12th May Edinburgh (2008)

The first thing I did on rising was to gloat over my clean clothes and organised room. I didn’t mind that the hostel was noisy and Spartan because I was well organised. I was very pleased to be staying in a real youth hostel, and after three showers (they were free) I was ready to face the youths, so travelled by elevator to the restaurant.

Actually it was more of a dining hall. Okay, it was a large room with a television in it, and a table with bread and stuff. It was a queue up affair, but that didn’t bother me. The toast was a bit thin, but that was okay, and the juice was sticky and sweet but I didn’t really mind. However, there was no coffee, and the tea was dodgy, and these things concern me. I took my tray and sat in a corner watching the people, who were of course doing the same, though some had books to read. A couple came in, and I watched with amazement as the female of the species collected food for her male. Then it happened again (different couple), but this time, happily, the male prepared the computer for the female so she could talk to her friends over breakfast. I was reminded of a Brazilian homestay student in our house who was found in the laundry holding clothes up to her laptop camera, and taking advice from her mother in Brazil about how to wash each item. I have seen some very odd things in my time, most of them in my own home.

After 'breakfast' (I'm not really sure what else I should call it, but it wasn't the breakfast that I know and love) I travelled by foot to the railway station, and thence by cheap day return to Edinburgh. I wish they wouldn’t call them cheap – it sounds like a nasty cheap rather than a good deal financially (what’s wrong with bon marché, anyway?). It was very pleasant, as I was able to buy coffee on the train, had no luggage to carry, and was very clean. Even my socks smelt and felt good. Edinburgh is a lovely city with an enormous castle in the middle, and a large green area for walking and eating on. I went to the tourist information centre (being a tourist), bought a Sinclair keyring for Rodney (Sinclair is his middle name and his mother's maiden name), and got directions to his family home and chapel, Rosslyn Castle and Roslin Chapel. The bus left from stop 15a at 37 minutes to the hour, but when I got to the bus-stop it was already 45 minutes to the hour. My maths is excellent fortunately, so after spending some time with my cellphone making some calculations, I worked out that I had maybe 30 minutes or more to wander around, so I visited the local art gallery. Actually the British art galleries are quite good. I saw some very famous art works, and the toilets were fabulous. No modern art this time, just lovely old dark ones.

I got the 37 minutes to the hour bus around quarter to, and got to Roslin 6 miles later. Everyone got off the bus at Roslin so I assumed they had read Dan Brown's book or perhaps were Rodney's relatives. Some of them spoke French, so I figured Rodney hadn't told me everything about his background. Roslyn Chapel is very old, very cold, and very interesting. It’s built of a soft stone (is that an oxymoron?), which I guess was comparatively easy to hack at, so it’s intricately carved with all kinds of messages and symbols leaping out from the stone work.

I listened to a tour guide and wandered about checking stuff and noting things, then went downstairs to the crypt and thought about the church cat that crept into the crypt, crapped, and crept out. Fortunately I didn't see any evidence of his visit. I checked out the mason’s pillar and stood under the pointy thing on the ceiling over where the Holy Grail might be. Apparently some people feel a deep sense of peace when they stand there, but I felt a funny feeling in my ankles and a grippy feeling around my throat, from which I conclude that there is at least one body buried under the stone. Probably not worth digging up – it will be too old to be any use, and the teeth will have fallen out. I bought a muffin and a book for Rodney and headed down to the castle ruins, just below the chapel. I loved the castle, which had beautiful views of the Esk Valley below.

Back in town, I checked out the local castle and the Royal Mile. I found a tartan mill and bought some lovely scarves for people at home, and then looked around a working mill. I thought of my ancestors working in mills, and how the machines clanked and rattled so loudly - it looked to me like a lousy job. I guess they couldn't be picky in those days, as the unions weren't the best. I managed to get back to the station in time for my cheap day return and travelled back to Glasgow, where I enjoyed another salad and small bottle of wine, perched on my desk looking at the Clyde and marvelling about how wonderful everything little thing is.

Then while I was eating and drinking and looking at the Clyde, I realised I had to give a presentation the next day, so I hauled out my laptop and rewrote my PowerPoint, which is what I usually do the day before a presentation. I moved things around, then back the other way, changing pictures and font sizes and even the order of the slides until I decided perfection was an elusive thing, quite like a butterfly, and there was just no point in chasing it. So I looked one more time out the window, then went to bed to the sound of football supporters singing as they staggered around Glasgow. I hoped they wouldn't fall in the Clyde.

