses its sting. There’s no atmosphere of recent grief, nor any of the lingering guilt of war graveyards.

Among beautiful carvings, weathered by the rain, and constant bird song, Holywell’s graves appear a natural ending.

And if that’s not an upbeat enough thought to end your visit, just stroll back up to the fence and watch the law students muttering feverishly to themselves as they lug books back to the library and guess just how many would exchange their lot for a cosy, padded box, six feet long and six feet under…