Naples, one of the largest cities in the Mediterranean, was one in which religion still played an important role. I found votive shrines housing Jesus, the Virgin Mary or saints, on every street and corner, safeguarded by ornate iron enclosures, and, in the older neighbourhoods, adorned with vibrant neon lights. Despite their rich detail, many of these structures of worship appeared neglected in their modern surroundings, yet others were clean, and had offerings left in them: a prayer note, a rosary, candles and flowers; the shrines seemed to have remained integral to the community, who served as their custodians, maintaining and embellishing them.  

During the trip, an newspaper article caught my eye, about one of Naples's cemeteries; it had the headline “At least a dozen coffins have been left dangling in the air after the collapse of a four-storey building containing burial niches at the oldest cemetery in Naples”. It was through that, that I discovered Italy’s hauntingly beautiful cemetery of Poggioreale (also known as Camposanto Nuovo).

“Poggioreale”, meaning “royal hill”, and one of the largest cemeteries in Europe, was a maze-like network spread across a hilltop overlooking the city. It had opened in 1837, when an area near the church had become overcrowded with graves, and many families had built private crypts and chapels, designed to “aid the soul's passage to heaven”.

Flower vendors were stationed at the entrances, and although I had been drawn to seeing the ornate marble graves there, it had also been their well-tended flowers, paying homage to the deceased and their legacies, which had moved me. I found that the coexistence of the living and the dead, the connection between generations, gave me solace. It was a place where comfort and unease coincided, a place which bridged the gap between the past and the present, and where introspection and reflection connected with the eerie beauty of mortality.