We're not in Africa anymore Dorothy

Wednesday, March 4, 2015
OK, Dorothy isn't with me but Nancy is.  We are in Faversham, Kent, England.  We have a beautiful room in the Sun Inn, originally built in 1349.  Yes, 1349.  As a Canadian it is hard to even imagine 1349, but here you see this kind of history everywhere you turn.  It's in the cobblestone streets, in the residences that have withstood centuries of wear, and in the churches where people mourned and buried their dead-marking the graves with sad missives carved in stone in the 1500s.  It's a different world than Africa, and Nancy and I are both grateful for that.  The pace is slow here, the weather crisp, it's what we need.

How did we get here from Africa?  It's a good question.  A long time ago I started researching our family tree, and Faversham is the heart of our father's tree.  I have walked the street that my great grandfather, Horace, walked as a child and stood on the porch of the house he lived in when the 1881 census was done.  Down the street from the Sun Inn, at 1 West Street, is where my great great grandmother was living in 1841.  I've walked to the Faversham creek where, no doubt, my ancestors came to relax and play in their childhood.  And perhaps, just maybe, I have sat with Nancy and shared a night cap in the same pub as Horace or Samuel or Julia did over a century ago.  Nancy has been wonderful, traipsing through graveyards (grid pattern splitting up works best) looking for the markers that will tell me more about my ancestors, she's been very successful to date and we still have one more day to go.

So this isn't Africa.  Am I missing Ghana?  In a way I am.  I miss the people, and the new adventures that one anticipates will be around every corner.  But that's looking back now, and I'm looking forward to getting on the plane on Friday in London and coming home to see my family and friends.  It's been a long trip and I'm thankful for this little town that is rejuvenating and relaxing, and for the chance to walk on the soil of my forefathers.

 

You're Not Pretty When You Cry

I hate goodbyes.  They are so sorrowful and really difficult to deal with.  Most of the coaches just got on a bus to Heathrow, they are disbursing to different parts of the world to go live the lives they left behind when we started this journey.  And it is a journey.  I hugged Jackie, Laurie and Katherine-it is their first journey to Africa, and I remember what it was like last year saying goodbye.  They are going home with stories that will touch the hearts of coworkers and friends, and they will be thinking of coming back next year.  I hugged Liam and Larry, gentlemen that they are, their lives forever changed because of the women they were forced to live with for the past fortnight.  And Louise, she has kept me sane and in good humour for the past two weeks, how do you say thank you for that?  You don't, you just give hugs and pleasantries and then you cry.  At breakfast this morning we were chatting about what we were doing today.  Some were leaving, others were going to enjoy some sights this city has to offer.  A couple were thinking of checking off "Phantom of The Opera" on their bucket  list, something that we did on Saturday. Some are going to see Buckingham Palace, Westminster Abbey, Trefalger Square. But nobody is doing what Nancy and I are.....when they asked us we were unique.  We were the only ones that could say,

"We are going to Faversham."

I know, I can almost see the blank look in your eyes.  It is the same look that those around the table gave us this morning.  Deer in the headlights.  In the late 1800s Horace Bloxham Hawkins, my great grandfather, made his way across the ocean from Faversham to settle down in Winnipeg with his lovely wife Bessie.  I am going to find my roots.  I am going to stand on the soil of my forefathers, wander the streets they wandered over a century ago, and hopefully find where they were laid to rest.  The journey ended this morning when the coaches started to say goodbye, and now my new jouney, however short, is about to begin. 

We are going to Faversham.  I am going with my illustrious partner from last year, Nancy, who is "along for the ride,"    If you think you had a blank look on your face when you read that line you should see the looks Nancy is getting.  She happily describes splitting up to cover more ground in the graveyard, she has a plan. 

So now dear readers, I have to take my leave.  I am going to find the house Horace was raised in, and the house that his father, Thomas, was born in.  Hopefully there is a story in Faversham.  If there is I will be sure to let you know.