With spooky season creeping up, you’re probably seeing more buzz about local cemetery happenings—ghost walks, guided tours, and seasonal events popping up in town newsletters and social feeds.
It’s not just about thrills!
Cemetery tourism is quietly becoming a meaningful way to explore history, art, and community all in one place.
What is Cemetery Tourism?
Cemetery tourism is the growing practice of visiting burial grounds for more than just remembrance. They are places to explore history, architecture, storytelling, and culture. As I wrote in a previous post, the pandemic reminded us that cemeteries can be quiet green spaces where people could safely wander and reflect. I think this sparked a renewed appreciation for cemeteries as more than somber places. I have always said that they are open-air museums, rich with stories and art!
Of course, there are mixed opinions. Some argue that cemetery tours and events can feel disrespectful, but many see them as a way to honour the past and keep history alive.
There are different ways to enjoy cemetery tourism—lantern-lit ghost walks, daytime history tours, and seasonal events—each offering something unique.
Ghost Walks
If you’ve never been on a ghost walk, they are guided evening tours that mix local legends, folklore, and real history. Although they usually don’t only take place in cemeteries, you can often find a cemetery or two on the walking route.
While they became especially popular in the 1990s, the idea goes all the way back to the Victorian era, when people were fascinated by spiritualism and mourning traditions. Today, ghost walks let us enjoy spooky storytelling while also learning about the past.
This fall, several Canadian cities are offering atmospheric ghost walks. In Ottawa, The Haunted Walk is running its Tales from the Mausoleum at Beechwood Cemetery, which takes visitors through the cemetery and into its grand mausoleum. In Niagara-on-the-Lake, Ghost Walks share eerie tales in one of Canada’s most haunted towns. Out west, Ghostly Walks in Victoria lead visitors through narrow streets and historic cemeteries filled with legends.
Unlike ghost walks, cemetery tours are usually held during the day and focus more on the history, art, and people buried there. Sometimes these walks will also feature actors who portray the people buried in the cemetery, bringing the stories to life.
You could speculate that this tradition dates back to the 19th century, when garden cemeteries like Mount Auburn in Massachusetts or Père Lachaise in Paris were popular Sunday destinations. People picnicked, strolled, and learned from the monuments. A mix of education, leisure, and remembrance.
That spirit continues today in Canada. In Hamilton, The Cemetery Chronicles series at Hamilton Cemetery offers free themed walks from May through November, led by knowledgeable volunteers. Toronto Cemetery Tours offers rich daytime walks throughout the year at Mount Pleasant Cemetery, the Toronto Necropolis, and Prospect Cemetery.
Cemetery events can include a variety of activities, but usually combine storytelling with seasonal or cultural themes, often blending heritage and atmosphere. They’re especially popular around Halloween time, but it’s possible to find events happening year-round in more and more communities.
This year, Ruthven Park National Historic Site in Cayuga, Ontario, is holding Mansion in Mourning. This event, happening in October, recreates Victorian mourning traditions before ending with a lantern-lit cemetery walk.
Not because we’re haunted by ghosts, but because we’re drawn to the rich stories and connections cemeteries offer. Whether you’re up for a ghostly evening, a curious stroll, or an interactive event, there’s something for everyone to explore.
For your next adventure, check to see what’s happening at a cemetery near you—you might be surprised at what you’ll find!
I rarely stop to think about where our drinking water comes from, let alone whether it’s safe.
In May 2000, the small town of Walkerton, Ontario, faced one of Canada’s worst public health disasters. Contaminated water led to the deaths of seven people and made more than 2,300 people sick.1
Walkerton is about a four-hour drive from where I live, and this year marks the 25th anniversary of that tragedy. In June, my mother and I took a road trip there to visit some of the sites connected to the outbreak and to pay our respects to the lives that were lost.
You might remember hearing about this on the news. Walkerton’s drinking water became contaminated with E.coli.1 The source of the contamination was traced back to Well #5, where runoff from a nearby farm had entered the groundwater. Heavy rainfall in early May 2000 carried manure into the well, and the danger was made worse by human error and poor safety practices at the time.1
For days, residents kept drinking the water, completely unaware of the risk. Once it was realized what was happening, it was too late. Within weeks, seven people had died and more than 2,300 others became seriously ill.1 Many survivors continue to live with lasting health problems even today.
The Walkerton Inquiry, led by the Honourable Dennis R. O’Connor, later showed that this wasn’t just one bad well—but a series of failures. Training was inadequate, oversight was weak, and protocols weren’t followed the way they should have been. Out of this tragedy came stricter water safety regulations for Ontario, which eventually shaped how drinking water is managed across Canada.2
Visiting Walkerton
When we arrived in Walkerton, our first stop was the Walkerton Clean Water Centre. It first opened in 2004, and since then has trained over 23,000 water system operators.3 The new state-of-the-art building, which we visited, was opened in 2010. It features a demonstration water distribution system for hands-on training, more room to host seminars, and space to conduct research.3
In May of this year, they offered tours of the facility, close to the anniversary of the tragedy. The timing didn’t work out for us to take a tour, but I still wanted to take a look at the building.
