I stood there, staring at the spot where John Gladstone, once stood. Around me were the rolling hills of Yorkshire Dales where John was brought centuries ago. I trace my fingers over the face of the rock after leaving wild flowers at the base. I come here every year on his birthday to celebrate his life which only improved after he saved a gamekeeper’s life.
I used to play here as a child, loving to run up the path and collapse on the grass. I used to lie on my back and stare up at the sky. Not once did I ever dream that my life would change and that this place would come to mean more to me than it already did.
It happened two years ago when I was researching my family’s history. My friends had told me that they had researched theirs and had made some very exciting discoveries. I was curious to find out what stock I came from. It was quite a shock for me when I discovered that one of my ancestors was a slave. He came from a plantation near Montego Bay in Jamaica. I plan to visit the plantation next year.
Continue reading at Deborah’s Deliberations