Waiting for a name – or not!

Did you read my last blog? It was called Waiting for a name – A little bit of background information about my life as an adoptee. The pitfalls of having a little information, and hoping that the next piece of information I would get would put a little more of the jigsaw puzzle together.

I’ve recently asked Social Services for a fuller copy of my adoption file. Well – I’ve had a zoom with a great social worker called John, who said that my file was now ready to hand over to me. He asked all sorts of questions. What did I know about my history, how far had I gone with my search for answers? How supported was I in my life, what family did I have etc etc etc. He was surprised how much I knew. That I had done my DNA test, found 2nd cousins in America, established I was 50% Welsh, and 50% European, that included a smattering of Ashkenazi Jewish. Heinz 57 really. I told him honesty I was hoping there would be a name in the file. He said there was!

What I was waiting for was a bit more of a clue about what happened in 1959 with Elizabeth my birth mother and this mystery man she had met while working in Germany.

Well the file tells it all. There was an offer of marriage when he found out she was pregnant. She came home to Wales to have me, she didn’t want to keep me. Wasn’t financially stable, elderly parents to consider. She was planning on going back to Germany after my birth. He didn’t know I had been born. Sorry – it didn’t add up. but that’s her story.

I had done a lot of research around the 2nd cousins. Researched algorithms that would help establish where the birth father fitted within the family I could see I had connections in. I was hopefully my file would help me…..

There was a name. John told me not to be too hopeful. But I was – wouldn’t you have been?

The name in the file of the putative father was John Cross. Nothing like the family I thought I belonged in. I couldn’t see where it fitted in.

I think she made it up! The first name she could think of and her emotion at the time of finding her life would never been the same again!

John Cross!

Waiting for a name

Since I started this journey way back in 1979 I have been waiting for a name. Not just any old name, but the name of my birth father.

Actually let’s start again. 

When you’re adopted you have a few names that are circulating around that you would like to know. The name of your birth mother, the name of your birthfather, and the name you were given when you were born.

I found out two of these three from my adopted mam. Oh I hate calling her that! She was the mam who brought me up, changed my nappies, and fed me when I was a baby. Looked after me through the many bouts of illness I had growing up. The tonsillitis that kept me off schools for weeks on end, and the childhood illnesses that lots of us had in the 1960 -scarlet fever, chicken pox to name but a few.  SHE was my mam.

And of course when I talk about my mam to my friends they know who I’m referring to. But to those who are with me on my name finding journey, I have to clarify who I’m talking about.

When I was a baby she and my daddy told me how special I was, that I had been chosen from a room full of other babies, and taken home with them. They were told as parent to go home with their new baby, and make a life together. Which they did.

What she didn’t tell me was that in fact in February 1961 when she and my dad went to court to officially adopt me, the clerk of the court handed her the wrong birth certificate!! She was given my original birth certificate, with the name given to me at birth, and the name and address of my birth mother. She kept this information in her heart until I was 19, and told me the information!

I was called Jocelyn Harris at birth, and my mother was called Elizabeth Harris. Wow!

With the blessing of my mam – I tried to make contact myself. I wrote to Elizabeth – a very ambiguous letter along the lines of ‘you may know me I was born in 1960, and wondering if you would be interested in making contact’. I got a firm letter back saying – thank you but no thank you! It broke my heart. It wasn’t to be, and as I learned later on, I realised why.

Life moved on. I married, divorced, married again and had 2 children. This cycle of life together with the loss of both my parents spurred me along to make contact again. But first I wanted to find my birth records, for a bit more history.

I used the information my mam had given me when I was 19 to obtain my birth records, in the hope I could establish some sort of relationship with my birth mother. I had to go through social services to get this information, and I did this with the help of my social worker Mimi. She was amazing. She wrote to social Services in South Wales, who send me a one page, 5 line letter back! Who my birth mother was (of course I knew this anyway) her date of birth. Also the scant information of where she was when I was conceived, and the type of ambiguous information about the man who impregnated her! Didn’t give any other clues.  

