As I entered the grounds of Pere Lachaise cemetery in Paris, in 1981, I could scarcely believe what I was seeing. I had come to visit Jim Morrison’s grave. As I walked along the paths I passed lifelike statues, gravestones and mausoleums that seemed to be out of this world. Here was the final resting place for Oscar Wilde, Edith Piaf, Chopin and Maurice Chevalier, just to mention only a few of the many thousands of people that had been laid there, and in the dappled light and shadows, the bust, headstone and grave of Jim Morrison. It was so quiet, tranquil and sad to visit him here, his grave unadorned with any signs that people had been there, except for an empty jar and the surrounding graves vandalised with graffiti. I stood there in contemplation, feeling his presence. It has always stayed with me. In 1987, the grave was desecrated and the sculpture of Jim was stolen. It is no longer there.