The last time I ever saw my grandmother, I asked her to tell me the story of how she and my grandfather first met. I'm not quite sure why I asked - maybe I sensed that it might be my last chance - but I'm glad I heard the story before the memory vanished forever. She told me that back in the early 1930s both she and my future grandfather happened to be living a few miles apart in north-west London, but that's not where they met. No, my grandmother first clapped eyes on my grandfather during a trip to the seaside - in Clacton of all places. He was throwing stones at a tin can and she fancied him... and they got married a few years later.
So, I'd not be here today were it not for a tin can in Clacton. Or, for that matter, a whole number of other emotional attractions and geographical coincidences dating back to the dawn of time. I'm only here because all my ancestors happened to meet, and have sex with, the right person, and because none of them got killed off by illness or accident before child-bearing age. To be honest, the chances of me being here today are infinitesimally small. But the fact that you're reading this page today means that the countless chain of probabilities worked out in the end, and you have my ancestors to thank for that.
Like many other Britons I've gone digging back into my past to find out who my ancestors are. With the aid of existing family records I've been able to uncover genealogical information about as many as 50 of my direct ancestors, dating back as far as the early 18th century. I've also discovered in which parts of the country my roots lie. My father's side of the family, for example, seem to have lived in and around north-west London for most of their lives, while my mother's side have been gradually migrating down the M11 from the Cambridge area towards the M25 since the early 1700s.
So, in the run-up to my 40th birthday next week, I've decided to go back and visit some of the more interesting places where some of my more interesting ancestors once lived.
Yes, I know this is all very self-indulgent, and of direct interest to a very small audience most of whom are dead, but do bear with me. I can promise you a visit to the famous store on Oxford Street where my great-grandparents got married, the quiet Essex country lane where one of my ancestors murdered the local landowner, and the small Sussex village where (arguably) all of English genealogy began. I'm starting today with the birthplace of my oldest known relative, and then I shall be working forwards to the present day. And don't worry, I didn't go back to Clacton...
Going back to my roots
