My name is Lynda and I was born in the Wellington region of New Zealand in the late 1950s. A “white Kiwi”, I realised one day I had no idea where or whom I came from. I knew my parents and their parents had been born in New Zealand, but that was it. I’d managed perfectly well without this knowledge for nearly fifty years but almost overnight it became more important to know who I was. There was a book in existence of two English branches in my mother’s paternal line. It was this book that got me hooked and began my journey of discovery. I learned some of her ancestors had immigrated to New Zealand from Kent in 1841. One helped build up Tawa (Old Porirua Road) and there’s a street named in his honour. Another was involved in early skirmishes with Māori in the Hutt Valley, and it appears he was a bit of a “hard case”, if newspaper archives are anything to go by. My mother’s maternal grandparents were relatively late immigrants. They came by steam ship from Antrim, Ireland in 1911 and my grandmother was born here in 1914. Of course in those days Ireland was just Ireland, and Northern Ireland as such didn’t exist. This Irish great-grandmother of mine allegedly spoke Gaelic. My great-grandfather had a dairy and a boot-making shop on Petone’s Jackson Street. He also played the big drum in the Salvation Army band.

I discovered I was in actuality, a fifth-generation Kiwi. So, my Kauri roots go deep, but still I needed to know more. I made contact with a cousin who’d done some family research and lo and behold, forward came the Scots. I’d been told as a child that my father’s mother was Scottish. Turned out my grandmother was actually born in New Zealand to a Scottish seaman father and a New Zealand-born daughter of Scottish immigrants. Scottish blood for sure, but a Kiwi by birth.

Two of my father’s maternal ancestors were retired Irish soldiers and brought their families to New Zealand in 1847 aboard the troop ship Ramillies. As 'Royal New Zealand Fencibles' they and their families helped build and settle the town of Onehunga in Auckland. One had married a woman from the Isle of Man and I learned about an island I’d only ever associated with dangerous motorbike races. I felt the hairs rise on the back of my neck when I realised many Manx names are of Viking descent and all that means.

I know there was mass migration between Scandinavia, Europe and the British Isles, and also between Ireland, Scotland and England. Some of our Irish ancestors were undoubtedly originally Scottish, as that’s where their names originate. English, Irish, Scots, Manx, Scandinavian and Kiwi: what a mixture.

In the last few years I’ve turned my attention to my children’s ancestry and discovered a lot of new English names. Some of the "possibles" were originally French and immigrated to England around the time of William the Conqueror. I've even found descendancy from the man himself but this of course must be taken with a grain of the proverbial salt.

So that’s where I’m at and it never stops. I am continuously searching, making contact with people related in some way, helping if possible, gleaning whatever information I can. Bit by bit I’m building up some flesh on the old bones, turning them into real people, rather than just names on paper. One thing’s for sure: my descendants will have a wealth of knowledge about me and my time on Earth, I’ve made sure of that. I know now who I am and where I come from, and I feel truly proud to belong to these people. The fierce Viking blood running through my veins sits easily with the Celtic spirituality and love of the land.

Cuimhnich air na daoine bho’n d’thanaig thu

(Never forget those you come from)