Mimi suggested we try and make contact and she set about searching for her. Luckily Elizabeth lived in the same home she had lived in with her family since birth, so was easy to make contact. I got a call one day to say she had contacted Elizabeth – who would talk to me. I went into her office in a big soulless social services building, and she put a call though.

I don’t remember what I said, probably how good it was to be able to speak to her, and where I was in my life. She lived alone with her cat, both parents and her only sister had died. We established that I could call her again.  Which I did, a few times. Funny though there wasn’t such a magical connection that I though and hoped there would be. It was difficult and strained. I had no idea of her personal circumstances, so didn’t know how supported she was with me calling here.

I had a group of other adoptees who met regularly. The group had been set up by Mimi and a colleague as part of the counselling given to adoptees to be able to gain their birth records. It worked so well. And oddly enough on the day I walked into the first meeting, who should be sitting there but a friend of mine – Vikki. We looked at one another and both said ‘I didn’t know you were adopted’ we burst out laughing and hugged. It made being in the group so much easier. Although the group jelled as a whole, 3 of us have stayed in contact. Vikki and I and another friend Bev. All with different stories, all a great support.

I digress. But gives the picture of how I felt supported on my journey. Unlike Elizabeth. She told me she was disabled and lived alone. Only her mother knew about me, and I’ve realised that her sister was still alive when I contacted her in 1979, perhaps that’s why she wasn’t able to form a relationship with me when I first contacted her.

I made an arrangement to visit Elizabeth in her home. I travelled to south Wales with my husband and two young boys. The youngest still a bottle fed babe in arms.

The instructions were to call at an address across from her house. The lady who was her carer would make an arrangement and let me in.  

I finally go to meet with my birth mother Elizabeth. For me a momentous occasion. She told me a little about her life, where she worked when she met my father. But then the curtains came down. She refused to say anymore. She had a cat who entertained us for a while, my hubby arrived back with my two sons, her grandchildren. We stayed for a short period, but left soon after.  I met her once more, and we kept in touch via scant telephone calls. It’s difficult to make a connection with someone you have nothing in common with, who doesn’t leave the house, and has no visitors. I was also a busy mum, I worked full time too. Am I making an excuse for not making more effort? I don’t think so, we contacted one another as much as we wanted to, or were able to.

I sent her a birthday card in February 1997, only for it to be returned to say she had passed away.

I did a DNA test to try and get more info about my birth father. I have no hope he is still alive, he would be in his 90’s now. But this is the name I’m searching for now. I’ve found 2^nd cousins in the USA, but they have no idea where I fit in their family. It’s a complex history I think. As she was in Germany during the Cold war, he could be German, American – who knows.

I went back to social services and asked if there was more information in my birth file not just this 5 line synopsis of the start of my life. It’s been 5 long months of wait. Finally I’m going to have the file handed to me.

I’ve been told there is a name in the file, but not to place too much hope on it. I’ve come this far I’m not backing out now!

The internal monologue

I already know what I’m going to write before I start typing, my internal monologue is a few seconds quicker than my thought process, and has already had the discussion before my fingers hit the keyboard.

It’s annoying when you want to sit there in silence, only for your other voice to say – look at that fly, what’s for dinner, have you done the washing yet…..it goes on and on and on!

Not everyone has one. But if you are brave enough to step out of your comfort zone, and ask others if they have one, you will be surprised at how many have!

I had some wellbeing support a few years ago, where they talked of the inner critic. Sitting in a group of other people, I never really understood what they were referring to, until I took a step back and thought about those never ending thoughts in my head. Often critical, self-examining and often so very unhelpful! And I have to say – on the odd occasion, quite dark. Of course- they were my inner critic, my inner demon! I like to think there is a balance though. The resilience that I have built up over the years, acting as the words of wisdom. Telling me not to be so stupid, and things will work out, the cake will bake ok or you won’t be late for something.  

I often post links to information from Wikipedia. This particular link is really useful, in as much as it talks about  Negative and Positive self-talk. I’d never thought of it that way. I don’t think it’s been a negative experience to realise this was happening.