It’s a modern building, with a lovely koi pond just outside its main doors. The large windows have a nice view of the pond, and let in a lot of natural light. There is also a small pond across from the entrance, overgrown with tall grass and cattails, that is surrounded by a little trail loop. I imagine the staff take advantage of that little walking trail on their lunch breaks. I think the water features, while also being pretty, act as little reminders of how important water is to our ecosystem and us.
Our next stop brought us to a small cemetery that wasn’t connected to the tragedy. I am not one to pass up a cemetery visit though, so we made our way to visit. It just so happened to be very close to the Walkerton water tower. After that, we decided to visit a few more cemeteries, the last one of the day being Calvary Cemetery.
Calvary Cemetery is on the outskirts, just south of the town. This cemetery visit was important for our journey, as it is the final resting place of two people who died in the water tragedy.
Edith Pearson, a mother of five and a grandmother of 13, passed away at the age of 82.4 Not far from her rests Lenore Al, a retired part-time librarian, who passed away at the London Health Sciences Centre at the age of 66.4 Their memorial services were held both during the same week.5
It was a very reflective visit, as my mother and I walked the rows searching for these specific graves. It was a scary thought to think what could happen by just drinking a glass of water. Standing in front of their graves also made their story real, bringing it off the page and into reality.
After that somber visit, I thought it might be a good idea to visit something a little more hopeful. The Walkerton Heritage Water Garden features a waterfall that gushes out from a crack in a large rock formation. It’s inspired by the biblical story of Moses, who struck a rock in the desert to bring water to the Israelites.6 It represents water as a positive symbol of life, healing and renewal. The waterfall pours into a small pond that is surrounded by a larger walking trail. There are benches and small clusters of flowers and tall grass that dot the path that leads you back to the memorial fountain.
It was a hot day when we visited, so the occasional cool spray from the waterfall was very welcome. It was a nice little spot for a small walk, but the constant running water made it hard to forget why it was there.
Our first day in Walkerton was a long one. Shortly after our walk, we found something to eat and then settled in to our motel for the night. We had one more site we had to visit.
The next morning, after a good breakfast, I wanted to find Well #5.
Sometimes while planning and researching, it can be tricky to find exact locations, even in this digital age. But I thought we have to give it a try. So with only a street name in my GPS we headed out.
Slowly driving down the dirt road, we kept our eyes peeled for signs of the well. I was getting worried as we reached the end of the road, but I caught the glimmer of what looked like a silver plaque.
We found the well, which has since been capped off, tucked in behind a small building on the edge of a farmer’s field. Today, it’s just a large cement pad with a small silver plaque. If you didn’t know what you were looking at, you may think nothing of it, but the plaque tells the whole story.
“Well 5 Memorial / This plaque marks the location of Walkerton’s former Well 5 / which supplied a portion of the town’s drinking water from / 1978 into the spring of 2000. In mid May of the year 2000, / extremely heavy rains washed a toxic blend of biological / pathogens through the soils and into the vulnerable shaft of / Well 5 and ultimately into Walkerton’s Municipal drinking / water system. The resulting contamination of the town’s / drinking water system lead to the deaths of seven people and / caused thousands of others to fall ill. It is hoped that all those / who visit this location will reflect upon the multiple causes of / this tragedy and will be filled with a renewed reverence for the / comprehensive stewardship of the waters that sustain us all.”
Finding the well was a moving moment, and as the plaque suggested, my mother and I took some time to reflect as we looked into the farmer’s field and at the old well.
The story of Walkerton didn’t end in 2000. For many survivors, the contamination left behind long-term health complications that they will carry for the rest of their lives. One of those people was Robbie Schnurr, who became seriously ill during the outbreak.7 The illness damaged his kidneys and digestive system, leaving him to cope with constant pain and health struggles for nearly two decades.7
In May of 2018, Robbie made the heartbreaking decision to end his life through Medical Assistance in Dying (MAID).7 He was just 51 years old. The illness caused by Walkerton’s poisoned water was just too heavy a toll.7 Robbie’s story is a reminder that the impact of what happened in Walkerton wasn’t confined to the weeks of the outbreak. It rippled out for years, forever altering lives and families.
Moving Forward
One of the outcomes of the Walkerton Inquiry was a complete overhaul of Ontario’s drinking water regulations. New laws were brought in to ensure public accountability, proper testing, and better training for those operating municipal water systems—all with the goal of making sure something like this never happens again.2
And yet, even in 2025, not every community in Canada can count on that promise. Some First Nation reserves continue to struggle with unsafe drinking water, some living under boil-water advisories that have lasted for years.8
It’s a frustrating and heartbreaking reality. Safe drinking water should be a basic human right, not a privilege.
Visiting Walkerton was an educational and somber experience. Standing at the memorial fountain, walking through the cemetery, and pausing at Well #5 all carried more weight than just stops on a road trip. It was a chance to reflect on a tragedy that forever shaped this small town, and to see how its lessons continue to make Ontario’s communities safer today.
Twenty-five years later, the Walkerton water tragedy remains a powerful reminder of what’s at stake when safety is ignored. It also reminds us of the resilience of a community that continues to honour those lost, while moving forward with a commitment to never forget.
