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.
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