11th May: Forres to Glasgow

As arranged, Betsy took me to the station. She stayed to wave good bye and gave me a lovely bees wax candle made by Mr Salt, which I stashed carefully in my case in case it broke. The train took me back down through Scotland, a thoroughly enjoyable journey, ending up in Glasgow around 2pm. I took a photo of an old tenement hall near Glasgow - all the windows had been broken, and it was in the process of being demolished. I expect the Glasgwegians had decided they didn't like living in these buildings, which reminded me of the boxes some farmers put battery hens in.
Of course just to test how I would have done if I had tried to change from Queen Street to Central Station a few days ago, on arrival at Queen Street, I attempted to get to Central Station within 30 minutes. I got lost several times, thereby vindicating my choice to take a bus from Lancaster to Edinburgh when confronted with the alternative of changing stations within 30 minutes. Oh never mind, you had to be there. Glasgow is very Glaswegian. The first thing I noticed was a young girl, about 12 years old, sporting a 9 month baby belly. It shocked me and made me feel a little sad – I just couldn’t get my head around why a kid would want to have sex, which I see as a kind of adult activity. Little girls draw pictures and giggle, they don’t have sex, surely. Before I left Auckland I printed several maps explaining where items of interest such as Accrington and Glasgow Eurohostel were. I got out my trusty map of Glasgow (thank you Mr Google) and walked to Eurohostel, which I had chosen as the cheapest accommodation offered through the conference site (I was on my way to a conference in Glasgow). Eurohostel turned out to be not very difficult to find (it was quite near Central Station, so I only had to ask for direction 2 – 3 times), and alarmingly similar to a youth hostel, but I wasn’t a youth. I nervously asked for my room, fully expecting that they would put me in a dormitory, but they had a room set aside for me and within 10 minutes they had figured out who I was and why I was there. I paid the full amount (about £80 for 4 days) and headed upstairs trepidating as I went. It was small, clean, and comfortable, so in all fairness, I couldn’t complain. I propped the window open with my garlic pills, and went to do my washing. I unpacked all the things that had been stuffed in my case for the last week or so, and sorted everything that needed sorted, such as my wallet, the clothes, and my toilet bag. I recharged my telephone, laptop and toothbrush, and discovered I had lost my PDA charger. I had two showers, and washed my hair. It was wonderful. I decorated my room with damp socks, shirts and underwear, then went to explore Glasgow. I found a small supermarket near the hostel, and bought a salad and some wine for my dinner, and sat at my window watching the Clyde River drinking wine and eating salad. Travel is a marvelous way to commune with oneself. By the time I went to bed everything was recharged, clean, and tidy. I even got the filling that had fallen out of my teeth in Forres, and put it in my toilet bag. You never know when a spare filling might come in handy.

10th May: Forres

By now I had noticed that I was so far into my trip away that it was easier to see the end than the beginning, which is always a disappointing point to reach. It also meant that I was getting near the point where I was no longer on holiday, but would have responsibilities to meet.

I woke early, still being on Titirangi time, and did my usual early morning walk, putting on my scarf and colourful jumper, and hoping for an adventure. I walked to the nearest signpost which told me Forres was in the direction I had just come from, but 3 miles down the road. I walked towards Forres doing various calculations to work out how far 3 miles was in real money. I eventually concluded it was probably too far to walk, at least both ways. At about the same time as I decided this, a lady stopped her car and asked if I wanted a lift, so of course I said yes. She asked me what part of Forres I was heading to, and I had to admit I didn’t really know and didn’t care either. I wasn’t careless, but care free. She took me to Tesco, where I ambled happily up and down the aisles – I had not been in many shops until now, as I was mostly with other people, so did things that suited several people simultaneously, which supermarket shopping generally does not do. I think I got that right – not sure. This was quite a sweet lady called Mrs Salt or something, and she was very trusting, asking me to keep an eye on her bag while she checked out a different aisle. Why she thought a perfect stranger wouldn’t steal from her is beyond me, but as it happens, I didn’t. She was most upset as she had especially come to town (I do not use the word ‘town’ advisedly in this case) to get some baking ingredients, and it being a Sunday, she was not able to buy any Guinness for her cake. I was impressed. She drove me around Forres, pointing out various sites such as the Findhorn Foundation, the academy, and a couple of statues. She dropped me off at the gate of Marcassie farm and I walked back to Betsy and Sven for breakfast. I told them I had been out walking and described the places I had been. They were quite impressed, but then I admitted I had hitch-hiked, as I was beginning to feel a bit guilty. I’m not very good at subterfuge, which is why I don’t work for British Rail.