In 2010, a friend and I visited a place that felt frozen in time—an abandoned prison cemetery hidden deep in the Northern Ontario wilderness. Thirteen years later, we went back.
What we found was both familiar and completely changed.
The Burwash Industrial Prison Farm isn’t just an old correctional centre—it’s a strange and haunting mix of history, decay, and memory. The prison is long closed, the buildings are crumbling, and the cemetery tucked away in the forest has become almost forgotten.
But pieces of the past still linger there, if you know where to look.
The Burwash Industrial Farm opened in 1914, about 30 minutes south of Sudbury, Ontario. It was designed to be a self-sufficient correctional facility—almost like a village tucked away in the forest. At its peak, the property stretched across 35,000 acres and included a farm, a lumber operation and mill, a 20-bed hospital, and even a tailor shop.1
Burwash Industrial Farm housed between 180 and 820 minimum- and medium-security inmates, who typically served sentences of three months to two years, less a day.1 They spent their days working on the prison farm or doing maintenance around the property. The idea was that routine and hard work could help with rehabilitation. Over the years, the prison grew to include three permanent camps, and several temporary ones. It also became home to a small town of staff and their families, with a population between 600 and 1,000 people.1
The prison was remote by design—difficult to escape from, and just as difficult to reach unless you knew where you were going.
Over time, the facility became known as Camp Bison. The name comes from the herd of wood bison that once lived on the property.2 These animals roamed the land while the prison was active, and the nickname stuck even long after both the prison and bison were gone.
At the time Burwash was slated for closure in 1974, it was the largest industrial farm and the second-largest reformatory in Ontario’s correctional system.1 But the facility was considered too expensive to operate. That July, it was announced that Burwash would be shut down to save money.3 The staff were told they had to leave, and the inmates were relocated to other institutions. After that, the province began looking at alternative uses for the remaining buildings and the massive piece of land.3
What’s left today is a patchwork of wilderness, ruins, and stories.
Abandoned
After the prison shut down in 1975, most of the buildings were left to the elements. Over time, nature began to reclaim the site. The once-bustling correctional community turned into a ghost town.
Some structures were demolished, but a few—including the main cell block—were left standing, crumbling slowly in the woods. The site became a magnet for urban explorers, ghost hunters, photographers, and curious hikers.4
When we visited in 2010, it was quiet—eerily so. There were no signs, no official routes, and no other people around. Just long trails, wilderness, and the remains of buildings just barely holding on.
It was very surreal how, after driving through the wilderness on an ATV, the main cell block emerged out from the forest. The cracked windows, peeling paint, and eerie silence gave the place a haunted feel, even in broad daylight.
There was graffiti everywhere. Some of it was creepy, but a lot was just tagging and random vandalism. It was clear the site gets a lot of visitors—who weren’t always careful. Broken glass and porcelain, rusted metal, and signs of fires made it obvious that time, weather, and people had all left their marks.
Despite the damage, I found the experience strangely moving. It felt like walking through a lost chapter of history. There was a heaviness to the place, but also a sense that stories were still lingering in the walls.
It’s no surprise that Burwash has picked up a haunted reputation over the years. Visitors have reported strange noises, shadowy figures, and an overwhelming feeling of being watched. A prison guard supposedly haunts the prison, after having hanged himself when he learned that the place was closing. People say you can hear his nightstick tapping the metal bars, especially in the basement.5
Tucked away in the trees, at the edge of Cemetery Lake, is the Burwash Industrial Prison Farm Graveyard. This was the first prison graveyard I had ever visited, and I wasn’t sure what to expect. Its the final resting place of inmates who died while serving their prison sentences.
Most of the people buried here were prisoners who had no family to claim their remains. Between 12 to 20 inmates are believed to be buried in the cemetery, their graves marked only by simple wooden crosses.6 When the prison closed in 1975, no attempt was made to move them—the cemetery was simply abandoned.4
Records show that during the Spanish Flu epidemic in 1918, more than 30 people died at Burwash; including inmates, a nurse sent in from Toronto, and the wife of one prisoner who had come to visit.7 We don’t know for sure if any of these victims were buried in the cemetery, but it’s possible.
When we first visited in 2010, the cemetery was surprisingly accessible, although still hidden. The road was maintained, and I remember we were able to drive right up to it. The grass had been maintained, and though the markers were few, the space felt quietly cared for.
No polished stones or statues. Just plain wooden crosses. A few had small metal plaques. There was no formal cemetery sign, but a small framed sign hung on a tree near the entrance, quietly marking the space.
Thirteen years later, I came back. This time, the road was gone, and the cemetery was nearly unrecognizable.
It’s strange how a place can change so much.
In 2010, I remembered smooth roads and a tidy clearing. But in 2024, the gravel road was now a rugged, overgrown path—winding downhill, with deep ruts carved into the ground.
We parked in a grassy clearing nearby and walked into the forest. The bugs found us instantly, swarming like we were fresh meat. We followed what looked like a path through thick brush and knee-high grass.
