"Happy birf-day to yooooooooooouuuuuuuuuuu!"

Our three-year old's rendition was loud enough to wake the dead. Quite apropos, I suppose, in that we were in a graveyard, on a cold black October night, in the middle of nowhere, Poland.

Busily preparing cutie-patootie pumpkin costumes for trick-or-treating, I neglected to ascertain Polish Halloween traditions, assuming of course that EVERYONE goes out collecting candies or egging scrooges. To my horror, I finally learned the truth: Poles spend the night at the graves of their relatives.

Apparently the only nation in Europe that still follows this pagan tradition country-wide, blissfully ignoring the thousand year old stranglehold of Roman Catholicism, graves all over the land are spruced up and decked out with flowers on All Saint's Day. Families travel great distances to gather round the headstone of dead ancestors, reminiscing (sometimes fondly) and then comes the great moment: the candlelit walk.

We joined the villagers ambling their way to the hillside graveyard. It's quite some distance, but to the Poles - great walkers, they - a stretch o' the legs. Even roadside memorials to fatal accidents (alarmingly common!) are included in the celebration, lovingly decked out with fresh flower arrangements and candles. The inky sky glowed in the distance and, as we neared the site, an incredible array of hundreds and hundreds of colored-glass holders, bright flames flickering, lit small footpath windings round the tombstones. We climbed slowly: Emily happily (and unceasingly) singing, I moved by the festive beauty and the mute tragedy of numerous tiny graves.

Teenage boys regularly exploded out from behind a few of the larger headstones, their girlfriends obligingly screaming in terror. Older people chatted quietly, sometimes kneeling perhaps to pray or rearrange a flower or add new candles - after all, when you're lighting the way to the afterlife, some souls need a bit more help than others.