After breakfast Betsy and I did some work about the place, sort of cleaning and organising work, and our mutual friend John came to see us. It was wonderful sitting and talking with him, as I did not know him very well, and I enjoyed the opportunity of getting to know him better. He is a wise and good man – in fact everyone I met was both wise and good, which had me wondering about the rest of the Scottish population. After we had cleaned and organised ourselves, I took a photo of some of our work, and then Betsy took me for a drive to Findhorn Bay and through the Findhorn community.

The Findhorn community is famous for the founders’ ability to grow enormous cabbages. I mentioned this to Mrs Salt, who said it was the manure they used (she called it shit), and not (as others have said) their ability to work with spiritual energy and the local devas. I didn’t see any large cabbages, but I did see the legacy of the founders, which was eco-housing and a large community devoted to spiritual quests. The village of Findhorn itself was a quaint old fishing village and reminded me of Ullapool on the west side of Scotland.

When we got back we walked for a long time around the farms and hills, and saw a hare and a couple of deer on our travels. Somehow, and I still don’t know how she arranged it, we ended up at the back of the farm, even though we had left at the front. You might not think this is significant, but I am pretty sure we crossed the road, and I don’t know how she got rid of the road in order to arrive at the back again. If she reads this and leaves a comment, I might finally know how she did it. Perhaps, like Deb, she is amazingly clever, and can rearrange all kinds of things to suit herself. Sven helped me figure out how to leave while Betsy cooked dinner – a delicious arrangement of local organic vegetables with some beans. We agreed that I would take an early train from Forres to Glasgow, instead of staying in Edinburgh, as the bags were a real drag (pun intended) and I didn’t want to have them when I was exploring Roslin Chapel, which was my next important point of call.

I stayed up late, catching up on my emails again, and managed to lose my PDA cord somewhere, although I didn’t know it at the time. This turned out to be quite a problem, as Palms are not common in Britain (Palm PDAs that is, not the inner hand), and I was unable to buy a replacement. This meant that I had to use my Palm sparingly, so could not beam photos from my mobile phone anymore. Funny how a little piece of cord can be so important.

9th May: Lancaster to Edinburgh to Forres

I got up early and said goodbye to Edith, Mac and Lindsay. Edith suggested I didn't leave it another 27 years before I visited them again. I was sad to say goodbye and decided I would try to visit every couple of years. I took a taxi to the station to catch the early morning train to Edinburgh. I was very nervous about this journey as there were two options, neither of which I fancied. One was to take buses most of the way, which meant restricted movement and a slower journey, and the other option meant changing trains in Glasgow, which included a run (or fast walk) between Queen Street and Central Station. British Rail loves to dig up the railway lines and has been working on the Glasgow line for a year or two apparently. I suspect they are actually trying to build another wall between Scotland and England and are using the railway excuse as a cover for their subterfuge. Anyway, I studied the map for the Glasgow walk several times, but was not confident I could do it in the 30 minutes allowed for it, as I knew deep down I would get lost. I decided to use the bus instead. Well, a bus disguised as a train – you pay for a train and get a bus, which departs and arrives at the railway station, travels according to the train timetable and basically behaves like a train, but it’s a bus. That’s one part I couldn’t figure out. Trains go really fast in England (the gauge is wider there) and I couldn’t see how the bus could go at the same pace unless it went along the railway line. I wasn’t going to put up with that because of the safety risks, so I had to consider the whole thing very carefully. I decided on the bus, with the proviso that I would change to the train if the bus drove along the railway line. Well it didn’t, and I ended up stuck between a very chatty lady and a loud snorer. I will never complain about Rodney’s snoring again. The lady prattled about all kinds of things to do with her life, her family, and her aspirations, and I politely grunted now and then so as to be courteous while at the same time cleverly discouraging. When we finished the journey, she thanked me for our pleasant talk, which I though a little odd, as I had not said more than half a dozen words. However, I guess they must have been pleasant ones.

The bus ejected me at Edinburgh station, which must have been a great relief to the driver, as he had got lost and had to ask if anyone knew Edinburgh. Fortunately someone did. The station was incredibly busy and I clutched my handbag and cases territorially in case someone tried to take them from me. I sent a text to my friend Betsy to tell her I had arrived, then headed off to ‘Upper Crust’ to buy a baguette. I don’t remember seeing baguettes in England or Scotland before, so I suspect they came in the last French invasion, and not William’s one. They are very good.

