For those of us with the urge to delve into the past, to find out what
our ancestors did and where they came from, there is often help close at
hand. We can begin on our home computers, or at the local library, to
search census records, births, marriages and deaths, etc. We ‘silver
surfers’ are also probably the first generation fortunate enough to
enjoy a retirement which will be long enough to indulge our ‘hobby’.
The problem is that by the time we feel the urge to search for our
roots, it is usually decades too late to ask questions of older family
members. Quite often, we were told family stories as children, but at
that age didn’t realise their significance. And for those of us with
siblings, it doesn’t always follow that we all heard the same stories –
siblings often have different versions of a shared childhood.
My father came from a large family, and his mother lived until I was in
my thirties with a family of my own, but there were no anecdotes passed
down; they were not a family of ‘talkers’, and I was able to gain only
the briefest glimpse of what life must have been like for him as a
child. But with regard to actual information, a cousin had begun
researching my paternal family tree long before it became ‘popular’, and
at the time of his death had produced a family tree that stretched back
centuries and had more branches than a forest.
With my mother’s family, it was different. She was born in Liverpool of
Spanish parents and because of the stories I had been told as a child, I
felt more emotionally involved. My curiosity was aroused, perversely,
because the difficulties in obtaining certificates and any other
‘concrete’ evidence of my Spanish heritage seemed insurmountable.
Where do you begin when all you know about your maternal grandparents
are their names and that they came from Galicia, possibly Santiago de
Compostela, in Northern Spain? Where do you begin when, at the age of
sixty, you find yourself with the urge to discover your grandmother’s
roots – the grandmother who died in Liverpool when you were ten years
old and who, to your knowledge, still didn’t speak English after fifty
years in this country?
I set off to Northern Spain on my first voyage of discovery in 2000,
with very little hope but a lot of enthusiasm. The full story of my
search is documented in my book Chasing Shadows, but what has been
important to me is not just the physical journeys – seven in the past 14
years – but the people I have met and the effect my research has had on
my life in retirement. Yes, it is wonderful to have a maternal family
tree going back to 1822, with the possibility of reaching even further
back as time and funds allow, but the memories involved in obtaining
each and every one of those birth, marriage and death certificates are
priceless.
Officials in Registro Civils and in Diocesan Arquivos have gone beyond
the call of duty as I’ve sat hour after hour in bright modern offices
housed in medieval buildings. I speak very little Spanish and many of
the people I met didn’t speak English, yet somehow we managed to
communicate. And my joy at unravelling yet another thread has often been
matched by the smile on the face of an official – the story of this
elderly lady from England trying to find her Spanish roots has somehow
touched their imagination.
Searching through BMD or census records on your computer, or scrolling
through microfiches in the family history section of a public library is
exciting, but it cannot be compared to the thrill of sitting in a room
in a foreign city, carefully turning the pages of a book containing
entries written hundreds of years ago. Even when not allowed to handle
the books oneself – as in the Registro Civil in Santiago de Compostela –
the air of tension in the room as my eyes followed the clerk’s finger
moving slowly down the page looking for my grandmother’s family name,
and the leap of excitement when I recognised the name of her sister, is
what turned my love of research into an obsession.
I find it amazing that on visits to the Registro Civil in subsequent
years, it was evident that the clerk remembered me. It amazes me that on
visiting a bar on our trip to Galicia this summer, the owner not only
remembered me and my husband but could recall every moment of the
morning 14 years before when he’d introduced us to a young girl, Nicola,
who was on holiday from London staying with the Spanish side of her
family. Then aged only 16, Nicola has become a much-loved friend. We
attended her wedding to Antonio in 2007 – it meant so much to me to be
able to attend a truly Spanish wedding – and also count her parents, who
live in London, as special friends. It is a joy to see Nicola and
Antonio’s beautiful four-year old daughter being brought up, as was
Nicola, bilingual and fully aware of her dual heritage; something that
was denied me.
Other people have been instrumental in making my research a
life-changing journey of discovery. Without the help of Father Joseph
Fleming, originally from Liverpool and when we met him, an archivist in
the Arquivo Histórico Diocesano in Santiago, my research would never
have got off the ground. It is our great personal regret that he died,
tragically young, before he could see the outcome of his help and
influence.
Other people have filled in gaps for me. Trawling through sites
connected with maritime history on the internet, I eventually met David
Eccles, the author of a book on the Larrinaga Shipping Line which
employed my grandfather. Through him, I met a family whose grandfather
had been a chauffeur to the Larrinagas and was able to peruse family
photograph albums. Kirsty Hooper, now Associate Professor of Hispanic
Studies at Warwick University, was in that same post at Liverpool
University when I attended one of her lectures a couple of years ago.
Kirsty is compiling a database of Galician and Basque immigrants to
Liverpool in the years 1850-1950 and I hope to speak at its launch in
Liverpool at the end of the year. Through Kirsty, I was introduced to
Xesús Fraga, journalist, writer and translator, who interviewed me for
his newspaper La Voz de Galicia last year. By another of those
coincidences I have experienced over the years, Xesús is from Betantoz,
the Galician city where my grandfather may have been born. I say ‘may
have’, as I have only the most slender of clues about his life at
present. We met Xesús in person on our last visit and his help in
introducing me to the director of the Museo das Mariñas which holds
census records, may be the tiny thread that leads me to unravelling the
mystery of my grandfather’s life prior to him arriving in Liverpool.
The city of Santiago de Compostela has become a very special part of my
life. Even when I return from a trip without a certificate or a piece of
definite information, I have soaked up the atmosphere, I have seen all
the houses where my grandmother lived – not possible in Liverpool since
they have all been demolished. I have sat in churches in Santiago where
family baptisms, first holy communions and weddings have taken place. I
have had lunch in a restaurant with the proof in my hand that my
great-great grandmother died in an upstairs room of the building over a
hundred years before. On this trip I walked through the cemetery where
my great-grandparents were buried and I now have an address where I may
be able to obtain the whereabouts of their actual graves.
Family history magazines are a great source of information for
genealogists at all stages of their research – I have just had an
article published in July’s edition of Your Family Tree – and, very
slowly, some information is now coming through on the internet if, like
me, your ancestors originated from another European country.
None of my research would have been possible without the support of my
husband. Each time we take a trip to Santiago it has been incorporated
into our annual holiday. We love staying with Nicola’s family while we
carry out three or four days’ research before moving on to tour other
parts of Spain. We have visited the length and breadth of Galicia; from
its historic cities of Coruña and Lugo to its golden, unspoilt beaches,
mountains and forests. We have holidayed further afield in Cantabria and
the Picos mountains; and the beautiful cities of Oviedo, Léon,
Salamanca and Cacerés – but Santiago de Compostela is still where my
heart lies!
So, family history, is it a hobby or an obsession? Writing about family
history research has become a very enjoyable hobby, and it still gives
me a thrill when someone buys my book. But as for the actual research –
the answer is definitely, an obsession!
As ever totally fascinating and informative.
ReplyDelete