But I also don’t think you can ever stop those voices can you? Or do you want to? Sometimes they are soothing, and remind you of the good times, and the success you have had. They help you to think of a way forward, to formulate a plan, to give you courage to step out of your comfort zone and put into words things that have been locked in your heart for a long time.  

Sometimes they just keep saying ‘are we there yet’ like an annoying child on a long journey. We just have to say – not yet, but thank you for your company!

Not-so-sunny Bank Holiday

What to do on a not-so-sunny Bank Holiday?

A little bit of gardening I think, lots of weeding to do, all those little weeds that hide in the cracks of the walls, and bricks. Probably cut the grass – hubby will do that, I’ll just help move all the benches around so he can cut under them.

I’ve got a few planters around, that are looking pretty sorry for themselves, need to re fill them with fresh soil and some new plants. Probably Geraniums and Carnations. They are so easy to look after- nothing to do but water them!

I have a beautiful bird feeder that I attach to the patio door. The bravest of brave come and feed from it! Others sit under and wait for the seed to fall to the floor, and they scoop up the seeds, and fly off into the hedge at the back of the garden. I have hidden a coconut fat feeder in the same hedge, and the blue tits who aren’t so brave sit and feed upside-down on the enriched fat with meal worms in. I have a table top bird feeder too, and I put bread and more bird food on the top.

Its a simple garden but its filled with wild life. Squirrels that have made their home in and around the gardens visit to eat the fruit I leave out, apple cores and 1/2 eaten fruit left behind by the grandchildren. Bread- white, wholemeal, granary, artisan – you name it – the pigeons and magpies are there. Picking it up and shaking it from side to side, and watch in confusion as it flies off in all directions. Now this is where all the little sparrows and robins come in handy, they pick up the crumbs off the grass. Its their bite size pieces that they can manage.

Its a great place to sit and watch them all. They aren’t so brave when you sitting in the garden – but I suppose that’s to be expected isn’t it?

We have had a family of robins in the garden for 3 or 4 years now. I think there are three nests the male has, two in our garden – and one next door. You see him flying between then and back to the table or the feeder. He sits on the garden chairs waiting for me to put the food out, and then starts his little routine, bobbing through the hedge and making his way across the grass, gliding to the bottom of the table then up to the feeder, and back into the hedge again. This is the best picture I could get before they flew away.

In the spring we also have a nest of tiny black bees that have taken up residence behind a bricked up chimney. They have made use of the fact there are gaps in the filling, and over the years have made their little perfectly round entrances that they fly in and out of. We aren’t worried about them, they are not harming anyone. They avoid us, as much as we avoid them. Its nice to watch them flying in, legs full of pollen, landing on the tiny ledge, and going into the chimney.

Doesn’t look like there is going to be much of anything else going on, just a bit of bird watching today then?

The Wordsmith

 

The Wordsmith is a solitary bird

Imagination jumping from rock to boulder

Sadness to sunshine

Reflecting and refracting.

A colourful imagination

And maybe a darker soul.

A quick wit with a slow burn.

Seeing things other see

But in a different language.

 

How many of us hide a Wordsmith in our heart?

 

Thinking, writing, re-writing

Paper, scraps or brightly coloured pages.

And pens or stubbly pencils

Or a simple keyboard.

The end is nigh and peace comes.

The jumbled thoughts march,

March in lines across the page.

Uniform only in colour, no rhythm

No rhyme, or regimented and lilting.

 

Written in private, written for reading

Written for The Wordsmith, or the extended Family.

Does it matter?

It takes two!

The humble Wordsmith and the reader

Read with passion and tears and laughter.

The reader putting soul into the bones of the words.

 

Enjoy – go forth and share,

Or keep privately in your heart and your head

And in your note book with flowers on the pages.

 

 

And….she’s back in the room.

I was signed off sick for a few weeks at the end of last year. Work related stress. The NHS Trust I work for is a Mental Health Trust, and they run courses and classes through their Recovery College. I took advantage of signing up to a Mindfulness course of 6 weeks. We meet in a beautiful building opposite a park – that’s sets the scene for the 2 ½ hours, calm and serenity.