Eventually, we reached a small clearing at the edge of the lake, the end of the road. I knew we had arrived—but it didn’t feel like the same place.
The cemetery was completely overgrown. Tall grass had swallowed the crosses whole. Most of the wooden markers were now broken or fallen. Any names or numbers that may have once been visible were long faded. Even the small frame marking the cemetery had been bleached by years of sun and rain, and was now blank.
It felt more like a ghost of a cemetery than a resting place. And yet, standing there, surrounded by wild grass and silence, I was reminded again why places like this matter.
Today, Burwash is a mix of forest, forgotten history, and scattered ruins.
If you’re planning to visit the prison, do your research and be prepared for an adventure. The site is on private land, and trespassers can be prosecuted. That said, Avalon Eco Resort offers a legal way to access the property, via a waiver and a small fee.3
There’s a small parking area near the train tracks, close to the start of a 4.5 km hike to the site. The road is no longer open to vehicles—only foot traffic, bikes, and ATVs. Parts of the trail are flooded, and while ATVs can get through, hikers and cyclists may have to get creative to find “alternative” paths.3
Visiting the cemetery is a different story. It’s not on private land, so there’s no need for special permission. But it’s still easy to miss in the forest, and it’s a bit of a hike.
Today, only fragments of Burwash remain. Most of the buildings are gone, but the land still whispers its stories. The cemetery is especially easy to miss if you don’t know it’s there. But for those who make the trip—who follow the overgrown path and brave the bugs to stand among the fallen crosses—it’s a place that stays with you.
Even in decay, Burwash reminds us how quickly places—and people—can disappear. But it also reminds us that memory lingers—in the rust, the rubble, and the wild grass growing where names once stood.
On a recent trip to Toronto with my fiancé, we found ourselves with a bit of free time to explore—and for me, that usually means a visit to a cemetery.
Our friends we were staying with suggested we take a walk to Prospect Cemetery, one of the larger and more historic burial grounds in Toronto. It was a chilly, grey day for late April, but despite the dreary weather, it was perfect for a quiet stroll.
There’s something extra special about sharing my love of cemeteries with others. I pointed out some grave symbolism along the way, and our friend—who used to bring their daughter here to bike ride—showed us some of their favourite gravestones.
But I also had a bit of a personal mission too: to visit the grave of J.E.H. MacDonald, one of the founding members of The Group of Seven.
Portrait of J.E.H. MacDonald. Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons
J.E.H. MacDonald
James Edward Hervey MacDonald was born in Durham, England in 1873 and moved to Canada with his family in 1887.1 He trained in commercial art and landed a job at Grip Ltd., a Toronto design firm that turned out to be a creative hot spot for future Group of Seven artists.2
MacDonald mostly painted with oil, a paint that let him build rich textures and bold, expressive brushwork into his landscapes. He had a special talent for using bright, sometimes unnatural colours to set a mood rather than literal realism. His style focused more toward the feelings and spirit of the landscape rather than detailed realism.2
He was especially inspired by the wild landscapes of Algoma and the Rocky Mountains. His 1916 painting The Tangled Garden shows just how much colour and movement played into his work.2 Besides painting, he also taught art and eventually became the principal of the Ontario College of Art in 1929.2 He helped shape not only Canadian art but also the next generation of artists.
The Tangled Garden, 1916, National Gallery of Canada, Ottawa, Ontario J. E. H. MacDonald, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons
Controversy
MacDonald made headlines again in late 2023—long after his death—but not for the reasons you’d expect.
The Vancouver Art Gallery had been showing ten oil sketches that were believed to be his work, donated back in 2015. But after some doubts were raised, experts took a closer look—and discovered they were fakes!3
Experts tested the pigments, looked at the brushstrokes, and compared the style to his known works. The materials didn’t match what MacDonald would’ve had during his lifetime, and the way the art was created didn’t quite fit either.4
In a refreshing move, the gallery didn’t just quietly pull the pieces—they created a whole exhibit about the forgery, cleverly called A Tangled Garden.4 The title, a nod to MacDonald’s famous painting, added a bit of irony to the situation.
I respect how the gallery handled it. They used the opportunity to teach people about how art is authenticated and how fakes are detected. In the end, MacDonald’s reputation stayed strong—no copy could ever capture the depth and meaning of his real work.
Prospect Cemetery
J.E.H. MacDonald passed away in 1932 after suffering a stroke. He was only 59. He’s buried in the family plot in Prospect Cemetery in Toronto.5 His grave is simple, tucked away among the rows of headstones. A foot stone with his initials J.E.H.M., and his birth and death dates sits in front of a larger family stone with the MacDonald name. Next to it is another foot stone marked W.H.M. / 1876—1956. I’m not certain, but I believe he might be laid to rest beside his brother, William Henry MacDonald.
There is another foot stone in the MacDonald family plot that is a bit of a mystery. The stone is engraved with the letters J.E.M. and the dates 1920-1926. Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to uncover any details about this child’s grave.
Standing in front of MacDonald’s grave felt like another little win in my personal journey to visit the final resting places of all the Group of Seven artists. This was the third grave I’ve visited so far, and I find it fascinating how different each artist’s marker is.
