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