Finding Roots - a strangely sentimental pondering

I have been pondering of late what, in these times of travel and dispersed family, it mean to have 'roots'. In the not so distant past, the majority of families stayed together in the area in which they were born due to practicality and economics. Transport was not as freely available and the concept of upping sticks and moving to a different part of the county, let alone country, was an alien one. Families stayed tight knit, living in the same streets in the same towns and the sense of community thrived. Neighbourhood kids could play out in the streets because they were with their siblings, cousins, second cousins and extended family. So has our desire to stretch our wings and fly the nest to distant places taken away that sense of community, and also our sense of 'home'? 


Who among us can say where we are 'from'?  It is a question I am often asked yet find hard to answer. My grandfather was a first generation 'immigrant' from Armenia, who married (eloped none the less - oh the scandal!) my Grannie who was from Yorkshire. They lived out the early part of their marriage in London before moving to Hertfordshire. So, Armenia and Yorkshire so far make up my heritage. Then my dad's side; his father was Bolton through and through and his entire family were of 'that' generation of close family, Aunts, Uncles, cousins all living in one small part of the town. Unlike many from his peer group he married outside of the community, bringing an Irish thread into the mix. A complex mix of history, traditions, races and religions. This is not unlike many, if not most of my generation. It makes for an interesting background, yet it brings to question, where are my roots? 


Well I was born in Hertfordshire yet spent many of my early years in and out of Bolton. I lost the accent but gained a lifelong support of the mighty Bolton Wanderers. Do I feel rooted in Bolton? Not particularly although the sight of the Reebok Stadium shimmering in the sun as you drive down the slip road of the M61 always brings a tear to my eye (yes, seriously!!)

Do I feel my roots are Armenian? Not really - I have the tell tale eyebrows (should be 'eyebrow'?) and skin that tans in the blink of an eye to mark that part of my heritage. I have an affinity to all foods Middle Eastern and a weakness for the stuffed vine leaves and baklava of my childhood but I don't feel 'Armenian'. I spent the vast majority of my formative years in and around Watford yet I feel absolutely no desire to go back there, and absolutely no sense of belonging there. So where are my roots? Is it a case of wherever you lay your hat? Because that seems wrong, roots and belonging should be about more than bricks and mortar, it should be about history, memories, knowledge and above all love for a place and all that it is about. 

After travelling all over the UK, spending 5 years working as a Sales rep with a territory that covered Newquay to Newcastle and from Carlisle to Cumbria I honestly began to wonder if my roots were going to become entangled in the prefabricated foundations of the Travelodge chain - to wonder if I was destined to never settle down and call a place home - for good. And I wondered if my relentless driving up and down the motorway network of Britain had taken away my ability to settle  - if it was so entrenched in my being to move from one place to the next. I couldnt ever find a place I wanted to stay, everything felt temporary as I moved from Hertfordshire, to Hampshire, to Surrey, to Oxford, to Lincoln. I dont know what exactly I was looking for, I suppose on reflection a place I could call 'home' and ultimately a place where I wanted to settle down and have a family. It was evident that moving county to county every 3 years was not only expensive but not the actions of a sane person. 

And so the decision came in 2006 to try out Somerset. I can't say I had high expectations, I was most likely planning to spend a couple of years with itchy feet before moving on. But something stuck. Something grabbed me by the ankle and planted my feet firmly in the fertile soil and before I knew it I grew roots. They were tentative at first, but as the months turned into years I found more and more that I loved about the place. I grew to know people, I formed bonds, I started to make memories and eventually babies. And now these babies are growing up in a place where they will have roots, where they are already growing branching out their fledgling roots. And I hope that they will have happy memories of growing up here, memories of the beautiful open views, the stunning scenery, the laid back lifestyle. And I hope that they will feel an affinity to the place forever, and even when they inevitably move away for work, or university, love or experience. I hope they will feel drawn back and that whenever they pass Stonehenge on the A303 and drive towards Somerset, they will feel that they are coming home.