Many years ago, when I still lived in London (England), I travelled by train one day to Tiverton in Devon, hundreds of miles away, to find the grave of my grandmother's little sister, Mari Edgcombe, who died of diphtheria when she was 4. The rest of her family is buried elsewhere in the county; her parents as far away as Sydney, Australia. I found the grave with the help of the cemetery director, who pointed to a piece of grass and said, "6 feet from that one, and 6 feet from that one, and there she is." Not even a headstone.
In those days, there was only one train down in the morning, and one train back in the afternoon, so I went to a local cafe for a glass of milk to decide what to do for the rest of the day. The waitress was interested in the reason for my trip, and an old, old man sitting in the corner remembered Mari's father! "Yes, I 'member ol' Edgcombe," he said, "E 'ad a little shop with a barrel of vinegar in the front, and you could go and dip a bottle in and fill it up for a penny." What an enchanting discovery after being faced with an unmarked piece of grass!