Tuesday, August 19, is World Photography Day, a day to celebrate the art of photography in all its forms.
Over the years, I’ve dabbled in just about every type of photography—product, food, portrait, weddings—but nothing has ever felt as natural or creatively fulfilling as photographing cemeteries and gravestones.
I find there’s something deeply meaningful about capturing the details of an old tombstone, the way the light filters through the trees, or the quiet beauty of a forgotten graveyard. Cemeteries are full of history, and every stone has a story to tell. But stone doesn’t last forever—inscriptions fade, wooden markers break, and time slowly wears away these pieces of the past.
That’s why I believe cemetery photography is more than just an creative hobby, it’s a way of preserving history.
So today, on World Photography Day, I’m celebrating the quiet art of cemetery photography—the way it connects us to the past, sparks curiosity, and ensures that these stories aren’t lost to time.
If you’ve ever thought about bringing your camera (or even just your phone) to a cemetery, I highly recommend it. You never know what history you might capture.
Do you have a favourite cemetery photo you’ve taken? I’d love to see it! Share it with me on Facebook or Instagram and don’t forget to use the tag #WorldPhotographyDay.
Summer is winding down, but everything still feels full of life.
Trees are lush with green leaves, flowers are in full bloom, and the bees are buzzing all around. Cemeteries reflect that same energy. It’s the time of year when nature is at it’s fullest—and in cemeteries, that adds an extra layer of meaning.
Even in these quiet places, there’s life all around. It reminds me that cemeteries aren’t only about endings—they’re also about remembering lives that were full, loved, and meaningful.
Sometimes, it’s not just the greenery that brings cemeteries to life; it’s the wildlife too, and summer can be the best time to spot them.
On a recent visit to Notre-Dame-des-Neiges Cemetery in Montréal, I spotted a couple of groundhogs throughout the cemetery who froze in place when they saw me. Like little furry statues, they stared me down until I had passed by. Moments like that make cemeteries feel even more alive, with nature and memory sharing the same space.
Of course, summer cemetery visits do have their challenges. The noonday sun can be intense, and without shade, it can be easy to overheat. On summer road trips, sunscreen and water are a must! Sometimes I’ll even sit down to rest under a tree—a chance to slow down for a minute and also take it all in.
Another thing I love about graving in the summer—especially here in Northern Ontario—is the longer daylight hours. Around this time of year, the sun usually sets between 8:30 and 9 p.m., which gives me lots of time to explore and take photos.
This post wraps up my series exploring how cemeteries change throughout the seasons. If you missed the earlier posts, you can still read about cemeteries in the Fall, Winter, and Spring. Each season really does bring its own mood.
What’s your favourite season to visit cemeteries?
Mine is still Fall. I can’t resist the crunchy leaves, cooler air, and all the moody vibes that come with Halloween season. But honestly, every season has something beautiful to offer, and I’ve enjoyed exploring them all.
It’s that time of year again—time to unplug, unwind, and hit the road!
I’ll be taking a little break to relax, recharge, and of course, do some sightseeing (because let’s be real, I can’t resist a good road trip).
Naturally, the time off will include a few cemetery visits, because what’s a vacation without a little gravestone hunting? I’ve got some exciting road trips planned, and I’m sure they’ll lead to some interesting stories for future blog posts.
While there won’t be any new blog posts during my break, my regular scheduled social media posts will still be going up.
I’ll be back soon with plenty to share, but in the meantime, I hope you all have a great summer!
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.
If you spend a lot of time in cemeteries, you’ll notice certain symbols popping up again and again—some are familiar, others are a bit more unusual. One symbol I’ve come across often in my cemetery travels is a set of open gates, standing slightly ajar.
So today on the blog, I wanted to take a closer look at this symbol: what it means, where it comes from, and share a few of the interesting examples I’ve photographed over the years.
There’s something poetic about the image of an open gate. It feels like an invitation or a sign that something—or someone—is waiting just beyond. Sometimes the symbols are ornate, with intricate columns on either side, while others are much simpler.
The “gates ajar” motif has been around for more than a hundred years and was especially common in Victorian and early 20th-century cemeteries. It reflects a comforting belief that death is not the end, but a passage. These gates represent the soul entering Heaven or the afterlife, offering hope and comfort to those left behind.1
Interestingly, this symbol became even more popular after the release of a novel called The Gates Ajar by Elizabeth Stuart Phelps. Published in 1868, just after the U.S. Civil War, the book follows a young woman grieving her brother. In the book, her aunt explains that the gates of Heaven are never fully closed. Instead, they stay slightly open, allowing souls to move between this world and the next. The book was controversial for its ideas but became a bestseller, inspiring everything from sheet music to flower arrangements…and gravestone symbolism.2
Next time you’re walking through a cemetery, take a look around. You might spot a gate carved in stone, just slightly open—and find yourself thinking about what might be on the other side.
