Roger and Doreen have two sons who have bought a house together and live locally, but only one was able to come and visit. Actually it wasn’t me he came to see – he came with his mate Ben to put a light in the loft, which was very entertaining. It took a while longer than expected (these things always take time!) so Roger kindly offered to drive me to Stroud instead of just to the local railway station. I had found what I thought was a salubrious hotel in Stroud at the same price as my bed and breakfast in Dublin, so I was confident of having a comfortable stay. The countryside is quite gorgeous, with lots of green grass (like home) and English trees (also like home). I was in the Cotswolds, which as we know, are very beautiful, and renowned for their private guest houses. I hoped I would be in one, and imagined sinking into deep abysses of goose down duvets, cosseted in Egyptian linen clad European pillows, and placated with a continual stream of tea and scones. Good.
It wasn’t really like that. The London Hotel, down by the railway line near the supermarket, was run by a nice Indian gentleman who couldn’t operate the credit card thingummy and gave an overall impression of incompetence at a level I never imagined existed. He was awful, but engaging in a funny kind of way, because he was friendly and tried to be helpful. I checked the room and despatched my kind hosts, not wishing to worry them, and also, because I hadn't really noticec how dirty the place was. Some time early in the afternoon my new host managed to get the credit card thingy to work, and I was able to go to my room. It was a bit dirty, but the good news was that I had my own bathroom, complete with the usual array of soaps and shampoos. The old body wash container from the last guest was on the shower base, but I managed to push it away with my feet during my first shower and not focus on it. The carpet hadn’t been vacuumed in several months at a guess, but I kept my shoes on and was careful not to drop any food on the floor. I think the bed was clean, but I didn’t take any risks and slept in my Cotton on Body pyjamas. I washed my knickers and socks (I bet you’re glad of the detail) and headed off to Stroud main street to see what trace I could find of my ancestors.
My father, Edwin Poulston, was born in 1919. His father, Edwin Poulston, was born in 1885, and his father (I bet you can’t guess his name...) Edwin Poulston, was born in 1853, and his father, Edwin Poulston (yawn – not many names in our family) was born in 1826. In Stroud. Well all I could find was an Edwin Poulson born in 1826 in Stroud but his mother was called something like Celia Poulson, and she lived in the Stroud Union Poorhouse. So I wandered around Stroud pulling the weeds off the graces in the cemeteries and looking for evidence of my family, until finally I found the town cemetery (after taking several wrong turns as usual, thereby circumnavigating the village), just below the old Poorhouse (now a set of apartments). I pulled weeds off and rummaged through the undergrowth, but found no sign of my rellies, so concluded that I would have to go to Gloucester the next day to check the county archives and see what they could tell me.
I finished the day happily with a new bottle of red wine, and a new salad, both of which were substantially cheaper than the same things in Dublin. The main thing wrong with Stroud though, was that my dongle would not pick up a connection, even though I tried it out at various points in the hotel, and tested the Vodafone reception around Stroud on my phone- Stroud was a phone-free village. Nice for those who don’t like mobile waves whistling through the air, but no so good if you wanted to talk to someone. Stroud is quite hilly, being in the Cotswolds, and has a lot of little steep streets (steep little streets?). I was very taken with a spot called the Shambles (reminded me of home), as the word 'shambles' apparently derives from 'slaughterhouse'. You see, it was worth reading to the end of the blog just to learn that!
1 comment:
Have you read Cider with Rosie? You should, again if necessary, now you've been to Stroud. Have you drunk cider with Rosie? Before you go to Spain you shd also read A Rose for Winter + As I roved out, both by Laurie Lee & Driving over Lemons by another bloke who used to be a drummer.
What were the inflight larfs on your way back?
Has your head stopped rolling under the sofa or do you not suffer from le lag de jet?
Vanessa de Nouvelle Plymouth veux parler Franglais, je lui ai dit le OK, sur livre de visage.
J'ecrit un matching histoire de graves on mon blog, apres reading la votre.
Tu fais un tres convincing impression de someone tres confident & ensemble.Je ne jamais would have guessed you were almost coping, a Paris. Et moi - along for the ride? - oui! bien sur et damn droit deux, transport alone m'a coute £300.. ecrive bientot, la D. ps Bises de m.le Badger.
Post a Comment