[The Squatter of Amon Rûdh]

This evening, or rather yesterday evening since the hour is now so far advanced, I went on something of a pilgrimage; and since a number of people have expressed an interest I have decided to post a full account here for your delectation.

Awakening bleary-eyed on Monday morning after a strenuous weekend's posting, I suddenly realised something rather disturbing: I had lived for more than twenty years within thirty miles of Oxford and had never once dropped in to pay my respects to the inspiration behind this site. This omission would never do, and so I resolved there and then to visit J.R.R. Tolkien's grave after work by hook or by crook.

My decision made, I set out for the station to catch my train to work. Since most of the area in which I live is quite astoundingly ugly it is my wont to look skyward for most of the short walk; and on this of all mornings I happened to see a flight of three swans passing by above the station. There are a lot of swans around at this time of year, but my recent resolution lent them a certain significance: the die was cast, and to Wolvercote I would go.

It takes a ridiculously light amount of work to track down the final resting place of John and Edith Tolkien. There are literally thousands of web-sites that carry photographs of the simple, unassuming monument in its quiet suburban cemetery, and an on-line map gave me its rough location. The difficult part was in sitting still and getting some work done until I could get away, although a series of text messages managed to obtain for me a companion in my enterprise, who conveniently owns a car. The stage set, I settled down to some work, confident that now nothing could go wrong.

Alas, pride comes before a fall. As is so often the case when it is important for me to get away from work on time, I found myself typing frustratedly as five, five-thirty and six o'clock all passed without my escape. Time was growing short, but eventually I managed to extricate myself, collect a hopeful camera and await my fellow traveller.

It is a straightforward journey from Reading to Oxford, and Wolvercote lies so close to the city that we had no trouble finding it. What we couldn't find, however, was Wolvercote Cemetery. We found ourselves in a deserted and desolate car-park on the very edge of some farmland and I left the car to look for road signs, although as ill-luck would have it the only one I could find read

The flying of model aircraft is restricted to members of the Oxford Model Aircraft Society.

By order of the Sheriff

Which was not a great deal of help, although it did explain why there were no road signs. Clearly Oxford City Council were expending all such resources in curtailing the spread of dangerous unlicenced radio-controlled aeroplane clubs. Whilst I felt momentarily safer from being hit on the head by a 1/4 scale Spitfire I did somewhat envy the owner of this hypothetical machine, who would at least know where he was by the placement of the sign.

Our salvation was a local pub, the imaginatively-named Red Lion (the commonest pub name in Britain), just across the road from the White Hart (I noted approvingly that even though the hamlet appeared deserted the locals had still not skimped on Locals). A swift pint and the casual befriending of the landlord's dog soon had us back on the right track, and we were able to get to the cemetery with a mere five-mile digression and three wrong turns.

Here we struck another setback. What with my delay at work and our inept navigation it was now past ten in the evening, and the gates of Wolvercote Cemetery had been padlocked for the night. As you can imagine I had no intention of giving up my quest at this late stage and within bowshot of my goal; so my companion and I made our way into the adjoining playing field, looking for a gap in the fence.

No such gap having presented itself I resolved to climb the obstacle, which by some miracle I managed without injury to myself or my clothes. At this point I lost my companion, whose apprehension, combined with a weak knee that precluded the scaling of the fence, caused her to abandon the quest (her interest in Tolkien is not sufficient to warrant the risk of injury or capture). Advising her to escape without me if the Shirriffs should make an appearance, and feeling rather like a young hobbit who has managed to sneak into some loftily forbidden tower, I looked about apprehensively. Breaking into cemeteries is not my usual evening's entertainment, and I was acutely aware that this might be a bridge too far. But within a few hundred feet of where I stood were the last earthly remains of Professor John Ronald Reuel Tolkien, and this knowledge stiffened my resolve. I began to cast about for the headstone I had seen on the web: it was a clear night with a full moon and the stars were out in force, but still I found myself unable to read the inscriptions on any of the headstones as I glanced at them from the footpath. It looked as though I had come so close to my goal only to fail at the last hurdle, but salvation was at hand.