I have to say that on my first session, I felt a little bit of a fraud. The rest of the group had their own story to tell, but I knew they had been on medication, had troubled histories and issues that were still current and plaguing them. I had had a crisis which had taken me away from work for a short period of time – I didn’t feel my problems warranted such support. How wrong could I have been?

Each week we were given the opportunity to try different mindfulness techniques. From simple 3 minute breathing exercises to more intense 30 minute full body scans. Each time for me it became easier to appreciate the opportunity to relax and go to a different place in my head!

And just because I’ve done this 6 weeks of Mindfulness I’m not professing to be an expert. But this is what I’ve taken away from this very useful course.

Be kind to yourself

It is ok not to be ok, but don’t beat yourself up if you’re not.  You wouldn’t be mean to a friend who needed help – why be mean to yourself! We put so much energy into helping others – often we forget that we need to invest time in ourselves in the first place to be able to offer that help to others.

Habits can be quickly formed, but with training can be un-learned. We were told that the technical term is ‘Neural pathways’. Something goes wrong, you get into the spiral of self-doubt and anxiety and ruminating over it. By using this knowledge and skills – we could lean to accept this may happen again and avoid this spiralling pathway by taking back control. For me I think this is task I need to get better at. It should probably start by not saying ‘sorry’ each time something isn’t quite right!

We all have an ‘inner critic’.

It’s how we respond to it that sets the scene going forward. We don’t have to listen to them, you wouldn’t listen to a bad TV programme would you? You would use your skills to turn it off and watch something else. Perhaps over time, you realise this inner critical voice may in fact be someone who has criticises you in the past. Allow yourself the knowledge that everyone makes mistakes and can be wrong. But give yourself the opportunity to accept this and learn from it. I know who my inner critic is – someone in my past – who made me afraid and criticised me for lots of little things. He is still there, and is probably the one who I’m always saying sorry to.

 

Be in the moment – it’s not a bad place to be.

They said children are great at this, they don’t think of yesterday or last week or last year, or tomorrow or next week. They don’t worry over what’s gone before and if they could have done things differently. We are never going to change what happened in our past, but we all have the opportunity to learn from those events, and either do them differently next time, or try and avoid them. The meditation techniques they teach you give you the skills to bring yourself back to the present time. They encourage you to think about your breathing, your body, different sounds and sensation. It’s difficult to think of too many other things while you’re doing this – but my mind has a tendency to wander – and believe me it did – but I brought it back and tried again. My mind is normally all over the place, I’m thinking of lots of things – and you are given the permission to do this – but these are the skills and techniques to stop you from engaging in those thoughts and taking you off down that spiralling path.

Breathing is really important!

Deep regular breathing from your belly allows you to get into a natural rhythm. It helps you to concentrate and centre yourself. If you’re concentrating on this way of breathing it is calming and fills you with oxygen. Combine this with the rhythmic voice of the tutor, or a mindfulness CD it gives you the opportunity to relax, and find some peace from the constant chatter going on!

We have all forgotten how to live in the moment. Well – we like to think we do. We engage with people over social media, on the phone, in the shops and in the work place. But do we ever give ourselves the opportunity to look at our surroundings, the beautiful scenery and nature? Not often, we are too busy rushing from one place to another. We buy ourselves sweet smelling shower gels and toiletries, but are often too busy with our own thoughts to appreciate them. We were encouraged to take some time to carry out daily tasks mindfully. Showering, cleaning out teeth, cleaning, cooking and baking. Concentrating on the task, using all our senses. Every little helps, doesn’t it?

I need to change those bad habits I have and using this process it will be so much easier and 2^nd nature.

At the end of the course, I mentioned to one of the others on the group that I had felt a little bit out of place at the start. She said something that I will take with me, that everyone’s problems are their own, and should be equally valued as such. Everyone deserves to be offered as much help and support as anyone else.

I learned something equally as important over these 6 weeks too. Things I do, jumping from one thing to another, following those thoughts in my head can be so annoying to others! I often have 3 conversations going around and need to say them all. But for those who are not party to my minds way of working- it can be pretty confusing! So now I park the two seemingly lest important things, and just concentrate on the most important. And I have to say it helps.

