Tag Archives: Genealogy

After last week in East Sussex grave-hunting, this Wednesday I took my mother out for a ride house-hunting. As a teenager my mother lived in Little Heath, near Potters Bar, Hertfordshire, which is where she met my father. I’d been threatening to take her to see her old childhood haunts for some time and it was a sunny day so off we set. I was also armed with what I thought was an address for my paternal great grandfather’s house from the 1891 and 1901 census records: 6 Heath Road. A quick pre-departure check on Google Earth showed me where Heath Road was and I fixed that in my mind as a destination.

A jam-free spin round a couple of junctions of the M25 soon saw us clambering off at Potters Bar. After a  swift right turn up the Great North Road, mother started recognizing places from back in the 1930s. “It’s all changed a lot”, she remarked. “I’m not surprised; they’ve had 80 years to change it, after all”. She soon had me turning right into her old street but seemed to be having trouble remembering her old house. An old sweet shop opposite no longer existed (as a shop) so some visual clues were missing. Round the corner, though, she immediately spotted the cottage in which my father had been born and raised. A bit more family history and a second trip down mother’s road jogged the 91-year-old memory cells and she found her old house. A happy customer.

Time to go and look for great granddaddy’s pad. I crossed the Great North Road, found Heath Road and started driving down it. “Ah, there were some cottages beside that pub”, remembered mother as we passed a hostelry. “But I just passed house number 76; we’re at the wrong end of the road”. Actually, the entire road seemed wrong; the houses were far too large to have been lived in by great granddaddy who was, apparently, a nursery gardener. We found a number 6 but it was relative mansion and far too modern. We decided that his old cottage had probably been flattened to build more lucrative executive-style housing. Poor mother thought her memory must have been failing her.

As I started heading homewards, we passed another hostelry where mother had apparently “drunk many a Guinness” in her youth. “Do you fancy another one for old times’ sake?”, I asked. Of course she did. It took the barman about 10 minutes finally to pull an acceptable half-pint (nearly empty barrel and dead Guinness in the pipes) but that gave me time to tell him that my mother used to drink here 70 years ago. He was a bit taken aback but not enough to offer her the drink on the house.

After our refreshment I wanted one last look up Heath Road for g. grandfather’s cottage. This time we drove the opposite way along the road. As we neared the hostelry again, beside it I spotted a narrow turning labelled “Heath Cottages”. The 1901 census sheet suddenly made sense: it was headed “Heath Road” and the first entry said “7” but, in parentheses was scribbled “Heath Cotts” which I had neither paid much attention to nor understood. Now it made sense. Sure enough, down this tiny side alley we found a row of delightful old cottages and number 6. I snapped a picture.

A lady approached from another of the cottages and said that she’d seen me with a camera and wondered if my family used to live here. She was apparently writing a history of the cottages and had a copy of the 1901 census form with my great grandfather’s entry. She knew little about him. Unfortunately, neither did we. My mother didn’t even know he was called Spencer Curd until I started rummaging through the family skeletons. Our new friend, Mabel, seemed keen to introduce us to the current inhabitants of number 6 who, she thought, were in. We were soon having a guided tour around a much-modified great grandfather’s cottage.

It seems there’s not a lot wrong with the 91-year-old memory cells after all.

The sun continued to shine this morning so, rather than waste a perfectly wonderful day in dusty records, Carol wanted to investigate Shaldon at the mouth of the river Teign, opposite Teignmouth, in fact. I now define genealogical addiction as wanting to investigate someone else’s family. In this case the family in question was that of the husband of a cousin. Still, it’s a harmless excuse to go somewhere.

Arriving in Shaldon and spotting lots of double yellow lines, we first opted for a car park and scraped together the £1.50 with our shopping trolley pound coin from the car. The pound coin looked a bit odd to me. It clearly felt a bit odd to the ticket machine, too, which promptly rejected it. No more change – foiled! We drove off and happened across some free one hour parking spots in town. Sometimes fake money can be an advantage.

There must be something about the Devon diet or air that makes birds particularly argumentative. Yesterday we watched a mute swan tirelessly hounding a pair of Canada geese on Stover Lake. Today, having parked the car, it was seagulls apparently locked in mortal combat. Seagulls are argumentative at the best of times but we’d never seen anything like this before. These two had each other fast by the beak and would not let go for anything. Locked together, they struggled along a stretch of pavement (that’s the pedestrian bit for the benefit of Amerispeakers), jumping, tugging, flapping, straying into the road (pavement, for Amerispeakers), stopping traffic – one car actually bumped one of the birds – and still they remained firmly attached. Blood appeared to have been drawn. The locals had not seen the like before, either; everyone stopped to watch. Whatever the argument was about (sex or food, I imagine) it lasted a full 10 minutes but eventually they parted and flew off, one still chasing the other.

