In the old streets of Naples, there’s a small church of bones, mystery and cult worship – an offshoot of the Neapolitan Cult of the Dead.
Walk in parts of Devon and Somerset and you walk the footsteps, opium dreams and Romantic poetry of Samuel Taylor Coleridge.
Music, community, sherry, a snooze. Even atheists or agnostics can find themselves drifting in and out of churches for all kinds of reasons.
It took me a moment to notice there was something different about this graveyard.
A lunch hour cycle ride through south Glasgow exploring an abandoned football ground, a statue, a neglected necropolis and a ruined church. Not forgetting a 1950s moral panic about a vampire.
The atmosphere was quiet and wistful as we drifted one late Sunday afternoon through the grand squares and charming side-streets of Salzburg.
The motorist rushing along the A914 through central Fife would have to be especially sharp to notice the small sign for and the anonymous dirt track that leads up to the hamlet of Cults and its hidden church, the Cults Kirk.