Betsy rescued me from the station and drove me to Forres where she and her husband Sven live. Although I knew them both, I had not visited their home before, and was pleased to have the chance to journey through Scotland in pleasant company. We talked all the way about all kinds of things – women have a lot of things to talk about. I don’t think she’s a Gemini but she sure can talk, and so can I. It was great. I love Scotland – it looks a bit like the Mackenzie country in places, so it must be okay. We passed through old haunts from my skiing days: Newtonmore, Kingussie, Pitlochry, and various other rather Scottish sounding villages. The stone buildings are beautiful in those parts, so I took a couple of photos. I was pleased to be back in Scotland, even though I’m not a Scot, and my ancestors aren’t Scots. I’m an English-Irish blend with Huguenot on the Gillett side.

Betsy showed me around the working area when we arrived, including the beautiful house they had restored from what appeared tohave been a few crumbling stones. It's just amazing what a few good masons can do. They were living happily in their caravans and huts, and I must say, I enjoyed the minimalist life-style dictated by cramped living. Sven kindly gave me his cabin to sleep in, which had some wonderful books and musical instruments in it, along with the best internet connection I had had for a few days. I stayed up half the night catching up on my work emails. Anyway, it was still light until around 10.15 and the sunset was very clear and pinkish. I was very pleased with Scotland. The air was good.

8th May: Lancaster Maguires

I was greeted by a cup of tea which delighted me as I am easily won by a decent cup of tea. We mostly hung out at home during the day, talking (surprise surprise) and eating. I found the computer in the hall surprisingly serviceable, and managed to establish an internet connection on it. I sent a text to Neil to ask him to email us, and he wished me luck with what he referred to as their ‘steam computer’. His father was not amused, but I thought it was a fair description. I picked up a bottle of wine to go with our dinner and was pleasantly surprised to see that the local dairy had a good assortment of booze. That’s more than our local dairy has, though I do live in west Auckland, which is a dry area (I’m not walking about the weather). I might mention this to our local dairy owner next time I see him to see what he thinks about getting in a bit of plonk. I was also impressed with their milk containers, which are made of glass. I think they are called bottles. I recall something similar from my youth, but it has sort of faded now – the memory that is, not my youth, which fortunately persists.

The Maguires (which is who they are) have quite a large garden and a free-standing house, unlike those I was seeing in the south, except my cousin’s house in Churchill, which was just enormous. They were finding the garden all a bit hard to manage and I tried to persuade them to build a fence and block out the bits they didn’t want to see. I tried this on my parents in Timaru too, but they didn’t like the idea either. I noticed they had a sitting out area which reminded me again of the changing weather patterns in England. Still, they probably wear woolly hats when they sit outside, and maybe carry an umbrella. I photographed a photo of George and Edith getting married, but it didn’t turn out very well (the photo, not the marriage, silly).

7th May: Accrington to York to Lancaster

Breakfast was nestled amongst a collection of plastic flowers and scenes depicting English country sports, but the toast was hot, the eggs yellow, and the marmalade suitably sticky. I like the way the English offer marmalade in little jars, and I always want to nick them. I restrained myself and ate it instead. I ordered tea, not having sufficient faith in the landlady’s ability to make coffee. The tea was excellent, so I felt I had made a good choice. Anyway, I could get coffee on the train.

I was glad of the wheels on my suitcases, and tugged them back to the station to take a train to York, to see my good friend Deb. As you can see in the photo, she is very attractive. She said York had a nice little kirk which we could explore it together. When I got off the train I was surprised to find her standing next to me on the platform. I don’t know how she does things like that, but then she has always been quite clever. She bought coffee, I gave her a tee shirt with musical hamsters on it, and she gave me a jar of home-made ‘dam sloe gin jam’. At her request, I also gave her a kilogram of Atomic Coffee beans, there being no decent coffee in England. I don't know how the English get by, honestly, although now I think about it, my brother always drinks tea (he thinks he's English). We headed off into town, dragging the cases behind us, exploring the beautiful narrow streets of York and York Minster (not the streets therein) , before settling in a church yard for a catch up. I suspect the church custodian had taken a fancy to Deb, as he followed us around, and asked us to move from our position under a tree so he could attend to a bird house in its foliage. Of course we weren’t fooled by this – it was clear that he wanted us to move for other possibly nefarious reasons. In due course it all became clear however, when he asked us about Australia, as he had cousins or something here – I forget the details. I always lose interest when people think I am from Australian. Some people just have no class.

York Minster is a bit of a high Gothic sort of kirk – some bits were built in 1220 which is actually before my family arrived in New Zealand, and well before my boss said I could go to the UK, so as you can see, it’s quite old. There are lots of important people buried there and we admired their tombs while perched on a heater and discussed the kinds of things that need to be discussed between friends who have been estranged. The toilets were very good as well, so it was worth the visit.