We found a pub in which Carol thought her non-relative may have been born. The pub was called the Shipwright’s Arms. The pub sign was on the road. The pub wasn’t on the road. The pub was tucked down an alley in the direction of the river. The pub wasn’t actually on the river, either. The pub was, well, nowhere, really. The pub was also closed on Mondays. Go figure.

Leaving Shaldon, we came across another car park along the cliffs to the south. Furthermore, we found the required genuine 60p so we  parked, donned our boots and walked along the very hilly coastal path back towards Shaldon. Carol narrowly managed to avoid stepping on a very small, basking adder which squirmed off safely into deeper vegetation. Stumbling across our island’s only poisonous creature is always a thrill – and a reminder of why walking boots are more appropriate footwear than sandals.

At the end of our walk we found an open pub which, to my delight, was a Hall and Woodhouse house selling their wonderful Tanglefoot brew. I was less delighted when I was informed that they sold neither crisps (chips, for Amerispeakers) nor peanuts. “We do sell fries, though”. Ah ha, a sneaky ploy to make more money than you would from crisps and peanuts, I thought, cynically. “Fries”, I said, rather less cynically, “do you mean chips?”. Oh, I give up. The beer was great and so were the chips/fries and garlic mayonnaise.

We returned and I had a brief chat with Mr and Mrs D. Curd. We are distantly related, after all.

Having struggled to remember how to load a caravan after our winter lay-off, we set sail at 9:35 AM with Billy in tow to head for our first stop of the trip at Newton Abbott, Devon. This stop was planned around Carol’s desire to rummage around Exeter’s dusty archives on a genealogical quest.

Normally a north-easterly wind in England is unwelcome ‘cos it’s darn cold having come screaming off the steppes of Russia but, when driving south-west with a caravan in tow, it helps progress and so becomes something of a friend. A tail wind and clear blue sky was a great way to start.

We arrived at 2:00 PM to find reception closed until 3:30 PM. So, as instructed, we chose a pitch and, with the art of caravanning gradually returning, we set up. A pair of friendly mallards waddled up to us and joined us for lunch in the sun. While we washed down our moussaka and salad with a beer or three, the mallards seemed very grateful of some water to wash down their bread. They settled down and sat with us. Maybe we’ve been adopted. Cute.

After a convivial lunch shared with the local wildlife, I went to register and pay. “It’s a new computer system”, explained the jolly warden as the minutes ticked by. Clearly my brain was on holiday because I didn’t bat an eyelid when the jolly warden asked for £60.90. Only after entering my PIN number for the credit card transaction did my beer and sun dulled brain awake and realize that my reservation form quoted £30.45. We had booked for three nights. “Your new computer system seems to have doubled my charges”, I said. “You’re here for six nights aren’t you?, he asked. “No, just three”, I responded. Still unsure about the mismatch, the confused jolly warden now had to summon his jolly wife to refund my money and put through the correct charge. (He didn’t understand refunds.)

While all this was going on, a eureka moment occurred. Closer inspection of the day’s arrivals list revealed another Mr. Curd – A Mr. D. Curd. “You have to be kidding; I’ve never met another one”, I gasped. Sure enough, Mr D. Curd was booked in for six nights. My surprise turned to stunned amazement when a voice in the now rapidly extending queue announced that she was Freda Curd, wife of Mr D., also waiting to register and pay. I’d exchanged messages with a Freda Curd on Genes Reunited some months ago about our families. There couldn’t possibly be two Freda Curds and, sure enough, there weren’t. Both Mr D’s and my families hail from Buxted, Sussex. Without my data, I can’t quite remember where the common ancestor is but we are something like third or fourth cousins, maybe with a “removed” thrown in for good measure. What a bizarre coincidence.

We recovered our composure with a late afternoon walk around the adjacent wildlife-rich Stover Lake and watched an argumentative swan, who had clearly lost his composure, expend a great deal of energy repeatedly chasing a handsome pair of Canada geese. A Great Crested Grebe sat serenely on her nest while the neighbours were arguing.

Our wildlife theme continued as we finished the first stunning day with some barbecued pheasant, courtesy of some excellent Kingsford charcoal.

We came here for Carol’s genealogical connections and found mine. Weird!