A couple of days back, I received a mail from CO USA, asking me about a shared ancestor, Edgitha. It’s not a name you can easily forget. Did I know if – and if so at which cemetery – she and her husband were buried in British soil? I managed to find a possible location. Today my US ‘relation’ writes that the cemetery has confirmed that they lie buried there. ‘It’s strangely satisfying when things about your (distant) past fall into place,’ I wrote back. It is. Our common ancestor, Henry Irons (1825-1883) may well be chuckling in his grave.
It is a lovely early spring evening. The pigeons are planing like paper darts in slow motion, the sparrows are chittering away, and I feel a ‘consanguity’ with all living creatures. Anyone, no everyone, I meet I am distantly related to. There is no Creexit. It’s time to drain the water off the local butcher’s home-smoked tenderloin, do the carrots and cauliflower al dente, rake through the rice and tell my wife dinner’s ready.