Deb bought me a wonderful lunch and we sat in the street watching passers-by and talking more. We took photos of each other to prove we had been there, and went to a pub for a gin and beer, and took photos of ourselves in the mirror to show we take an interest in our appearance. She saw me orf in good time to catch my train to Lancashire, and I felt sad to leave her. Deb has been a good friend for many years and I miss her, as do many of my folkie friends. Herumph (raises eyebrows so as not to appear sad).

I like the British trains. They run on time and the seats are comfortable. Also, someone trundles along the aisle with tea and coffee and stuff just like in an English office or hospital. I usually amused myself by writing postcards or transferring the photos on my mobile phone to my PDA, for later downloading on to my laptop. Once I got out my laptop and plugged it in on the train, just to get my money’s worth from the plug. Travel made me dirty and sweaty so I tried to clean up before my outlaws collected me but it’s hard to get clean in a British Rail toilet. At least I didn’t flush in the station.

I was met in Lancaster by Neil’s father, (i.e. Annie’s and Rosie’s grandfather) and his son, my brother-outlaw. I recognised them immediately and it was wonderful to see them after such a long absence, and we hugged enthusiastically. They drove me back to their house at Brookhouse near Lancaster, and we drank tea and talked. As you have probably noticed, this is turning out to be a talking tour of Britain, which is not a bad thing I guess, and more or less everything you would expect of a Gemini. I had not seen them since Annie and Rosie were quite small, and as they are now well over 20, I guess I have not seen them for around 20 years. They looked pretty good to me, and if I looked a lot older, they were too polite to say so. Once when my mother collected me from Christchurch airport after a long stay away, she said ‘oh – I suppose we look older too!’ Neil’s parents are definitely more diplomatic.

6th May: Bristol to Accrington, Lancashire

I was really enjoying my train trips, though I found the booking and ticket retention a bit stressful. My trip to Accrington gave me an opportunity to see the changes in architecture and environment. The beautiful terraced houses I had seen in Bath turned into row upon row of red-roofed terraced houses, which from a distance had quite a depressing look about them, as there were no trees or variation of building style (1st photo). Another change I noticed as I got further North was that the large franchises and chain stores became more obvious. In small towns places like Starbucks and Subway were fairly low key, but regulations seemed less restrictive further north, and more signs appeared everywhere. I gradually realised that English roads were not littered with bill-boards like the New Zealand roads are, which is why they look more attractive. In New Zealand, a car journey is somewhat akin to reading a magazine of advertisements, unless of course one is in Glenorchy, which has few bill-boards. Glenda Fryer and her team tried to tidy up Auckland and remove some of the signs, but the business people complained that no-one would find them, so the signs stayed. It's hard to find the business for the signs now - a sort of wood and trees phenomenon I suppose.

On arrival at Accrington I wandered up and down the main street until I found the tourist information office, which I assumed would advise me on the right place to stay. There were brochures, but no staff, and the brochures sold tours, not advice on accommodation. So I wandered up and down again, asking questions at likely looking places, until I settled on a bed and breakfast called Colney House (2nd photo), opposite 261 Blackburn Road (3rd photo), where my great grandfather, John Lonsdale once lived. He was born in Clayton-leMoors, just down the road, and at the time he was living in Blackburn Road (1881), my great grandmother lived in the Adelphi Hotel, about 10 minutes away by foot. The house I stayed in was apparently built for George IV's mistress, who must have been very fit, and the stairs were steep and narrow, and the building was several stories high. Perhaps that’s why she was so popular with the king, as she must have had lovely muscular legs. Once I had lugged my two heavy bags up the stairs (the landlady had a bad back….) I set out to enjoy my afternoon.

