Travel Report: Kensal Green Cemetery, London.

Kensal Green Cemetery, London.

July 2019.

With thanks to Dave Powell for his help during the writing of this article.

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As regular readers of these pages well know, I do love exploring the world’s cemeteries and graveyards. Call me weird, but there’s just something special about that mix of silence, history and foliage. All those touching memorials and floral tributes in honour of lives lived. Glimpses, if you will, into back stories we will never truly know.

Indeed I’ve written up dozens of these locations across the globe. However, so far at least, there hasn’t been a visit that can compare to Kensal Green Cemetery in London. And that, dear readers, is because this is where I had come to seek out the grave of my maternal grandfather.

It was my nan, now 83 years old, who unintentionally planted the seed when I spent a few days staying with her in the English town of Colchester. She’d been telling me old stories about grandad spanning the 50s, 60s, 70s and 80s.

The whole thing had got me thinking. Chiefly that I knew very little about the man. In fact, I can count the number of actual conversations we had on one hand. He certainly wasn’t a cuddly, Werthers Original, “come sit on my lap” kinda grandfather. Moreover, I was just 14 years old when he passed away. Hence what memories I do have are somewhat wispy with the passing of the decades.

Kensal Green Cemetery, London.

Back in London, after visiting my nan, I couldn’t shake off the realisation that I’d never said goodbye to grandad. I was at boarding school in Wales when he died and remember my science teacher, the tactless Mr. Seymour, calling me out of class and leading me to the headmaster’s office. “Uh… sorry Leighton, I think your grandfather is dead. Come with me”.

Established in 1832, Kensal Green Cemetery is London’s first commercial burial ground. It grew rapidly over the years and today is a sprawling 72-acre complex home to thousands of graves. My first point of call was supposed to be the main office, to see if I could get some directions to grandad’s grave.

But on arrival I found myself instinctively setting off on a stroll, just to see what caught my eye. One of the first things I came upon was this grand mausoleum for the family of Sir Samuel Wilson, an Irish born pastoralist, author and Member of Parliament for Portsmouth.

Wilson was a man of many achievements. After emigrating to Australia as a young man, he worked on the goldfields before becoming a property magnate in the 1850s and 60s. His interest in farming and animal husbandry eventually led to him publishing a book, The Californian Salmon With an Account of its Introduction into Victoria. Not exactly a light read I’m guessing.

Sir Samuel Wilson (1832-1895).

In his later years Wilson became a popular figure in England, as a politician, lecturer and writer. In 1875 he was knighted, while in 1885 Vanity Fair Magazine featured a caricature of him. His wife and children also rest in the mausoleum at Kensal Green.

If one is diligent, there are dozens of notable graves to discover at Kensal Green Cemetery. Winston Churchill’s daughter Marigold, for example, was buried here following her unexpected death aged just 2 years old in 1921. It is also home to Princess Sophia of England, daughter of King George III. And William Makepeace Thackeray, author of The Luck of Barry Lyndon.

One curious grave I did stumble across was that of Andargachew Messai, an Ethiopian diplomat and husband of Princess Tenagnework. According to an online article, Messai held numerous key positions within the Ethiopian government, including Minister of the Interior.

In 1960 he survived the Gannata Palace Coup, during which he was one of several hostages. As a diplomat in London, he was badly injured in a car crash in 1964 and suffered poor health until his eventual death in 1981.

Kensal Green Cemetery, London.

At some point I realised I needed to regain my focus. Indeed I could have easily drifted around the cemetery for hours. Thus I made a determined path for the main office, where a gentleman helped me locate grandad’s grave.

It was a really smooth process, all I had to do was give the date of burial and my nan’s details. Then the guy shuffled off to a back room for a few minutes before returning with the coordinates. And yet, even with my little paper, tracking down the grave wasn’t as straightforward as I might have thought.

While I located the section easily enough, I quickly found myself walking around in circles trying to find the relevant row. And then I was distracted all over again by the sight of a magnificent 86-foot memorial made up of granite Corinthian columns. Wow, what’s this?

Entering under the main arch, with its sculpted angels, I arrived in an incredible jungle garden full of fulsome plants, weeping trees and bouquet after bouquet of fresh flowers. And then I spotted the statue of a smiling boy, sat on a wooden bench clutching a football.

Medi Oliver Mehra (2003-2014).