Despite their fame, none of their gravestones are flashy. Like Franklin Carmichael’s grave, MacDonald’s grave didn’t have any grave goods—no paintbrushes, no small stones, no tiny canvases. But there was something powerful about the peacefulness of the spot.
There’s something grounding about visiting the grave of someone whose work you admire. You see where their story ended, but you also carry part of their legacy with you. That day in Prospect, under grey skies and the hum of city life just beyond the trees, felt like the perfect moment to reflect on MacDonald’s impact.
Whether through his bright, expressive paintings or the recent conversations around art authenticity, J.E.H. MacDonald still shapes how we see Canada. His grave may be modest, but his influence on Canadian art is anything but.
Bicycles often represent freedom and joy, but when painted flat white and placed by the roadside, they carry a much heavier meaning.
These “ghost bikes” mark the sites where cyclists have lost their lives, serving as haunting memorials and powerful reminders of the need for safer streets.
Ghost bikes are roadside memorials placed at locations where cyclists have been killed in traffic accidents. The bikes, painted entirely white, serve both as a tribute to the fallen and as a warning to motorists to share the road and drive safely.1
The first documented ghost bike appeared in St. Louis, Missouri, in 2003. A cyclist named Patrick Van Der Tuin witnessed a car hit a fellow rider and decided to take action. He placed an old bicycle at the crash site with a sign reading, “Cyclist Struck Here.”2
The idea spread quickly, and soon cities around the world began installing their own ghost bikes in memory of lost cyclists.
Beyond their role as memorials, ghost bikes have become global symbols for cycling advocacy. They are often installed by local organizations or loved ones who want to honour victims and raise awareness about road safety.2
Sudbury’s Ghost Bike
Ghost bikes aren’t unusual in Canada—they mark the tragic losses in communities just like mine. In my hometown of Sudbury, in 2017, a white bicycle appeared in memory of Dr. Robert Santo “Bob” D’Aloisio, a local cyclist who was struck and killed in a tragic accident.
His death deeply affected the community, sparking conversations about road safety and the need for better cycling infrastructure.3
It was a bit of a dreary day when my mother and I went to visit the ghost bike. It’s secured to a parking lot railing outside of an apartment complex on a busy street. I’ve driven by it many times but only really noticed it recently. The white bike blends into the white of the railing, so unless you’re looking for it, you might miss it entirely. That in itself feels symbolic—how easy it is to overlook something so significant if you’re not paying attention.
We kept our visit short since I didn’t want to take up anyone’s parking spot, but I made sure to take a moment to pause and reflect. While I was taking photos, I looked up at the tall apartment buildings surrounding us and thought about how someone could’ve easily witnessed the accident from their window.
Even after nine years, the ghost bike remains—a quiet, persistent reminder of the loss that took place there.
D’Aloisio’s passing was a devastating loss for his family and the cycling community. His loved ones continue to advocate for greater awareness and protection for cyclists. His story is a haunting reminder of the dangers cyclists face and the responsibility of all road users to ensure their safety.4
Park Lawn Cemetery
After visiting the ghost bike, we headed to our second stop—the cemetery.
Robert D’Aloisio is laid to rest at Park Lawn Cemetery. The cemetery itself is peaceful and tucked away, a contrast to the busy road where his memorial stands. The moment we stepped out of the car, it felt quieter, more reflective. I felt like I needed to visit both sites: the place where his life ended, and the place where he now rests.
The sun was beginning to peek out as we arrived, and the birds were singing. We wandered the gently curving paths for a few minutes before we came upon the D’Aloisio family plot. His gravestone is elegantly simple: polished granite with the family name at the top and a Latin cross separating his name from his wife’s, who is still living.
Visiting his stone, after having just stood at the place where his life was cut short, felt as if the threads of his story had tied together—from tragedy to rest.
Ghost bikes are powerful symbols, but the ultimate goal is to make them unnecessary.
Their presence speaks to the need for safer infrastructure, stricter enforcement of traffic laws, and a cultural shift toward respecting all road users. In Ontario and beyond, cyclists, pedestrians, and drivers must all coexist with caution and compassion.
With the warmer weather returning, more cyclists are hitting the roads. It’s a timely reminder for all of us—whether we’re behind the wheel, on a bike, or on foot—to slow down and share the road.
D’Aloisio’s story, like that of many others, is a call to action. Let’s honour his memory by advocating for safer roads and ensuring that cyclists can ride without fear.
Did you know Ontario is home to an estimated 66,000 burial sites and cemeteries?1
That’s a whole lot of history—and that’s just one of the fun facts I discovered while putting together this year’s project in celebration of Cemetery Appreciation Month.
Every May, since I learned about it, I like to do something a little different to mark the occasion. In past years, I’ve made Cemetery Bingo cards and even created a cute little cemetery terrarium. This time, I decided to combine my love of cemeteries with my background in graphic design. (Design is part of what I do when I’m not graving!)
So, I created an infographic with a few Canadian cemetery facts. I thought it would be a fun way to share what makes our cemeteries so unique—through numbers and dates, in a visual way.