Accrington is a mill town, but the mills seem to have closed. As some of my ancestors were weavers and cotton workers, I wandered around the outside of one or two, wondering if they walked the same streets a century earlier. Many streets had small lanes behind them, similar to those I saw in Vancouver, where Russell and Jane live when they're not on their boat (ref Poulston Antigua blog!). The lanes were dirty and littered with beer cans, bottles, cigarette packets, dried up sludgy stuff, and what seemed to be household rubbish (4th photo). No doubt I was looking at the 2008 version of what my ancestors saw a century ago when they passed this way. I bet my grandmother had to pick up her skirts to keep the hems clean, as washing in those days must have been a real drag – although now I think about it, they did have a servant, so perhaps it wasn’t granny’s drag, but the servant’s. I noticed a sign pointing to Clayton-le-Moors, just a mile or so down the road, so I followed it, but I was getting tired, having already walked several miles. I had come across some churches, but the town being full of Moslems, two were actually up for sale (5th photo, but recently removed for not being interesting enough). I took a photograph as evidence of my trip and observations. I also found the Adelphi Hotel (6th photo) where my great grandmother, Annie Baron lived, in the 1881 census. She was with her half brother and sister, Bridge and Martha Baron, and Bridege's son, Bridge junior. The girl working in the bar didn't know my family. She had studs in her eyebrows and around her face, and her hair was a pretty green, similar to the colour of my brother’s budgerigar, Peter. He’s dead now (Peter, not my brother), this being some 45 years ago. She had sort of Rastafarian hair, and was well decorated with brightly coloured clothes. I asked if I could see upstairs, explaining my claim on the hotel, but she was unimpressed, and refused my request. I walked about the bar a bit, and bought gin for old times’ sake (I bet my ancestors drank gin there). Everything was quite old – a sort of red quilted seating around dark tables that were very sticky. I guess the barmaid was kept busy enough decorating herself, without having to clean the tables as well. I took several photos, including one of her.

The walk to Clayton-le-Moors took me up a hill that had a decent looking pub at the top, so I stopped for a glass of wine, some tacos, and a salad. The Mexican food confused my sense of time and place – it all felt very odd. Except brief conversations with the landlady, the barmaid, and the waiter, all of this was conducted in silence, which allowed my imagination to run freely, which I enjoyed. I found my way to Clayton-le Moors and explored yet another churchyard, hoping for some evidence of my family, but found none. By this time I was well and truly stuffed, so took a bus back to town and returned to Blackburn Road. I took some photos of 261, as well as the Pakistani barber who now worked there. Although I wanted to go upstairs, not being familiar with Pakistani barbers’ habits, I decided not to ask. I was pleased to get to bed.

5th May: Bristol with Chrissie

Chrissie put today aside to help me discover Bristol. This was extremely generous of her, as she had already spent a day touring me around Bath etc, and was now going to host my discovery of my / our ancestral roots. We walked around the river area and enjoyed lunch there, then visited St Mary’s of Redcliffe, where she been a bridesmaid for a relative – I think it was her uncle Billy Hazell, but I am not sure. The church was spectacular – high Gothic and wonderful stained glass windows. We also visited Small Street where my grandparents lived and where my father was born, as well as Heber Street, where our great grandfather lived. We photographed the house opposite where number 29 would have been, next to a panelbeater’s yard. We could see the shape of the houses as most were still intact, so it was not difficult to imagine our great grandfather coming home to work after a day working as a cooper; I bet he smelt awful. We tried to visit an address picked up from a genealogist interested in our family (Gillets) but found there was no such address. I wrote to my contact later that night and asked them to check their information. I felt quite important and knowledgeable, sort of ‘at the source’. My paternal grandmother was Rose Gillett, descended from a Huguenot called Jacques de Gylet. The Gilletts went to America at some stage, so my 13^th great grandfather is John Billington, a passenger on the Mayflower. I must remember to mention this when I am in America - no-one seems impressed in New Zealand. Billington had the honour of being the first man to be hung for murder in America, but as my daughter Rosie says, it was probably an act of self defence. Never-the-less, I suspect it pays not to cross the Gilletts.

I tried to buy wine for dinner but they said they had plenty, so we sat down at their beautiful long table and enjoyed yet another meal with the lovely linen. The next morning Chrissie took me to the station for my train to Accrington, in Lancashire so I could visit places my mother’s family lived. I felt very sad to say goodbye - she and all the other cousins had given me a truly wonderful time, and I just wasn't sure when I would see them again.

4th May: Bath, Wells and Axbridge:

I went for another early walk, this time along a narrow country lane and eyed up a house I wouldn’t have minded buying. It was very large, built of stone, and would make a fabulous hotel. I pretended to be a buxom eighteenth century maid hurrying home after a night of indiscretions. I am sure the countryside looked exactly the same. Silver birches, nettles, ivy, spring flowers of clematis and wisteria, stone houses, and stables. I tried to ignore the asphalt road and the occasional lorry bounding past. A rooster crowed loudly, so I spent some time wondering if chooks were around in eighteenth century England. I decided they probably were.