Roughly in the middle of the cemetery there is a small chapel of remembrance, where all the paths converge. I made for it in the hope that there would be some sort of sign indicating which was the Catholic section, so that I could narrow down my search. Instead the second sign I came across, low to the ground and no more than ten inches square, simply read "J.R.R. Tolkien, Author", and bore an arrow pointing down a path towards the fence I had so recently scaled. About three-quarters of the way down the path was an identical marker, this time pointing off to my right, and no more than twelve feet from the path I found a plain stone monument bearing this simple inscription, clearly legible in the moonlight:

Edith Mary Tolkien
Luthien
1889 - 1971

John Ronald
Reuel Tolkien
Beren
1892 - 1973

I had reached my goal. Snowdrops speckled the grave, and a more diurnal visitor had left some daffodils. Beren and Lúthien lie near the edge of the burials where much open ground leads away towards the fence and some imposing pine trees; a peaceful, almost idyllic spot in the absence of the living. I placed my hand on the headstone and said the most appropriate thing that I could think of at the time.

"Elen síla lúmenn' omentielvo" I said, demonstrating my uncanny knack for stating the obvious (there were plenty of stars to choose from in the rather crowded sky). Taking from my pocket a copy of Tolkien's essay A Secret Vice, I turned to a page that I had marked and, straining to pick out the small characters by moonlight, and halting sometimes as it failed, I read the following lines, which according to Christopher Tolkien were written in the last decade of his father's life.

Oilima Markirya

Men kenuva fáne kirya
métima hrestallo kíra,
i fairi néke
ringa súmaryasse
ve maiwi yaimië?

Man tiruva fána kirya,
wilwarin wilwa,
ëar-kelumessen
rámainen elvië,
ëar falastala,
winga hlápula
rámar sisílala,
kále fifírula?

Man hlaruva rávëa súre
ve tauri lillassië,
ninqui karkar yarra
isilme ilkalasse,
isilme píkalasse,
isilme lantalasse
ve loikolíkuma;
raumonurrula,
undume rúmala?

Man kenuva lumbor na-hosta
Menel na-kúna
ruxal' ambonnar,
ëar amortala,
undume hákala,
enwina lúme
elenillor pella
talta-taltala
atalantië mindoninnar?

Man tiruva rákina kirya
ondolisse morne
nu fanyare rúkina,
anar púrëa tihta
axor ilkalannar
métim' auresse?
Man kenuva métim' andúne?

I have no doubt that my pronunciation left a lot to be desired, indeed often the words of the poem became completely illegible in the darkness, so that at one point I broke off to quip "I cannot read the fiery letters!" but this is what I hope I read:

The Last Ark

Who shall see a white ship
leave the last shore,
the pale phantoms
in her cold bosom
like gulls wailing?

Who shall heed a white ship,
vague as a butterfly,
in the flowing sea
on wings like stars,
the sea surging,
the foam blowing,
the wings shining,
the light fading?

Who shall hear the wind roaring
like leaves of forests;
the white rocks snarling
in the moon gleaming,
in the moon waning,
in the moon falling
a corpse-candle;
the storm mumbling,
the abyss moving?

Who shall see the clouds gather,
the heavens bending
upon crumbling hills,
the sea heaving,
the abyss yawning,
the old darkness
beyond the stars falling
upon fallen towers?

Who shall heed a broken ship
on the dark rocks
under ruined skies,
a bleared sun blinking
on bones gleaming
in the last morning?

Who shall see the last evening?

With that I sat down on the ground for a while, saying nothing and looking at the names on the stone. I got up after a short time and stood for a while looking at the monument; so small a thing, I remember thinking, to hold the bones of a people.

Deciding that I had disturbed their sleep enough for one night I left them with some few words of my own, climbed the fence again and returned to the car. I was frozen to the bone and had run the risk of arrest, but I had done what I had set out to do. I had come as close as I ever will to meeting J.R.R. Tolkien.

*****

Postscript (26th April 2003): I returned to Wolvercote on Easter Monday. There is a fresh grave not far from that of J.R.R. Tolkien, so new that its headstone has yet to be set up. A small brass plaque on a wooden stand bears the name of Father John Tolkien, eldest son of the author. Apparently he died in January, but I had missed his grave in the dark.