If you’ve been following my blog for a while, you know I visit A LOT of cemeteries. And if there is one thing I’ve learned, it’s that they’re not all the same. There are pioneer cemeteries that barely show up on a map, grand garden cemeteries, sombre asylum cemeteries, and everything in between. They’re not just places of rest—but cultural time capsules.
And the numbers really tell a story.
Here are just a few highlights from the infographic:
Canada’s oldest known gravestone dates back to 1720 and is found in Nova Scotia.2
Over 23,000 cemeteries across Canada contain the remains of those who served in World Wars.3
One of the oldest gravestones in Northern Ontario can be found in Wawa.4
Whether you’re new to cemetery exploring or have been wandering cemeteries for years. I hope this infographic offers you some inspiration, and maybe a few new cemeteries to add to your cemetery bucket list.
Thanks for reading, and happy Cemetery Appreciation Month!
A few weeks ago, I took a trip to Little Canada in Toronto. While most people go there to see the miniature landmarks, I was there with a slightly different goal in mind: finding the cemeteries!
Little Canada is a truly unique attraction that shrinks down the Great White North into incredibly detailed miniature scenes. Using intricate models and lighting effects, this ever-growing miniature world brings Canadian landmarks, cities, and culture to life. It’s a love letter to the country, built on a foundation of storytelling.
On our visit, my fiancé and I were lucky enough to get a personal tour from Heidi, a senior leader in marketing, who shared behind-the-scenes insights that made the experience even more special.
The story behind Little Canada is charming in its own right. On our tour, we met the founder, Jean-Louis Brenninkmeijer who was inspired to start this project after helping his son with a school assignment about Canada. That seed of an idea grew into the sprawling, detailed world you can visit today.Everything in the exhibit—from the fishing boats in Little East Coast to the recognizable Parliament buildings in Little Ottawa—is designed with storytelling in mind. Even the hidden details, like the many Easter Eggs scattered throughout each scene, tell their own whimsical stories.
What’s my favourite Easter Egg? Besides Bigfoot? (Look for him in Little Quebec!) I’d have to say the time capsule that is hidden in the National Gallery in Little Ottawa. Jean-Louis shared the story behind this Easter Egg with me.
The day before Little Canada opened its doors, the entire team contributed something to a USB stick, and sealed it away in this tiny gallery space, masquerading as a sculpture. The plan is to open this tiny time capsule when the building lease is up—20 to 30 years from now! I love the idea of a time capsule, it’s a moment frozen in time, much like a cemetery is.
Speaking of cemeteries, Heidi was very kind, making sure to point them out as we travelled through all the exhibits.
The first cemetery was tucked in among the highway in the Little Golden Horseshoe. A little stone cairn sits at the entrance, with the name Memory Cemetery carved into it. A handful of gravestones sit within a fence, surrounded by trees in full autumn colours. This little cemetery is not based on any real-world cemetery but is an example of a small rural cemetery, with its own resident ghost that sits on one of the fence posts. A good example of some of the whimsy that can be found throughout Little Canada.
Memory Cemetery in Little Canada
The second cemetery we found was in Little East Coast. This rural cemetery is based on Cavendish Community Cemetery, in Prince Edward Island. It features a replica gravestone of Lucy Maud Montgomery, the Canadian author best known for her Anne of Green Gables book series. Surrounded by fall colours and marked by a replica cemetery sign, that even includes “Resting Place of L.M. Montgomery” in impossibly small type. This cemetery is also a busy one, with some people paying their respects, and others having what I first thought was a picnic—until I looked closer at my photos and realized it was a Ouija board session! Another example of the unexpected storytelling hidden in these tiny scenes.
Both of the cemeteries were small, but incredibly detailed—down to the engraved names and the uneven ground. I can’t say I ever photographed a cemetery in a 1:87 scale before!
Cavendish Community Cemetery in Little Canada
Scattered throughout all the little scenes were also tiny monuments and war memorials, similar to what you would find while wandering a small town or city. It’s interesting to note how prevalent these places of memorial and remembrance really are.
As we explored the display wall, where some of the 5-inch Little Me figures are displayed, there is also a small section devoted entirely to the Vimy Ridge Memorial. Even scaled down, it’s a striking memorial. Designed to commemorate Canadians who fought and died in World War I, the real Vimy Ridge Memorial in France is a place of reflection and national pride. I was struck by the thought that cemeteries and monuments—no matter their size—inspire memory, honour, and connection.
Vimy Ridge Memorial in Little Canada
It’s easy to see how much heart goes into every scene and detail. At the Maker’s Window, we had the chance to speak to some of the lovely women who bring these miniature scenes to life. The attention to detail, and at such a small scale, is amazing! Talking to them made me realize that this isn’t just about scale and architecture. It’s about the people behind the scenes, pouring care, creativity, and pride into every tiny building, street, and story.
Of course, I couldn’t visit Little Canada without getting Littlized!
The Littlization process allows you to have a 3D scan of yourself turned into a miniature figurine, a Little Me, to take home or be placed somewhere in the display. It’s a fun nod to personal storytelling and a reminder that all these little pieces make up something much bigger.