This stunning garden is actually the tomb of Medi Oliver Mehra, son of Iranian businessman Mehdi Mehra and his wife Mary-Ann Bowring. Their son was just 11 years old when he died in a freak horse riding accident in 2014.

Medi was a keen student, avid Arsenal supporter and dedicated pen friend to a number of boys in Ethiopia. Despite his young age, he was committed to raising money for various charities and wanted to become a published writer. His parents have since established the Medi Oliver Foundation, a global charity in his name. His tomb garden at Kensal Green Cemetery is the largest of its kind in The United Kingdom.

A short while later, quite by accident, I came across grandad’s grave. I’d been walking down the same row for the umpteenth time and suddenly there it was. I must have walked past it several times without noticing.

Kensal Green Cemetery, London.

Here, in this modest little corner of the cemetery, I opened my backpack and laid down the flowers I’d bought at a florist near Kensal Green Tube Station. Indeed it was a sad moment as I recalled my last conversation with him during the summer of 1992. Thin, quiet and slow moving, he led me into the living room where he’d been sorting through a giant box of stationery. There were pens, pencils, erasers and a ruler. A few markers and a rusty old sharpener. “Maybe you can make use of these, I won’t be needing them”.

I imagine plenty of people have passed my grandad’s grave over the years. Maybe even stopped and wondered who he was and what kind of life he lived. Now, should someone care to investigate, let this article be his online footprint.

Kenneth John Powell, Ken to his friends, was born in Ilford, London, where he grew up in a big family with numerous brothers and sisters. He lost his mother early in life and, I’m told, suffered greatly at the hands of his cruel stepmother. The family had a general store, so he at least didn’t go without essentials and even a few luxuries during World War II.

As a young man Ken did two years national service with The RAF. Returning to civilian life, he caused quite a stir among the ladies when he arrived at his new managerial job at Gunns Biscuit Factory in London. Still dressed in his uniform no less. What’s more, he took a real shine to one of the factory ladies, Rosalie Winifred Turner, my nan, whom he married on the 25th of October 1958. A year to the day my mum was born.

Kenneth John Powell (1933-1992).

For long periods money was tight for the Powells. Consequently, during his time at the biscuit factory, my grandad would often walk to work and back every day, even though it was ten miles each way! Tough, but he definitely saved money on bus fares.

He also went through extended periods of unemployment in the 1970s and 80s. But at long last he settled into a steady position working on the BBC’s current affair TV show Newsnight. Ken worked in the archive department, where he’d regularly edit the obituaries of notable British figures.

Outside work, my grandfather cut a complex figure. He was a highly intelligent and often fearsome man whose temper you did not want to get on the wrong side of. In contrast, he could also be a relentless joker who’d entertain his boozing buddies with silly stories and anecdotes at London’s Old Oak Club.

He was a man who supported Tottenham Hotspur Football Club. Who loved tinkering around in the garden greenhouse growing all manner of fruit and vegetables. He was the composer and singer of his own funny songs. The creator of unflattering nicknames. My mum, for example, was “Big Bad Bev!” My Uncle David, “Leopard Head”, when he came home one day with what he thought was a trendy new haircut.

Kensal Green Cemetery, London.

As a kid, I remember Grandad walking around the house shouting “Humba!” in his booming voice. I had no idea that it was another nickname, this time one of his drinking mates. Every Christmas, at the Powell home in London’s Fitzneal Street, I recall grandad leading all the men into the lounge for several hours of chatting, drinking and smoking. Much like my Uncle David, also too young to be invited, I longed to be in that men’s room getting the inside scoop.

Unfortunately, a lifetime of heavy smoking caught up with my grandad. Following his terminal lung cancer diagnosis, he made minimal fuss. “Don’t tell the kids” he told my nan and went back to work.

I’m glad I took the time to go and see my grandfather’s final resting place at Kensal Green Cemetery. Looking back, it gave me a sense of closure that was probably missing. And, of course, it led to the writing of this article, during which I learned all about a man I’d barely known.

I’ll sign this one off with a wonderful photo of my nan and Uncle David’s visit to the grave in February 2020. I’m sure you’ll agree they did a great job cleaning it up and giving it the makeover he deserved.

For more on my home city, why not delve through my many reports from across London.

Or maybe search further afield with my articles from all around England.

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