Tomorrow used to be my favourite day of christmas. Since Dad was a teacher, he'd be on school holidays, once I was at work I'd take the day off too and we'd go around all my aunts delivering christmas presents. When my Grandma was still alive we'd go to hers, and then down through Monmouth to Grans to pick her up and bring her home for the holidays. Mum would have finished work when we got home and christmas would have properly begun.
I've written a lot in the last few months about my links to my Welsh heritage. This post though is in reference to my English roots. Or perhaps more accurately, my Forest of Dean roots. I say that because anyone who's ever been there will appreciate that it feels like a place of it's own. Nestled between the rivers Severn and Wye, it sits largely cut off from it's own country, and within shouting distance of it's neighbours in Wales. Foresters have their own nuances and peculiarities, particular customs and to all extents and purposes it's own language too - have you tried having a conversation with someone that's never left the hundred of St Briavels?! This funny little land is where my dad calls home. It's full of magic and intrigue, every tree seems to whisper tales of old into the air as you wonder through them, their myriad of roots covering over thousands of years of history and industry.
It was to this magical land that I sojourned a couple of weeks ago, in search of my family roots, to learn new tales, to relearn old stories, to walk new paths and re-tread old ones. I discovered a vastly improved Dean Heritage Centre, and found out whilst I was there that my grandad helped set it up in the initial stages. It's a great start for anyone new to the forest, to learn a bit about life in the forest in years gone by, through the stone age, iron ages and Romans to the industrial revolution and the great wars of the twentieth century.
The forest boasts the oldest continuously sitting court in the country, which sits at The Speech House near Coleford. Adjacent to the Speech House is the Cyril Hart Arboretum. It was set up in 1910 and now is home to a wide variety of tree species from around the world. It is the role of the verderer to ensure a continuous suitable supply of oaks for the royal navy. This responsibility also includes caring for the 'royal oaks' - the ancestry of which goes directly back to the first royal oak planted for Elizabeth I in the sixteenth century. The arboretum is one of those places where every corner you turn, or angle you put your head at, is a picture you want to memorise for ever. I spent countless hours walking the paths through the mixing pot of tree species with my sister, our grandad and Sam the dog as a child. Early morning walks were the preserve of just us; it was an unspoken rule that no matter who else was staying, it was the four of us out for a walk every morning before breakfast - rain, sun, wind or snow. Despite all the years that have gone by since the four of us were there together, it was just as it ever was, and hopefully as it always will be.
Cyril Hart was the verderer for many years, and a friend of my grandparents. He saw to it that an oak be planted in the arboretum in honour of my grandad to recognise the work and positive impact he had on the life of the foresters. Seventeen years on, the tree is looking very well.
In 1971 my grandad received an OBE for 'services to employment in community' - bringing industry to a deprived area. In the 1940's British Acoustic Films Ltd brought the brewery in Mitcheldean and sent 54 employees from London to work there. In 1948 my grandad came on board, and by the 1970's, as part of the Rank Xerox Corporation, the workforce totalled around 4,800. Sadly, following the economic climate coupled with the cheaper labour forces overseas, a lot of the factory site has recently been sold off. Before this occurred, one building was named after my grandad in his honour. Thankfully the new owners of the site have kept this link to its history, and for the first time, I got to see where my grandad worked, and his name above a door. My grandad died when I was twelve, and one of my biggest regrets is never being able to sit down with him and ask him about his life. Luckily though my dad has told me much, and continues to do so. This was the first time for me that it really felt 'real' though. Standing in the old brewery site, looking up at 'Wickstead Building' above the archway I got a real sense of him as a business man, looking up at his office window, and walking the steps he would have walked. As the tears rolled down my cheeks (once again!), my mum asked why I was crying. I was crying from frustration of what I missed out on, for the loss the community would have felt when the factory sold off vast chunks, but mostly I was crying from pride.
My trip continued along the golden mile, and from there, took me to Ruspidge where my family lived, and then finally on to Cinderford.
I hadn't realised how much I missed this little magical world, how much every new or revisited view made my eyes open wider and made my lungs breath deeper, as if trying to suck the soul of the forest into my very own sense of being. I will be back soon.
It was to this magical land that I sojourned a couple of weeks ago, in search of my family roots, to learn new tales, to relearn old stories, to walk new paths and re-tread old ones. I discovered a vastly improved Dean Heritage Centre, and found out whilst I was there that my grandad helped set it up in the initial stages. It's a great start for anyone new to the forest, to learn a bit about life in the forest in years gone by, through the stone age, iron ages and Romans to the industrial revolution and the great wars of the twentieth century.