 

Image by John Hain from Pixabay

Is it twilight or night time?

That time of night when the bedroom is dark, but just light enough for you to get out of bed without banging your foot on the bed side table, or falling over the random pair of shoes you have left under the radiator.

Enough light for you to head down the stairs to the peace of the kitchen to make a sneaky cup of tea and toast.

What are you doing!!!!! It 4am.

It shouldn’t be any time to be creeping around the house. It should be the time you are snuggled up in bed – asleep. Not tonight though. You wake up for some unknown reason, and that’s it…..

If you were an author and writing a book about those romantic twilight hours when the world is asleep, but animals and young lovers are bright eyed and busy tailed, it would sound plausible. But I’m not an author. I’m not writing a book about the misty twilight hours. I’m writing about the night time- yes lets address this as it is. The middle of the night when the rest of the northern hemisphere should be asleep – and you are awake!

Shall we start this again?

That time of night when the bedroom is dark, and cold. The light from outside fights its way through the blinds, and as you turn around in bed for the 10^th time at 3.30am it shines right in your eyes! Your husband’s phone has pinged a few times, and when you unplug your phone from the charger a WhatsApp message comes up and lights up the whole room. It’s from your son telling you he has landed in some far off place at 2.30! No wonder you are awake – it’s like Piccadilly Circus.

That’s its then. The ‘thought worm’ enters your head – well to be honest he is actually always there, but he loves the twilight hours! There is absolutely no chance of any sleep now.

Good Morning!

Exile from social media….what have I missed?

Its been 11 days since I decided that I would take myself away from social media. I’d read this blog and it has inspired me.

Unplugging and Reinventing

So I signed off from Facebook, my Instagram and Twitter account went cold.  I realised that these things were taking over my life. As soon as I woke up, before I had even put my feet out of bed, I was on my phone scrolling through ‘social media life’ and what had happened while I had been asleep. Every spare minute I was catching up with the life of others, where they had been, what they had eaten, what they were wearing, and who was celebrating a birthday or a friendship!  All the time neglecting my own life. Neglecting my blog and the other more important things – like talking to my long suffering husband. Cuddling my grand children.

At first it felt weird. I kept thinking ‘what is so and so doing?’ and then gradually as the time has gone on that feeling of missing out has diminished. Of course I still get the notifications when I log onto my computer, but I don’t follow the link back into the twisted world of Facebook. It was todays notification that prompted me to write this blog.  Apparently I have 90 notification and I had been tagged in 5 pictures. I know it doesn’t sound very much to some people, who get hundreds and hundreds a day, but its quite a lot for me.

Do you know what I miss the most? Seeing the pictures of my grandchildren that are posted by my daughter in law! I also missed two events that friends had arranged I had forgotten to put on my calendar. There is an awful lot I don’t miss. The sometimes boring lives of others who endlessly post about their pets, the weather, who has parked over their drive, cakes, and what their favourite celebrity is doing. And I’m sure there is a lot that others miss about me…or not!

I have about 4 weeks left of my exile. I know it will teach me something. Remove things that don’t enrich my life. Don’t bother to follow pages that are a fad, or if I do as soon as I fall out of love with those pages – un-follow them. Simple.

Social media in one form or another has a place in anyone’s life, but not as a replacement for real life and communication.

See you on the other side.

 

 

 

Knock knock, who’s there?

They turned up at the group, the usual suspects. They stood outside the meeting place, hands in pockets, shuffling around, looking shiftily at one another, nodding as a new person joined the troupe.

‘Cold tonight’ one said – the breath blowing out of their mouth like smoke from a steam train.

Of course it was cold, it was December, and it was Surbiton!

The boss turned up, keys in hand, fingerless gloves, and scarf covering half their face. They weren’t sure who it was letting them in, they were confident it was the boss. They nodded in acknowledgment.

‘Cold tonight’ the boss said – obviously, it was December and it was Surbiton.

