An (Inadvertent) Romantic Pilgrimage

Whan that aprill with his shoures soote
The droghte of march hath perced to the roote, …..

Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages,

In Chaucer's day, as he reports above, people went on pilgrimages in the spring. Those were the days when everyone at least professed to believe in God, and went to places like Canterbury to visit the tomb of Thomas A'Becket.

OK, it's March, not April, but spring is still a good time to travel. And I love to go on pilgrimages - though to places of literary rather than religious significance. Though churches do often feature - mainly because that's the usual resting place of the dead.

Last year I dragged my long-suffering husband to the remote church of St Juliot in Cornwall because that's where Thomas Hardy met his wife; to the church of East Coker to visit TS Eliot's last resting place....

But the other week I promise I wasn't deliberately on a pilgrimage, and it was a place I am relatively familiar with: Bournemouth. My elder son spent three years at University there; a close friend lives in the area and I have visited and stayed there on several occasions.

The purpose of our latest visit was younger son's University interview, and having delivered his nervous form into the auspices of academe, hubby and I wandered into town to pass the time before picking him up again.

In the back of my mind was the story of Shelley's death: he was drowned off the shores of Italy and his body washed up on the shore. Because of the risk of infection he was cremated on the beach, and according to tradition, one of his friends grabbed his heart from the funeral pyre and presented it to his wife Mary, who brought it back to England and kept it for the rest of her life. It was then buried with her - in Bournemouth.

I have to say the idea of removing a heart from a burning body left me sceptical until it was pointed out to me that the heart is an extremely strong, tough muscle, and very resistant to burning.

Looking across the road from where we were walking (from the public loos towards the site of the old Bournemouth Bus Station - blame my hubby's bladder and own interests, respectively) I spotted what looked like a church - could this be the one where Mary (and her husband's heart) were buried? Crossing the road, followed by my resigned hubby, I found that not only was this not the church, it wasn't even a church any more - it was a nightclub!

So on we walked: after all, there must be dozens of churches in the Bournemouth area, most of them out of the town centre. Instead we turned our attention to finding somewhere to have a coffee. Hubby was admiring some of the town's architecture, when across the road appeared another church - well, I had to check it out, right?

And outside was a notice announcing that several famous people worshipped or are buried here - including Mary Shelley! In we went, and - apart from narrowly missing leaving permanent footprints on a newly-polished floor (one sort of immortality I suppose!) - had an uneventful wander round the interior of a colourful and rather lovely church.

Out in the churchyard I was now on the trail of the Shelleys - all I had to do was find the actual irst i inspected a small building in the environs, which proved to be an Orthodox church, which was locked. As I walked away from it, I heard a voice say: 'I sleep there sometimes.'

Looking round, I saw a man sitting on a bench outside the church: tall, mid-thirties and warmly but simply dressed. Intrigued, I chatted to him and was delighted when he said: 'Sometimes I go and sleep with Mary Shelley.' We agreed that she was a great writer - and her husband wasn't bed either! He pointed out the relevant tomb, on which he had placed flowers.

On approaching the tomb I discovered that it contained not only Mary's body and Percy's heart, but her parents' bodies, which were moved from their original burial place at St Pancras; also Mary and Percy's son, also called Percy, and his wife are buried there.

I spent several minutes at the tomb, taking photos and just looking, and afterwards, as we walked back through the churchyard, I saw the man I had spoken to was still sitting on the bench. As we passed, I thanked him for showing me where Mary rests, and said: 'Look after her.' 'I always do,' he replied.

And strange as it may seem, that lovely man keeping vigil at the tomb of a lady he clearly adores, who died more than 150 years ago, is true to the spirit of the Romantic poets.