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.
Spring is finally here! After months of snow and cold, it’s so refreshing to feel the sun again and hear the birds singing. Everything is starting to wake up—even cemeteries.
There’s something calming about walking through a cemetery while the trees are budding and the flowers are in bloom. The air smells fresher, and the world feels full of new beginnings. It’s a gentle reminder that life keeps going, even after loss.
Spring is all about growth and change. Trees grow new leaves, flowers bloom, and the grass turns green again. In cemeteries, this feels extra meaningful. You’re surrounded by the past, but everywhere you look there are also signs of new life. Even in places of rest, life still finds a way to come back.
You can often find flowers carved into gravestones, each carrying their own special meaning. Roses are one of the most common, with a variety of meanings based on how they are depicted. A full rose usually represents love or beauty, while a rose with a broken stem is thought to symbolize a life cut down in their prime. A rosebud with a broken stem, on the other hand, represents a young life cut short.1
Tulips are the only flower that continues to grow after they have been cut from the bulb. This might be why tulips as a gravestone symbol, are thought to represent eternal life.1
My first cemetery road trip of the season happened at the end of April, when my Mom and I headed to Bracebridge to explore the area. We visited four cemeteries that day, a little library, and a Rotary garden that hadn’t started blooming yet.
An ice storm had hit the area a few weeks earlier, and there was still a lot of damage in the cemeteries. Branches were down, trees had snapped, and the usual spring cleanup hadn’t happened yet.
Still, even with the mess left behind by the storm, I could see signs of spring trying to break through. The birds were singing again in places that had been silent all winter.
Spring doesn’t always arrive quickly, and it’s not always neat and pretty. My trip to Bracebridge reminded me of that. But just like the cycle of life and death, the seasons keep moving forward. Even after hard times, beauty does return. Cemeteries in the spring shows us that healing happens, growth is always possible, and memories live on in every blooming flower and standing stone.
So whether you’re out for a peaceful walk, taking photos, or just enjoying the sunshine, take a few minutes to breathe in some of that fresh air, and enjoy the flowers around you. Cemeteries in spring are full of quiet beauty and gentle reminders that life is blooming all around us—if we take the time to look.
Thanks for reading!
References:
Understanding Cemetery Symbols: A Field Guide for Historic Graveyards by Tui Snider
For this month’s cemetery book review, I wanted to share a unique photography collection that brings together two of my favorite things—cemeteries and cats!
Cemetery Cats by Owen Phillips is a charming photography book that highlights the whimsical world of cats hanging out in cemeteries around the globe.
Independently published in 2021, Cemetery Cats offers a visual journey made up of photos taken by Phillips over the past 20 years. He’s visited cemeteries across three continents, capturing the quiet moments between cats and the peaceful cemetery spaces they call home.
“Over the past 20 years, the author has made thousands of photographs of cats in dozens of cemeteries in numerous countries on three continents. This book is a collection of some of the best of those photographs.”
Cemetery Cats by Owen Phillips
This softcover, full-color book features lovely photos that capture everything from playful kittens among the gravestones to calm, watchful cats perched thoughtfully on monuments.
There’s a great mix of moods throughout the pages—some moments are silly or sweet, others are more quiet and contemplative. A few of the photos even feature cats as part of cemetery symbolism and statuary, which I really enjoyed seeing. Those little touches made me think about the special way cats, and animals in general, fit into our ideas of death and remembrance.
That said, I did find myself wishing that each photo had been given its own page. It would have really let the mood and composition of each image stand out more. I would’ve also loved a little storytelling to go with the photos—maybe a few notes about the cemeteries, or what it was like to encounter each cat. That extra bit of context would’ve made the collection feel even more personal.
I haven’t run into any cats in a Northern Ontario yet (though I did meet a friendly dog once who seemed very happy to welcome us!), but flipping through this book has me hopeful I’ll spot one someday.
So, if you love cemeteries, cats, or photography collections, I’d definitely recommend adding Cemetery Cats to your collection. Plus, buying a copy helps support Phillips’s future photography adventures in search of more feline graveyard friends!
Thanks for reading!
I am always on the hunt for cemetery-related book recommendations. If you are an author and have a cemetery-related book you would like me to review, please reach out at hello@chantallarochelle.ca. I would love to hear from you.
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.
Cemetery Photography by Chantal Larochelle 