The room was cold, but they had made a determined effort to meet for the last time. Well, the last time before Christmas that was. The blinds were closed, it afforded them some privacy. The door shut behind the last member.  Click.

They sat on the hard chairs made of ice, ice coloured metal, frosty blue, slate grey, snow white. She wasn’t there- but had left her chair behind on her last visit! They shuffled about, making themselves comfortable, they would be shuffling for a long time!

Knock. Knock. Knock.

They looked around the table at one another, shrugged, and carried on.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Must be the heating – they said.

What heating – it was freezing, it was December and it was Surbiton!

Knock. Knock. Knock.

They decided to investigate – pushing their chairs back, they moved en-mass towards the cellar door, seemingly where the noise was coming from.

Left right, left right they moved down the stairs as one, into the dark cold room.

Of course it was cold, it was December and it was Surbiton!

‘I’ve got a torch’ one of them said, and dragged the huge bunch of jailers’ keys from her bag. A tiny little key fob torch lit the far wall.

Knock. Knock. Knock!  Insistent.

Panning the white back wall, the pin point of light shining at…nothing….except a huge safe. Green like a sullen giant in the corner. Its big bulk casting shadows over the cold slate floor.

Of course it was cold, there was no heat, they were in the cellar, it was December and it was Surbiton!

The safe door was open, slowly creaking back and fore on its hinges, a crumpled piece of paper lay in front of the swinging door, on the floor. The boss walked over and picked it up, smoothing it out with the fingerless finger gloved hands! It read simply –

Don’t forget Monday 5^th December.

They looked at one another.

That was today. They realised the knocking at stopped. They looked at one another again, a look of confusion and fear on their faces. What was going to happen today? Where was the knocking coming from! They turned and moved quickly to the stairs, at the same time as they heard a crash from the room upstairs.

The cellar suddenly became colder, if that was possible. After all it was December and they were in Surbiton!

As quickly as their quaking legs would move, they left right, left righted up the stairs, and into the bright light of the main room. They looked at one other, and looked around. The lady with the light pointed to the table. ‘Look’ her voice quavering. There – in the middle was a tin. A gaudy Christmas tin. They looked at one another again, a look of horror on their faces.

Questions they wanted to ask. What was the strange knocking? Where had the mysterious tin appeared from? What was in it?

Why it was so cold all of a sudden, was it just because it was December and it was Surbiton? Would they ever know!

Walking down the street, wrapped in a long coat of red velvet was a whitehaired man, his wispy beard waving in the cold wind. It was December and it was Surbiton. He scratched his head in confusion, as he made his way to the local hostelry looking for some comfort and a warm drink of something.

‘Funny’ he said, I’m sure they would have been there tonight. I wonder where they have gone.

Gone for a walk probably, although its cold, its December and we are in Surbiton!

Oh well, someone will eat the mince pies I’m sure.

 

My history and I

Our holiday this year has been arranged around two old postcards that were written by my grandmother Elizabeth Williams in 1954 to my mother. She was born in 1887, in a small village in the middle of Carmarthen called Trefeurig. It was a rural area, not many houses, lots of miners lived and worked in the area. Her father Richard Williams who was born in 1860 was one of those miners, he died at a relatively young age of 30 in 1890. At the time her mother had a young baby of 9 months (called Richard), two young sons of 4years old (Luther)  and a 2 year old (Thomas) and her daughter Elizabeth  – my grandmother.

Richard’s parents were Thomas and Margaret Williams. Thomas was born in about 1813. He married Margaret Williams, who was about 3 years younger than he was, and in total had 5 children. 4 sons, and 1 daughter. This is where our history becomes very confusing. The children were called Elizabeth (19), John (16) Thomas (8) Methusalem (8) and finally Richard the youngest at 1 year old – my great grandfather- Elizabeth’s father. Names were handed down in families hence the same names appearing in two generations of family.

Generally around that time children came along on a very regular basis due to the lack of birth control, normally one a year. So it is probably likely there were some still births in this and many other families, who have not be registered on the census records of 1861 that these details have come from.

