You Never Know Who You Might Turn Out to Be
WHO do you think you are? asks the popular television show, but you
don’t have to be a celebrity to unearth a fascinating family story of
your own. Ten or so years spent investigating my family’s past have
thrown up a few surprises about our origins. Like the fact that my
great-great-great grandmother, Mary Hargreaves, was born in Dublin. And
while this doesn’t mean I’ll be celebrating next St Patrick’s Day, it is
remarkable how much this kind of information changes the way you view
yourself. As it turns out my once decidedly Derbyshire DNA has pieces
from all over Britain. I still feel like a Derby girl, but I can no
longer deny associations with other counties and even countries. I’ve
also learned how foolish the idea of social “class” is. On the face
of it, my family is of sturdy “working-class” stock. We have
blacksmiths, agricultural labourers and elastic weavers to prove it. But
there’s also the occasional rich and aristocratic family member like
Sir Richard Whieldon Barnett of Hales Hall, who is my fourth cousin. All
very exciting; he was a competitor at the 1908 Olympics, a chess
champion, an MP, but somehow just not as much fun as my
great-great-great-great grandparents, Richard and Mary Wilkes, who
worked as village rat catchers well into their dotage. And I can’t help
thinking, if I were living in a vermin-afflicted cottage, who would I
rather have as my neighbour?
Then there’s the possibility of inheritance. Not in the financial sense –
I doubt rat catchers were ever high earners. – but perhaps I had
inherited some hitherto unexplored talent from the several artists I had
discovered. Sadly, I can’t even draw a convincing banana and probably
have more in common with the long line of publicans on my paternal
grandmother’s line. I did find one living relative who carries the art gene – my distant
American cousin, Judy, who is a talented painter. And there’s another
joy of family research - encountering new relatives. Through Judy I have
the pleasure of hearing about everyday life in the charming village of
Ballston Spa in New York State.
Other relatives have their own experiences to share too. There’s third
cousin Naomi, who runs a falconry centre in the Cotswolds; fifth cousin
Julia, who lives in Australia; and seventh cousin Ulrich from Denmark.
We have fun trading family news and Christmas cards – and the latest
discoveries. Like our connections to Thomas Whieldon, the world-famous
potter, and my first cousin (admittedly eight-times-removed); or George
Rowley, the well-known china painter for Royal Crown Derby, and my
great-grandfather’s half-brother.
Thanks to the dedicated research of these new-found relatives, I have
sometimes been able to go back several hundred years in an afternoon. My
earliest ancestors to date are William and Joan Whieldon of Ipstones in
Staffordshire, who were probably born in 1582, the year William
Shakespeare married Ann Hathaway.
I’ve learned about places I’d never heard of before, like Chilvers Coton
near Nuneaton, where my ancestors attended the same church as novelist
George Elliot. I’ve researched life in the Lincolnshire fens when the
early Rippons would have travelled from village to village by boat;
studied the smart houses of Wimbledon where my great grandmother worked
as a housekeeper; and investigated life at Welbeck Abbey where my
great-great uncle Alfred was in charge of the Duke of Portland’s
stables.
There have been countless mysteries, illegitimate births, untraceable
marriages, lines that disappear into thin air, rumours and speculation,
elopements and uncovered secrets aplenty. And there have been tragedies, too. Great-great uncle Willie Rippon
returned from the First World War with shellshock and was haunted by the
horrors of his experiences for the rest of his life, while Frederic
Rowley fell victim to typhoid fever at his home. And my
great-great grandmother Eliza Hough died, aged 30, having just given
birth to her sixth child. There have been the horror stories, too, like that of my great-great
grandfather working down a Durham lead mine as a 14-year-old. And the
sad story of my great-great uncle Alexander Craig, who was born in
Bruges in the late 19th century because his father was a commercial
traveller, but who returned to Belgium with the Sherwood Foresters in
1915, only to be killed just a few miles from his birthplace.
Researching my family tree has not only introduced me to a host of
fascinating ancestors, but I’ve discovered a whole new me. So now who do
I think I am? Not just a Rippon, but a Whieldon, an Entwistle, a
Poynton. An English girl, a Scots lass, an Irish woman? If you
haven’t already delved into your own family’s history, it’s time you got
started – you’ll probably be amazed at who you turn out to be.