Full Circle

My journey as an amateur family tree enthusiast to find my own sense of belonging and to find my 'cynefin'.

When building a family tree, it very quickly expands with hundreds and thousands of names added over time. Amidst the full flow of extending the branches, it’s easy to lose a little focus and view the tree as a list of names. We forget that each of these individual names have a story to tell that’s an integral part of each family’s journey to where they are today.

Here is a story of how my interest in family history brought me in a full circle, and to gain a sense of belonging.

I lived my early years in the rural village of Llanarmon Dyffryn Ceiriog, which is deep in the Ceiriog Valley in north-east Wales. It was idyllic and tranquil in the summer, harsh and remote in the winter. Although a small village, its people were large in character and talents. I lived there till I was six years old; my parents had moved there from north-west Wales where both had grown up. My father was appointed the headteacher of the village school which rarely had numbers of more than 25 pupils, one of which was myself. Although we moved away from the village when I was just 6 years old, I still have fond memories of our time there – the village carnival, the village Eisteddfod, the kindest of neighbours, and even falling into the stream by the village hall!

When growing up, I always had an interest in family history and the concept of family. I remember my father explaining to me at a very young age that some of our dear neighbours whom I’d refer to as Aunties or Uncles, weren’t in fact related, but just called that as a sign of how close we were as a community. I then remember being given a pocket-sized children’s book about the history of British Kings and Queens. At the back of the book there was a diagram of the royal family tree – it was my first introduction to the concept of family trees and wasn’t long till I had written my own basic tree of three generations.

In my teens, a distant relative had compiled a family tree for one of my great-grandmother’s family. I was hooked instantly! I then went on to hand write and catalogue all the names in my own booklet which I still have today.

Despite all this interest in my own family history, there was something I felt that was missing in my life. I had grown up in Llanarmon Dyffryn Ceiriog, and then in the village of Rhosllannerchrugog, both of which I had no family ties to. My parents were from Bala and Llanberis, where I had lots of family, but I had never lived in those places myself. I had such a loving family and the greatest of friends, but I felt there was a sense of belonging to a place missing in my life. We have a word in Welsh called ‘cynefin’. It translates as ‘habitat’, but I always feel its meaning is deeper and conveys a strong sense of belonging to somewhere. This is what I felt was missing in my life . . . . Until I started going in depth with my family tree.

In my late twenties I started subscribing to a family tree website, and soon enough my tree was growing. My initial mission was to grow the tree as far back in time as I could. But over time, my focus changed. I wanted to know more about where family members were born, where they lived and worked, and where they had been laid to rest. And it was with this change in focus that I made discoveries that started to help me fill in the blanks with my own sense of belonging.

I had been researching online for over 10 years when I returned to look at that family tree that I had hand catalogued as a teenager. The lineage of my great grandmother, Mary Emily Jones. I had initially thought that my great-grandmother’s family lived on a farm called Buarthyre somewhere deep in mid-Wales, but realised that Buarthyre was in fact located high in the hills between the Ceiriog Valley and Tanat Valley. They lived so much closer than I had ever realised! They lived less than 4 miles from where I grew up!

By studying this branch, I found that my great-grandmother’s brother, David Charles Jones, had been killed at the battle of Passchendaele during the first world war and her other brothers and sisters had scattered around mid-Wales and towards Bala to live. But then I made the biggest discovery yet! By researching parish records, I found that my 3xgreat-grandfather, David Jones, had been buried in St Garmon’s church in . . . . . . LLANARMON DYFFRYN CEIRIOG.

I asked my father if he knew anything about our direct ancestors being buried in the village where we had lived and been to the church numerous times – he had no idea!

Now I had a new mission, no longer a mission of online researching – I was determined to visit and follow my family’s journey in person. And in August 2024, I set out to spend the day visiting four locations which have shaped my family’s journey.

My journey started at St Dogfan’s church in Llanrhaedr-ym-Mochnant where my great-granduncle’s name, David Charles Jones, is engraved on the village war memorial. Seeing his name on the memorial gave me a haunting feeling of how a young man from a quiet Welsh valley ended up buried in mud and blood at the battle of Passchendaele so far away from the green fields of home. How it would’ve felt for his family when they heard the tragic news of his death in battle, I could never imagine.

Following this sombre moment, I travelled up the hills towards the tiny church of St Garmon in the isolated parish of Llanarmon Mynydd Mawr. After a quick search of the tiny graveyard, I soon found the grave of another 3xgreat-grandfather, Charles Edwards, and my 3xgreat grandmother, Ann Edwards. The church, although isolated, gave me a brighter feeling than my first stop at the war memorial. The white walls inside this small church were lit up by the summer sun and it left me with a gratified feeling that my 3xgreat-grandparents chose this spot as their resting place. They could not be resting in a more serene setting.

The next stop was deep in the hills to find the old farm of Buarthyre. I had been given directions from an old co-worker who grew up in the area, and after a few wrong turns, then getting a local farmer rather annoyed, and then zig-zagging between pheasants, I finally found the right track up towards the farmhouse. Where the track came to an end, there to my left I found the old family farm of Buarthyre! This is where great-grandmother, Mary Emily Jones, her brother David Charles Jones, and her family lived. No amount of mud or nettles was going to stop me getting near the farmhouse just so I could say that I had tread the same footsteps as my ancestors. From what I had been told by my old co-worker, the land had been sold, and planning permission had been granted to renovate the old farmhouse. She had told me that if I wanted to see the old farmhouse as it looked when my family had lived there – this summer would be my last chance! No one can ever take that moment away from me, should the house get completely changed, then I could always say that I had been there to see the farm as it looked when my family lived there.

Finally, down back the other side of the valley I went to my last stop was at St Garmon’s church in Llanarmon Dyffryn Ceiriog – the village where I grew up and had been to the church so many times as a child. As I searched for the grave of my 3xgreat grandfather, David Jones, I realised that a lot of graves had eroded or had been felled or broken by the elements over time. I began to lose hope that I’d find the grave, but still took comfort that my direct ancestor was here somewhere even if I couldn’t find his resting place. I reached the back of the church, there was one grave that was an obelisk rather than a headstone, and the name faced towards the side of the valley rather than down the valley towards the elements like the other headstones. The name read, David Jones 1816-1873. It was my 3xgreat-grandfather!

In the quiet solitude of this rural, idyllic village of my childhood, I took a few moments to myself to gather my thoughts and emotions. I had finally found that missing place of belonging in my life. I had gone full circle back to where I was brought up to find it was the place where my ancestors were born, lived, worked, and laid to rest. I had finally found my ‘cynefin’.