Breakfast was a simple affair – croissants and coffee in the conservatory, accompanied with beautiful white linen. I love my cousins. I am easily won with a bit of Egyptian bedlinen, a French breakfast, and an English table setting. Furthermore, these cousins, perhaps knowing my difficulty with names and similar inconsequential details, had the courtesy to share one name, which meant I never had to wrestle with the problem of learning two. They were both Chris, but the lady cousin was called Chrissie for the purposes of familial differentiation. They took me to Bath and treated me to a tour of the Roman Baths, after which we had lunch at Sally Lunn’s house. Sally’s house was very small, but she baked a good bun. I love anything old and interesting, so the baths were right up my street. Apparently the Romans had come to England several centuries ago, not knowing about the problematic food and climate, and immediately set about turning parts of it into Italy, just as the English later tried to turn India in England. As a result, the Indians and Pakistanis now play cricket better than the English. The town of Bath was the first tourist destination in England, as until people travelled there for a bit of a spa or a rub down, the only travel and overnight stays were for business purposes, such as perhaps popping up to Lancaster to sort out trouble at the mill. Because of my interest in hospitality, I was therefore able to turn my day into a business trip, and photographed the exterior of some old hotels which I thought might evidence the start of the western hospitality industry. Somehow they have dropped off my phone, or I would incldue them here. I particularly enjoyed a crescent shaped street of old Regency houses, which Chrissie explained always have five stories. So does my mother, but of a different type.

They also took me to Wells, another town based on the local springs, and then to Axbridge, where they used to live. The roads were very narrow, and although I thought they were very pretty, I could see this became a nuisance later in the day as they filled up with commuters trying to go home. Everything looked very European with houses all clustered tightly together, and very narrow streets. Still, Starbucks and McDonalds were keeping a low profile, and it looked quite rustic and (wait for it) English.

That evening I tried to arrange a meeting with some Poulstons, but they are becoming a rare breed (my niece Tahlia’s observation), there being just 76 on the British electoral roll, and only three entries in the local white pages, all of whom I knew. I telephoned a cousin that my daughter Rosie had met on Facebook, and got her grandmother’s number. Unfortunately she could not see me the next day, but she seemed pleased to hear from me. However, I knew the Bristol Poulstons would not solve my genealogy problems, which were located in Stroud in 1826, when my great great grandfather, Edwin Poulston was born. I had not been able to find evidence of his parents until a relative suggested his mother might be Celia Poulson, who gave birth to an Edwin Poulson (there is an Edwin Poulston in each generation of my family except my brother, who is Russell Edwin) in a Stroud poorhouse. I suspect poor Celia did not record the father of her child, but I still have to check out this link by tracing Edwin Poulson to see if in fact, he turns out to be a Poulston, and therefore, one of us.

My cousins cheered me up by pouring me plenty of wine. They are very good cousins and I hope they visit me one day.

3rd May, London to Bristol

Having rested up from my journey, I set off for Bristol, my father’s birthplace. I was surprised to be so tired after travelling, which was conducted in a sedentary position except for a few short journeys through the paperwork places at the airports. I find it odd that one can travel so far sitting down, yet still feel tired on arrival.

Anna and Kieran dropped me at Richmond station. I went through the turnpike and promptly lost my ticket, which put me in a mild panic. I practised my slightly confused senior person look in case I needed it on the train, but it turns out that I had so many tickets with seemingly similar information on, that one of my other ones was okay. I still don’t understand what happened – maybe I lost my seat reservation or something.

Bristol station (Templemead) is a beautiful stone job sort of arching out to the town. I looked for my map of Bristol and directions to my cousin Stella’s place, but couldn’t find it. I bought a map of Bristol for a pound, but Stella’s street wasn’t on it – I didn’t know that before I bought the map, as it was in a slot machine. I phoned Stella and asked her which bus to get to her place, and she gave me directions to a place where she would meet me, and take me there herself. Stella is an elderly cousin of my father, and she normally gets about on a mobility scooter, so I was a bit dubious about this. Furthermore, her directions were rather perplexing. “Go outside the station and walk away from it as if you are leaving the station (um - could I be doing anything else??). Turn right and keep going until you see the Evening Post building, which is black. It’s at a roundabout. Look for some shops near the roundabout – there aren’t many shops around there, so they will be easy to find – and keep going right until you see some black gates. I’ll be waiting in there for you.”

