Genealogy (tracing yourself back to better people)

After an eventful week involving such things as choosing paint for our bedroom (Raspberry Pink and a dash of Walnut – What does Blokey think? asked Mumsy, in the belief that he has any say in the matter!) and being girly (oh, the problems we have had with the car were worthy of their own mundane little post) on the phone (me! on the phone!) to appeal to the paternal instinct of car dealership manager men folk people things, I took myself down to Gip to visit my Mumsy.  I took The Blokey with me so that I could actually get there, but then I sent him home again so that myself and Mumsy could discuss important things, like Mo on Big Brother and how long I should leave it before sending The [Real] Big Brother an email wishing him a Happy [Belated] Birthday.

We went to the deepest, darkest parts of Suffolk to visit the villages/hamlets of my maternal grandad’s family.  We drove down one track lanes – swerving occasionally to avoid hitting p[h]easants – and we wondered no more at my great-grandfather’s desire to leave the area in the 1890s and find his [mis-]fortune in London. 

Ssshhh …

It’s Oh So Quiet.

Even today there is no noisy traffic.  The air is clean and fresh and the only noises we heard belonged to farming vehicles or animals.  A man spooked us by saying a cheery Hello! as he wandered past to post a letter in a postbox set in the wall of a dilapidated pink cottage.  It used to be a Post Office.  There were no Chav/ettes lounging around on street corners.  Indeed, there were no street corners, just curvy country lanes.  There was no litter drowning the wide open spaces, and there were no teenage boys playing House/Garage/Punk/Rock, loudly, out of their bedroom windows. 

It’s the sort of place I would like to live, if I had the money.  The Working Class Farming Community of these parishes are simply now Middle Class Commuting Communities.  And I can understand why my great-grandfather didn’t want to follow his father and grandfather into the Ag. Lab. career …


The churches were open and inviting.  Peaceful.  Serene.  Nice …


complete with warnings …


and cool interiors.


But there were no family graves to dance on, although we searched long and hard.  We suspect they were too poor for expensive headstones that would last for generations.  Pffft.  It was a shame really, especially as I was very much looking forward to meeting Phoebe, my great-great-great grandmother. 

Later, after food in a pub with a randy landlord, my Mother put me on a train and sent me home to The Blokey. 

I still haven’t emailed The Big Brother to wish him birthday greetings; it was his birthday on Monday.  I’m not bitter about him forgetting mine, honest Guv’.

Please God bless my Phoebe-Grandmother xxx Elsabeth


  1. My mother’s family is from England—although the other side of the island from you, Wells, Somerset. The pictures are quite lovely and your trip sounded wonderful.G-d bless your Great-Great Grandmother Phoebe and my Great-Great-Great Grandmother Phebe also…. How’s the Blokey doin’? Health holding up ok?Take care,Des

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