The post cards I have kept for many years were written to my mum and dad in 1954. They are of two places that my grandmother had visited on her trip to west wales. It doesn’t say where she was staying, but as this place is so very near to the place her family originated from, it was highly likely that she was staying with some family.

She tells her daughter and her son-in law (my mam and dad) about the places she has visited.

‘having a lovely time out each afternoon, pity dad bach isn’t with me. I have all the places on a paper. went to Aberystwyth yesterday 10in the morning. Called at ^^^^^^ bungalow 9 of them there, very nice. a scorching afternoon after the rain, and returned Newquay we intend going to Tenby tomorrow. St Dogmails is a lovely place you get town and country here. Sat will soon be  here now hope you are both feeling good.Let us know what time to expect you home on sat. hope you have good digs I will not write again now. Kindest regards from Elfyn and Mena. fondest love mam xx and in the margin .our church marked with a spot (dogmael) ‘

I have had these postcards in my possession since my grandmother died in 1978 when she was about 92. I’ve never taken that much notice of what they were, they were just two sepia  postcards, that she had written. 4 years ago I started researching my family tree, and they became a big part of the jigsaw. She said that she was with Elfyn (her son) and his wife Mena. I had found that they lived near to his place. And in fact Elfyn had died the year I was born in 1960, in this area. On the card she makes reference to dad bach, her husband, or in those days the husband was known as dad. He had died just before this card was written.

So why am I telling you all this? Well – we decided that our holiday would be a great opportunity to visit this village where the post cards were from. We researched a local hotel, booked the break, and this story is built around the postcards.

The Cliff Hotel overlooks Poppit Sands in Cardigan. The Teify Estuary leads out to the Irish sea, Poppit Sands is on one side, and the Cliff Hotel is on the other side There is a coast guard station there, a café that does the most amazing Bara Bryth. a selection of Holiday homes, and a YHA (Youth Hostel Association) place to stay. We drove round the estuary, and parked the car in the little car park. We had a coffee in the café, and then walked onto the beach. The wide expanse of golden sand, peppered with little flecks of black and tiny pebbles and discarded cockle shells. Although it was a damp day, it certainly didn’t deter the dog walkers, dogs don’t mind the rain or the wet as they jumped in and out of the waves.

My heart soared, as I thought that this was a beach that my grandmother  (or nain as she was known to her grand children) had walked on. Of course I’d been to many places with her as I grew up with her  and she lived with us until she passed away when I was 18. I could imagine her with her son, and daughter in law travelling around in a little car, looking at the same view I was looking at. Maybe sitting in the same sea side café, and if I know my nain, eating the same cake I was eating, she had  a sweet tooth! Probably where I get it from. Of course I’d been to many places with her, she had lived with our family from when I was 8 so I grew up with her until she passed away when I was 18.

I’d like to think that she went there to gain some comfort from family, having recently been widowed. And although back in the mining communities of the early part of the last century, you appreciate that death was a part of their lives – mining accidents, and child mortality being a more regular occurrence than today – I don’t think they were so hardened to it that they were void of sadness and distress.

We then went to St Dogmaels. A quaint village perched on the mountain side. Winding streets with little houses brightly coloured cling to the mountain, and tumbled down the hill. The 60 year old picture on the post card looked nothing like the village of today, and it was difficult to find out anything that appeared on the card, so we went to the ruins of the Abbey with a little heritage centre that has a lovely café inside.

I kept this post card in my hand trying to find any reference to anything we had seen. Then when I looked for the umpteenth time, it was like a light bulb moment. There on the post card in the middle were the ruins. I had never seen them like this before – I thought they were houses. It all fell into place, and although the village on the card didn’t look like the village in 2016, the trees were more overgrown, and there of course were newer properties in the sight line I could see the village of 1955.

What an amazing day, I look some pictures of the houses in the village, as a reminder of our trip. We walked through the car park to the banks of the estuary, we saw a heron trying to catch some lunch for himself, a young man getting ready for the St Dogmaels market which is held on a Tuesday, where sellers and buyers travel from near and far.

I will go back, and visit this magical and historical place again.