We knew we had arrived at Vernazza’s lofty cemetery by the unusual face that greeted us from a stony corner.
Single graves marked by marble headstones, crosses, and photos of the deceased dotted one level of the cemetery, some crusty with age, others still shiny with newness.
The year 1856 on this broken tombstone may indicate either the year of birth or death, but “Vedova” clearly means “Widow.”
A higher level held rows of rectangle crypts, five high, with names engraved on the fronts of the marble blocks with built-in vases for placing flowers. A tall rolling ladder rested between the rows making it easy to visit the highest crypts.
Walking up and down the rows and along the outer edges of this heavenly spot, I was impressed with what a beautiful resting place this really was.
Back down to the town we went, returning to the piazza under dry skies. Up above, while we had been at the cemetery, the wind had whipped around, but strangely it hadn’t felt cold. Instead, it had dried our damp clothing.