We spent about three hours exploring the exhibits, and I could easily see myself going back again and still not spotting every detail. There’s history, humour, sentimentality, and a strong sense of community behind it all.
Little Ottawa in Little Canada
Little Canada may be small in scale, but its message is big: Canadian stories matter. Whether that’s the story of a national battle memorial, a hidden USB time capsule, or a tiny cemetery, each piece tells us something about who we are, and what we value.
And, if you’re someone like me, drawn to hidden stories, Little Canada has no shortage of tiny wonders to explore.
Last Summer, while I was on my way to visit some cemeteries in Southern Ontario, we made a special stop along Highway 69. Not for a gravestone, but for a different kind of memorial.
The Cole Howard Memorial Sculpture is a roadside landmark that’s both beautiful and deeply moving.
We had started our day early, and the road was relatively quiet when we got close to the sculpture. Taking advantage of the slow traffic, we pulled over, and I was able to hop out and cross the highway to photograph this beautiful and artistic memorial.
Though I didn’t know Howard personally, this is a memorial I always look out for when I’m travelling down Highway 69. It’s my small way of saying ‘hello’ to Cole, a gesture of remembrance for a young life lost too soon.
Cole Howard was only 19 years old when he was killed in a car crash on January 3, 2012.1 He was a passenger in a vehicle that crashed due to icy road conditions.1 The accident also claimed the lives of Jessica Chamberland, Alyssa McKeown, and Torry McIntyre.1
It’s important to also remember the others who tragically lost their lives in the same accident. Howard, Chamberland, McKeown and McIntyre were all taken far too soon. Each of them left a lasting impact on their families, friends, and community. The grief of such a loss has reverberated through the lives of all who knew them, and their legacies are now forever intertwined.
In the wake of this tragic accident, Howards family wanted to create a lasting tribute that would not only honour Cole’s life but also reflect his love of music. The result is a life-sized sculpture, crafted from steel and placed on the side of the highway, at the site of the accident.
Sculptor and welder, Laval Bouchard created the image of Howard with remarkable accuracy.1 He is depicted sitting behind his drums, barefoot, wearing a backward hat—just as he often did in life. Howard had been the drummer for the local metal band Sanctuaries, and his sculpture even features him wearing one of their band shirts.1
The memorial sculpture was installed at the crash site the day after what would have been Howard’s 22nd birthday, in 2014.1 For his family, it must have been a deeply emotional moment—transforming a place of tragedy into one of remembrance. Unlike many who have a traditional grave marker in a cemetery, Howard was cremated, and his ashes were not buried in one place. Some were spread at Abbey Road in London, England—an iconic location for music lovers.2 The rest of his ashes remain in a drum-style urn in his family’s home.2
Without a conventional grave site to visit, this roadside memorial serves as a place where friends, family, and even strangers can stop to pay their respects and remember Cole. In a way, it acts as both his monument and gathering place for those who continue to hold him in their hearts.
When I visited, the sculpture was wearing a pair of sunglasses, and its shoulders were draped with a large stuffed elephant. There were so many grave goods left around the memorial, including stones, beer cans, and even a couple of drumsticks. It was a moving reminder of just how much Howard is still loved.
What I love about roadside memorials like this is that they’re not just a spot for remembrance—they’re a statement. They’re a way for families to make sure their loved one is never forgotten, even as time goes on. For Howard’s family, the sculpture was a way to turn their grief into something positive, something that would last. It’s clear from the visitors and mementos left at the sculpture that the community feels the same way. Even years after the accident, the memorial continues to be a place for people to honour him.2
The Cole Howard Memorial isn’t just a tribute—it invites you to pause and reflect on life, loss, and the power of music. Roadside memorials like this also serve as powerful reminders of the dangers of the road and raise awareness about the importance of road safety.
Have you ever passed by a roadside memorial that made you stop and reflect? I’d love to hear your experiences in the comments.
Last Summer, my mother and I took a trip to Wellington County, thanks to a surprise road trip from Guess Where Trips. You might remember the blog post I wrote about the whole experience last year.
One of the most memorable stops on our adventure was the Wellington County Museum and Archives, a place that doesn’t just preserve history, but really brings it to life. Nestled between the charming towns of Fergus and Elora, this museum isn’t just a collection of artifacts—it’s a storyteller, sharing the life stories of the people who once walked its halls.
But the museum wasn’t the only thing that left an impact on us. Today, I want to share a bit more about our experience—both visiting the museum, and the cemetery were some of the House of Industry and Refuge residents were laid to rest.
The Wellington County Museum and Archives is housed in a building with a fascinating and, at times heartbreaking history.
Designated as a National Historic Site, this building holds the title of the oldest remaining rural House of Industry and Refuge in Canada.1 Established in 1877, it originally provided a home for the poor, homeless, and destitute of Wellington County. Over the years, approximately 1,400 men, women, and children sought refuge within these walls.1
Today, the museum has taken on a whole new role. Instead of providing shelter, it now shares knowledge, offering programs, exhibits, and resources that dive into local history, art, and culture.2
And the grounds? Well, they have their own stories to tell.