The forest boasts the oldest continuously sitting court in the country, which sits at The Speech House near Coleford. Adjacent to the Speech House is the Cyril Hart Arboretum. It was set up in 1910 and now is home to a wide variety of tree species from around the world. It is the role of the verderer to ensure a continuous suitable supply of oaks for the royal navy. This responsibility also includes caring for the 'royal oaks' - the ancestry of which goes directly back to the first royal oak planted for Elizabeth I in the sixteenth century. The arboretum is one of those places where every corner you turn, or angle you put your head at, is a picture you want to memorise for ever. I spent countless hours walking the paths through the mixing pot of tree species with my sister, our grandad and Sam the dog as a child. Early morning walks were the preserve of just us; it was an unspoken rule that no matter who else was staying, it was the four of us out for a walk every morning before breakfast - rain, sun, wind or snow. Despite all the years that have gone by since the four of us were there together, it was just as it ever was, and hopefully as it always will be.
Cyril Hart was the verderer for many years, and a friend of my grandparents. He saw to it that an oak be planted in the arboretum in honour of my grandad to recognise the work and positive impact he had on the life of the foresters. Seventeen years on, the tree is looking very well.
In 1971 my grandad received an OBE for 'services to employment in community' - bringing industry to a deprived area. In the 1940's British Acoustic Films Ltd brought the brewery in Mitcheldean and sent 54 employees from London to work there. In 1948 my grandad came on board, and by the 1970's, as part of the Rank Xerox Corporation, the workforce totalled around 4,800. Sadly, following the economic climate coupled with the cheaper labour forces overseas, a lot of the factory site has recently been sold off. Before this occurred, one building was named after my grandad in his honour. Thankfully the new owners of the site have kept this link to its history, and for the first time, I got to see where my grandad worked, and his name above a door. My grandad died when I was twelve, and one of my biggest regrets is never being able to sit down with him and ask him about his life. Luckily though my dad has told me much, and continues to do so. This was the first time for me that it really felt 'real' though. Standing in the old brewery site, looking up at 'Wickstead Building' above the archway I got a real sense of him as a business man, looking up at his office window, and walking the steps he would have walked. As the tears rolled down my cheeks (once again!), my mum asked why I was crying. I was crying from frustration of what I missed out on, for the loss the community would have felt when the factory sold off vast chunks, but mostly I was crying from pride.
My trip continued along the golden mile, and from there, took me to Ruspidge where my family lived, and then finally on to Cinderford.
I hadn't realised how much I missed this little magical world, how much every new or revisited view made my eyes open wider and made my lungs breath deeper, as if trying to suck the soul of the forest into my very own sense of being. I will be back soon.
Growing up in England as the daughter of a proud Welsh woman (I say that like it's unusual, but I'm not sure I've ever met a Welsh person who isn't proud of their country) I loved and supported Wales before I understood what a rugby match even was. It is questionable as to whether I have actually fathomed the technicalities of a rugby match twenty years later, despite my incessant questions to my parents during and after matches as to why various rulings were made or actions were taken!
I digress.
In amongst my childhood memories of my family members retelling stories of pirates and dragons, kings and queens, giants and imps, are those of my beloved grandad and my mum regaling stories of Wales as a force to be reckoned with on the rugby pitch: revered, feared, admired and unbeatable. As a child in the eighties and nineties, the Wales rugby team I grew up with were mediocre, struggling to live up to the footsteps of the good and the great, trying to show the world they were still up there with the elite of the rugby world.
The last six weeks have been dream like. I have been able to see the grace, spirit and beauty I felt in the tales of my childhood. Hearing comments from pundits, players and coaches from around the world suggesting time and again that Wales were likely to win the competition made my heart swell. I finally understood what my mum and grandad had been talking about all those years ago. The team played with style and passion, whilst also being intelligent and measured. They played for every second of every minute of every match, even scoring a converted try in the dying moments of their final match. Due to some errors in kicking, and an horrifically bad call by Alain Rolland, the Webb Ellis Cup is held in the hands and hearts of the New Zealand squad.
For me though, I've got something more precious. I've finally gotten to experience those stories for myself, and in spite of the fact that my grandad has been gone 13 years now, I feel closer to him, I feel like I have a better understanding of his heart and his soul.
I digress.
In amongst my childhood memories of my family members retelling stories of pirates and dragons, kings and queens, giants and imps, are those of my beloved grandad and my mum regaling stories of Wales as a force to be reckoned with on the rugby pitch: revered, feared, admired and unbeatable. As a child in the eighties and nineties, the Wales rugby team I grew up with were mediocre, struggling to live up to the footsteps of the good and the great, trying to show the world they were still up there with the elite of the rugby world.
The last six weeks have been dream like. I have been able to see the grace, spirit and beauty I felt in the tales of my childhood. Hearing comments from pundits, players and coaches from around the world suggesting time and again that Wales were likely to win the competition made my heart swell. I finally understood what my mum and grandad had been talking about all those years ago. The team played with style and passion, whilst also being intelligent and measured. They played for every second of every minute of every match, even scoring a converted try in the dying moments of their final match. Due to some errors in kicking, and an horrifically bad call by Alain Rolland, the Webb Ellis Cup is held in the hands and hearts of the New Zealand squad.
For me though, I've got something more precious. I've finally gotten to experience those stories for myself, and in spite of the fact that my grandad has been gone 13 years now, I feel closer to him, I feel like I have a better understanding of his heart and his soul.
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