This Saturday’s cemetery workgroup kept to the shade — it was a warm day, and hotter weather was forecast. My partner and I made our way to the Folkestone end of Cheriton Road Cemetery, where the large trees offered some welcome relief. We spotted a few fallen and dead branches and got to work cutting them up with hand tools — we’d forgotten to bring the big loppers — with the hope that the council grounds team would collect the bundles during their next rounds.
This consecrated section (Section 1 of 30 sections), tucked at the Folkestone end, looks almost empty of headstones. Many stones may have toppled over the years and are lying under the grass, or perhaps some families simply couldn’t afford one. Still, the area is has been recently strimmed and looks neatly maintained and quietly atmospheric.
As we paused for a breather, something caught my eye: a broken headstone lying flat in the grass. Brushing it clear, I read the surname Ochmann — not a common name locally, perhaps German or Polish in origin. Two names stood out: Charles Francis, aged two years and four months, who died in October 1901, and Amelia Victoria (the name partially worn), aged just one month, who died in January — looks like same year, but the numbers worn away.
Back home, I did a little digging (the research kind of digging this time) and I found two more babies listed, both dying in 1897 and 1898, likely stillborn. Another family history site revealed a fifth child, who died in 1902. With help from Carole, one of our more experienced researchers, two more children born in 1904 and 1908 were found. In all, at least seven children — five of whom we know died very young or at birth.
It made me wonder what the Ochmann family had been through suffering the death of so many children. These deaths predated the Spanish Flu pandemic, but diphtheria — then known as the Strangling Angel of Children — was still common. Vaccines wouldn’t become widely available until well into the 20th century. In those days, nearly one in three children didn’t live to see their fifth birthday. Poor nutrition, overcrowding, lack of sanitation, and a limited understanding of germs and disease all played a part in this tragic statistic.
How many times have you read the names on a gravestone and wondered what the life story was, stories like these are etched into the very ground at Cheriton Road Cemetery. Like many Victorian cemeteries, it reflects the full sweep of Folkestone’s history — social, civic, military, religious, and deeply personal. Among the headstones are those who died in tragic accidents and shipwrecks, victims of wartime bombings, and even a few whose lives ended in violence or murder. You’ll find 45 Commonwealth war graves and three recipients of the Victoria Cross. There are veterans of the Crimean War, the Peninsular War, the Somme, and even Trafalgar. But alongside them lie midwives, railway workers, shopkeepers, and children — all part of the same rich tapestry.
You don’t need to be a historian to appreciate what’s here. Just a little curiosity — and a willingness to listen to what the headstones are quietly trying to tell us.
This article was published in local publications, the Looker and the Hurricane