When my mother and I visited, we started exploring the top floor and made our way down. Although there were many exhibits at the time, including one about 19th-century fashion, I was most drawn to the history of the Poor House itself and the people who had lived there.
Wellington County Poor House
Back in the 19th century, poverty was seen as a moral failing rather than an unfortunate circumstance. That’s where places like the Wellington County House of Industry and Refuge came in.3 Also known as the Poor House, it was one of several institutions across Ontario designed to provide shelter and work for those in need. Life here wasn’t easy, but the goal was to make the Poor House as self-sufficient as possible.3
The facility operated as an industrial farm, with thirty acres of land used to grow oats, turnips, wheat, and even apples from a 100-tree orchard.3 Livestock provided eggs, meat, and fresh butter, while any surplus goods were sold in town to help cover the cost of necessities like sugar, coffee, and bread.3
Life in the Poor House was structured and demanding. Residents—often referred to as “inmates”—had to work to earn their keep.3 The strict rules and expectations reflected the era’s attitudes toward poverty and self-sufficiency. It wasn’t until 1947 when the facility was renamed the Wellington County Home for the Aged, that things started to shift.3 The term “inmate” was finally dropped and replaced with “resident”—a small but important change.3
The Home remained in operation until 1971 when its last residents were moved to Wellington Terrace, a new senior home in Elora.3 Just a few years later, in 1975, the building reopened as the Wellington County Museum.3
Walking through the museum, I couldn’t help but feel the weight of its history. Panels line the walls, sharing stories of past residents, and exhibits display artifacts that once belonged to them. Although the items were simple—a worn bed, an old suitcase—they evoked so much emotion. These weren’t just objects, they were pieces of someone’s life.
Considering the hardships experienced by its former residents, it’s no surprise that some people believe the museum is haunted. Visitors and staff alike have reported seeing shadowy figures, hearing unexplained footsteps, and even witnessing elevators moving on their own.4
The most well-known spirit is said to be that of a former resident named Anna. People have claimed to hear women arguing in empty rooms, or furniture being rearranged.4 Is it just an old building settling? Or is history lingering in more ways than one?
House of Industry and Refuge Cemetery
When the museum closed for the day, my mother and I made our way to the cemetery—a quiet but powerful reminder of the lives that once filled the Poor House.
A short drive took us to a small parking lot near the cemetery entrance. From there, a scenic trail led to a repurposed train bridge that spans the highway. It was a beautiful day, and the surrounding forest was lush and green. After crossing the bridge, we descended a staircase with informational panels that peeked out from behind the foliage. The staircase led us down to a clearing, where tall trees provided shade over a few gravestones.
The cemetery is the final resting place for 271 men, women, and children who had no family to claim them.5 Originally, the graves were marked with simple wooden crosses, but over time, those markers deteriorated and disappeared. Today, small gravestones mark the sections of the cemetery, and a larger central monument lists the names of those buried here.
James Burk was the first to be buried in the cemetery on December 21, 1877.5 Often only the gravedigger, clergyman, and undertaker were present for the burials.5 The oldest person to be buried in the cemetery was 106 years old, while the youngest was under a year old.5 The last burial to take place here was for Samuel Nichols who passed away on December 14, 1946.5
Standing in that clearing, surrounded by the names of those who had lived and died here was quite moving. The stories of some of these individuals might have been lost to time, but the community has worked hard to ensure that they are remembered.
Visiting the Wellington County Museum and the House of Industry and Refuge Cemetery was like stepping back in time. It gave me a glimpse into a world where life was unimaginably hard, but also where people persevered against the odds.
The transformation of the Poor House into a museum and cultural hub is a great example of how we can honour the past while also moving forward. History isn’t always easy to confront, but it’s essential to remember—because it shapes who we are today.
Have you ever visited a historic site that really stuck with you? I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments. If you’re ever in Wellington County, I highly recommend stopping by this museum and its cemetery. It’s a place that truly brings history to life.
One of my favorite things about wandering through cemeteries is discovering unique gravestone symbols. Over the years, I have noticed that certain motifs pop up again and again. It’s so interesting to see how these symbols can change depending on where you are.
Today, I want to take a closer look at the chalice as a gravestone symbol—what it represents and how it’s been depicted in different places. The variations I have found over the years show just how much it can change depending on location. It’s interesting to note that the chalice is a very common symbol in the Abitibi-Temiscamingue region of Quebec.
The chalice is a Christian symbol, that is commonly depicted as a cup with a stem, similar to a wine glass. It is thought to symbolize Christianity’s holy sacrament and the act of communion. It can also represent mankind’s deep yearning to be filled with Christ’s divine teachings and grace.1
Sometimes the chalice is depicted with a circle above it, symbolizing the consecrated Eucharist, which represents the Catholic rite of Holy Communion. This combination of symbols is often found on the gravestones of priests.2
Have you come across a chalice symbol on your cemetery walks? Or noticed any other symbols that pop up often in your local cemeteries? I’d love to hear about it in the comments.
Thanks for reading!
References:
Understanding Cemetery Symbols: A Field Guide for Historic Graveyards by Tui Snider
Cemetery Photography by Chantal Larochelle 