I went outside the station and walked as if I was walking away from it. That part was quite easy. Then I turned right, and kept walking away from it, looking for the Evening Post building. Couldn’t see it, so I went back the other way. I asked a few people but none knew where it was. Then a beggar asked me for a few pence, so I said of course I would give him some money, if he would tell me where the Evening Post building is. I’m not very smart. He told me to keep walking back the way I came for at least ten minutes, and I would find it. As it turned out he was correct, but I walked away wondering if he had lied for the money. After about ten minutes I still couldn’t see the Evening Post, but found a bus with the door open, so asked the driver where it was. He was very nice and took me there for nothing. Of course there were no shops anywhere near, and it started to rain. I walked around the district for an hour or so, up and down various side streets admiring all the black gates. Eventually I took shelter in an archway not far from the roundabout and phoned Stella again. She appeared quite quickly from some gates across the road and took me to her little flat in Red Cross Mews, across the road from the old Red Cross School dad went to when he was a little boy (check out the two pictures). It was wonderful to see her. She introduced me to her grey squirrel and gave me a blue piece of glass with S.S. Great Britain on it. We took photos of each other outside her flat, and I recorded her as she talked about her child-hood and about my grandmother, her aunt. She also called some other cousins, Pat and Francis Gillett, who duly arrived to take me to yet more cousins, Roger and Doreen Pitman (Doreen was a Gillett) and we all pored over our family trees and asked each other questions. It was fabulous. They kindly offered me sandwiches and wine, and I accepted both, as by now the after-effects of the poisoning episode had subsided and I was finally able to contemplate food again. Sadly, the sandwiches were stuffed with ham and beef, so I had to own up to being a vegetarian, and possibly therefore, someone to treat with great suspicion, in case I launched into a series of insults about meat eaters, or worse still, performed magic spells on them. Happily for both them and me I did neither, and one of my cousins was pleased with the extra beef. They were all very kind to me and it was a wonderful thing to meet so many members of my father’s family, and to be welcomed so thoroughly. Of course I use the word 'cousin' loosely - some of them were 2nd cousins. Maybe 3rd even. Pat even gave me a jar of marmalade, which I suspect I should have given to my mother.

After we had finished playing happy families they took me to yet anther cousin, Chrissie Bryant (nee Gillett again) who had volunteered to accommodate me in her home in Somerset, just south of Bristol. This particular cousin had stayed with my parents, and apparently been given a good time by them, as there is nothing she could have done to make me feel more welcome than she did. She even asked me from time to time, if there was anything else I either wanted or needed. In fact I was given the right royal treatment, which occasionally had me wondering if I had the wrong family, and if she had stayed with someone famous and interesting like the Queen, or Helen Clark. I checked a couple of times, but no, she had stayed with my parents, and found them kind. My parents can be quite beguiling at times. My room had not just the usual commodities such as bed and pillows, but also a tea tray in case I got thirsty in the night, melatonin pills to correct my jetlag, and biscuits for the night munchies. But best of all was the satin smooth Egyptian sheets. I am now saving up for some, and have contacted my bank manager to arrange a second mortgage.

Their house was a recently built stand alone house with a large garden – about half an acre at a guess. Chris said he hated gardening, and had a lot of trees and plants taken away, but it still looked beautiful. I was amused to find they had not just a conservatory (this is a new addition to English houses since I was last her in the 1970s), but also, a sitting out area. Clearly global warming has its advantages in England.

2nd May, London

I woke early, being still on New Zealand time, so walked around the local area before breakfast, checking out Sainsbury’s and taking photos of unusual sights, such as the sign that said ‘No Parking, by order of St John the Divine’. I was impressed that the local people had secured such an important saint’s favour. This little excursion later turned out to be a life-saver, as I was able to recognise the place to get off my bus. The trains weren’t coming to Kew today, it being a holiday and an opportunity for British Rail to dig up the tracks.

I wandered around London most of the day and wore myself and my poor feet out. I started at Covent Garden, walked all around the Fleet Street area, then headed East to the Tower. Most of the voices I heard were German or French, which presented problems when asking directions to places of relief, as I was not sure whether to ask for a toilet, a toilette, or des toiletten. I had a good look around the tower, checked out the family jewells and the torture equipment, then headed further East looking for an underground and a train home. By 6pm I was in a housing estate in Wapping, where I definitely felt out of place so I headed back to the Tower, where I felt much safer, and found a train home.

I was exhausted when I got back, and it was very late but still light. Luckily Anna and Kieran were tolerant hosts and offered me wine as soon as I arrived, with pita bread and hummus. Kieran cooked a very garlicky pasta dish which gave me a great deal of pleasure and memories the following day. However, he also poisoned me by pouring me as much wine as I wanted, and lost my favour by not wearing the black and silver fern cap I bought him in Auckland for $2. I didn’t feel the best the next day but the garlic was a comfort.