10 May - Bristol to Stroud

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!

9 May - leaving Dublin for Bristol

I gritted my teeth and decided to do my souvenir shopping before leaving town (like everyone else in the picture was doing), figuring that gifts from Ireland might be more entertaining than gifts from England, as I knew there wouldn’t be much time in Hong Kong. I had spotted a few things in different shops, so walked to the biggest Connell’s souvenir shop on the other side of the bridge hoping to find everything I wanted in the same place. Let me tell you about the weather in Dublin. I put on three layers – a top, a shirt, and a big woolly cardigan – and I was still cold. I wrapped a scarf around my neck and put my head well down because every time I came up Talbot Street to O’Connell Street, the wind knocked me sideways just as I passed James Joyce. I couldn’t help wondering how it must have been for my poor ancestors, as they didn’t have my nice woolly jumper. Deb loved my woolly jumper - I can tell by the comments on her blog. Dublin was bitterly cold. I got my souvenirs and was quite pleased with what I selected, then headed back to collect my carefully packed bags and go to the airport. I had bought some sunlight soap and brought all my washing up to date, so I could leaveg Dublin refreshed and clean, just like everyone else does. Not. I took a photo from my window before I left - note the statue on the top of the yellow roof.

The flight out wasn’t nearly as stressful as the flight in, because by this time I was beginning to think Ryan Air might treat me nicely (which they did), and apart from having to throw out half a bottle of red wine, the trip passed without any notable occurrence. On arrival at Bristol I took a bus to Temple Meads station, and my wonderful cousins Roger and Doreen Pitman (Doreen was a Gillett) showed up promptly at five o’clock and took me to their house in Bishopsworth. They gave me a lovely big room with an enormous bed, and filled me up with pizza and lots of tea. I was pleased to be drinking tea again, as I hadn’t had much for a while and was quite missing it. We gossiped about the family and our research and I got to know them much better than the hour I had with them last year. I was pleased to see them. I made some minor changes to some of my family records, and Roger gave me some printouts of some research that Francis Gillett had done on the Billington connection, as well as a lovely photo of my Nanny, Rose Gillett (dad’s mother). And to top it all off, when I went to bed, I could use my dongle and catch up on my emails. It was good to be in a home instead of a guest house.

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.

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.