Glasgow’s Necropolis: why a new entrance has sparked a grave debate

It was also the day that Celtic had won the Scottish Cup at an empty Hampden, from where the wind had carried the muffled shouts of those few who had been permitted to watch across the river and up through the High Street. I should have been at the stadium but was glad I’d come here.

My visit last week came about following some alarming headings in The Herald and our sister paper, the Glasgow Times. These seemed to indicate that there were civic plans afoot to ‘regenerate’ the necropolis. “Council plans ‘could be the end’ for Glasgow Necropolis,” yelled one. Really? Regenerating graveyards is literally what happens in Zombie apocalypse movies. This sounds like the Devil’s work and already there’s been a backlash.

Read more:

• Glasgow Necropolis in line to get a new entrance
• Tear down that wall – the case for change at the Necropolis
• 'If these plans go ahead, it could be the end of the Necropolis'

Glasgow City Council wants to spend £210,000 on a new entrance at the east end of the necropolis. On the face of it, this seems fair enough. The only two proper entrances are up near the Cathedral precinct, but this graveyard stretches down to the east end and belongs to its citizens too. Why shouldn’t they also have their own way in?

The funding was approved by the Dennistoun Local Area Partnership after being proposed by Greens councillor Anthony Carroll and SNP councillor Allan Casey.

Mr Carroll said: “The Necropolis is a cornerstone of Glasgow’s heritage in a lot of ways. The new entrance will give east end folk a great opportunity to experience the Necropolis and also pass through the Bridge of Sighs and into the Cathedral precinct into town.”

It seems, though, that The Friends of Glasgow Necropolis (FGN), have serious issues regarding the development, which they believe will “be to the detriment” of the graveyard.

It’s their opinion that providing the east-enders with easier access would see “an increase in anti-social behaviour, including drug taking and prostitution”. Now, I’m reluctant to arraign the attitudes of this fine organisation, who do a great job guarding the sanctity of this place, nevertheless I have questions. Surely they’re not suggesting that the residents of Glasgow’s east end are more likely to partake of chemical accelerants and al fresco concupiscence than the rest of us?  

And besides, I wouldn’t have any problems with jaikies holding a party and taking some blaw and getting off with each other over my final resting-place. Come one; come all in a manner of speaking. I’m captivated by the hope of some jaggy citizenry getting howling with the ‘aff its heid mead’ while maybe toasting the memory of me, their unknown kinsman.

Many years ago, not long after I’d left the university (sans degree), I’d gone for an interview at the City Chambers to please my anxious parents. The interview had gone far too well for my liking and I was worried sick that I might be offered the job and then have to tell Joe and Maureen why there was not a chance in hell I’d be taking it.

And so, I hurried up to the Necropolis to seek solace among our absent friends. During this dark afternoon of the soul, I happened upon a squad of young day-time drinkers who seemed to sense my disquietude and kindly offered me some of their commotion lotion and to share their extra-long, hand-crafted cigarettes. It would have been churlish to refuse and so I made my excuses and stayed.

Glasgow Necropolis (Image: Agency)

There were about seven of them, lads and girls, and they had a reverence for their surroundings. They would refer to some of their favourite spots in the Necropolis by the names of the dead people in the vicinity. “Over by the Major’s bit” (the major being Archibald Douglas Monteath, resident of one of the more splendid mausoleums in this park).

Also, there was a very clever student in my English class who identified as a goth and looked like the scary one in that Shakespeare’s Sister video. She told me that she would ascertain the sustainability of prospective inamoratas (and there were many because she was bonnie) by how willing they were to spend a night with her under the stars and among the tombs at the Necropolis. So don’t go assuming that all the trysts up there are shallow and transactional.

And so, last Friday I went for my walk around the obelisks and the stone angels and crosses and took a small cruet of Johnny Walker with me to drink to the memory of that day and to pray that life had been gentle with them. 

This time, I took an immediate left on a path I’d never walked down towards the Jewish enclosure and which gives you the closest view of the cathedral. And not for the first time you find yourself a long view of its outstanding elegance.

The Friends of the Glasgow Necropolis had also recoiled at the prospect of cycle paths disfiguring this place and I’m with them on that. I’d much rather have the jaikies here than a fleet of those sweaty, sanctimonious weapons and their daft helmetry. 

If the council are happy to spend 200 grand on a new eastern entrance, could they not also spare some poppy to repair and reset some of the fallen gravestones? There are dozens on one little stretch to the left of the Jewish enclosure that runs along Wishart Street across from the back of the Royal Infirmary.

From there, I walk around the terraces that open out onto a space at the northern tip guarded by two rows of trees. It’s like a self-contained memorial garden with columns of great, stone memorials belonging to Glasgow’s most affluent and redoubtable citizens. It’s all stony Presbyterian rectitude like a gathering of ministers sipping sherry and listening to the psalms.

I used to scorn the vast sums that must have been spent on these grand tombs and enclosures. There was something absurd about proclaiming your material wealth in the only place on earth where it meant nothing. And how they seemed to be rebuked by the biblical inscriptions inlaid on their final resting places, death being the greatest harbinger of social equality. Matthew (19:24) tells us: “It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich person to enter the kingdom of God.” You won’t see that quote among the bible verses inlaid on these tombs.

But maybe they simply wanted their friends and future generations of their own kin to know that they'd been successful and perhaps inspire them. And maybe too their friends and admirers had all chipped in to get a nice engraving for their dead pal. It doesn't bother me as much as it used to.

Perhaps too some were built by grieving families anxious to convey something of their beloved's greatness, even if it could only be glimpsed in their eyes. Warmed by the Johnny Walker I’m more kindly disposed to them, but not for long.

On the other side is where the east end slopes away beneath you. These streets were where some of the McKennas and McCabes first stopped off the boats from Ireland. None of them are buried here. At this vantage point I always look for the grey battlements of Celtic Park for no other reason than that it still provides a comfort and sense of where you came from, beyond which I can’t really explain.

As children we were told to call Celtic’s home Paradise because it was adjacent to the Janefield cemetery, also known as the Eastern Necropolis with its war graves and its long-disused Hebrew section and Sergeant Colin McKechnie, who won a VC in Crimea. 

And you compare his heroism to the conduct of many of those who lie underneath these stones and their families who had grown rich on slavery and who were impervious to the suffering and inequality and deprivation in Glasgow’s east end.

Am I over-thinking this? Perhaps I need to gather some of my edgier friends and have a modest afternoon swalette amongst these stones once more and chill.

And then you find a way of reconciling the inequalities interred here. If there were only slabs and modest stones in the Necropolis then we’d have been deprived of this, Scotland’s greatest museum and its finery.

And besides: even in this bleak November day there’s a few dozen affluent-looking tourists making their way to old John Knox and taking pictures of my beautiful city from where it looks its best. Perhaps after all these dead merchants and slavers are settling their accounts with the city that made them rich.

Kevin Mckenna is Scotland’s Feature Writer of the Year