Dealing with the death of my Grandad was something that the whole family struggled with. He became ill very suddenly, and by the time doctors realised what was wrong, there was nothing that could have been done to help him in time. He passed away a few years ago now, but only recently did we take him to his final resting place.
His ashes were living at my Grandma's house, until his sister who lives in New Zealand was able to come over to help scatter his ashes, as she was unable to come over to the UK to attend his funeral. It wasn't until my Grandad became so poorly, and even after his death that I really knew much about his side of the family.
My Grandad and his family came from Devon; Holbeton in fact. My Great Grandparents moved to Lincolnshire during the war; my Great Grandad was given a choice of three places to go, and chose Lincolnshire as it was the most rural, and they hoped it would be where the least destruction was.
I had never been to Holbeton before, so driving down last Thursday was completely surreal. It was so strange going to a place where such strong family ties lie, even though I knew nothing about the village, but felt so drawn to the village itself. It was absolutely beautiful - the cottage we rented for the few nights we were down there was the cutest thing I'd seen in my life, and the view from the top of the hill was just fields as far as the eyes could see. It was completely serene, and like I said, it kind of felt like home. I didn't feel out of place at all, kind of like I belonged there secretly.
Whilst we were there, we took the opportunity to visit the church yard to see my Mum's Grandad and some more family which I didn't know I had. It was actually quite sad to see that the graveyard, pictured above, was so overgrown on the areas that were away from the road. Our family were hidden amongst the overgrown areas, so my Great Aunty spent some time tending to her Father's grave. We also spent the evenings in the local pub, where we met even more family - my Grandad's cousins who still live in the village, and again, who I didn't even know existed. We also walked past the home where my Grandad was born and raised, but obviously didn't 'visit' or take photos seeing as it's somebody elses house right now.
The most special part of the whole journey was visiting St. Michael's Mount. My Great Grandad and Nana both used to work at St Michael's Mount as a Footman and a Chambermaid, where they met. Family legend has it, that my Great Grandad scaled the drainpipe at St Michael's Mount, crept into my Great Nana's room and my Grandad was conceived there. My Grandad's name was Michael, after the Mount, and here is his final resting place.
I'd never visited the Mount before, but from now on I'll be sure to take my own family one day to tell the stories of our family, and of course, to visit Grandad Michael's Mount.