I’m fairly certain that my kids couldn’t tell you my grandmother’s maiden name – Wells. I can still name her sisters, Dorothy, Florence, Gladys, Nancy and May. There were Wells boys, too, although I don’t think I ever knew their names. Most of my older relatives are long gone now, which means the stories they told and the people they recalled so easily went with them.

For most of my childhood, Dad’s mum, Phyllis Ivy Holmes, lived in Rosedene Avenue, Greenford. On Sundays, we would visit her and my Grandad, Laurence, for tea. Each of us kids had a specific-coloured cup and plate. My siblings and I still remember their immaculate garden, garage and house in vivid detail. Grandad suffered a heart attack there, while rotating the wheels on his Standard Vanguard car. That fateful day he was off sick from work with chest pains. His sudden death was a huge shock to us all, but mostly my Gran, who found him on her return from the hairdresser.

Grandad drove London buses from the Alperton garage. Later, for better pay, he switched to driving tankers at the nearby Guinness brewery. For operational reasons, Grandad’s workmates were banned from his funeral, but on arrival at the Breakspear Crematorium, the road was jammed with parked Guinness tankers. His driver colleagues were determined to pay their respects. Honestly, with that image in my head, is it any wonder I grew up wanting to be a lorry driver?

As time passes, we become more sentimental about who we are and where we came from. My mum’s dad died during WW2 aged just 24. My great-nan, his mum Ada Alice (who we called Nan), lost both of her sons then, and these were not her first tragedies. She was orphaned as a little girl when her father drowned. I knew she was born near Deal in Kent – Walmer to be precise. For most of my life, I’ve wanted to go there, and a few weeks ago, I decided I’d best get on with it.

Walmer is a beautiful Victorian seaside town; clearly, a wonderful place to live – if you had money. I gazed out to sea in Walmer, feeling more emotional than I expected to. There’s an excellent museum in neighbouring Deal where I learned a lot about the local boatmen and how they earned a living from the sea. On my return, the wonderful local history website, familiesofdealandwalmer.co.uk, found a couple of family press cuttings from the local newspaper – reporting “five local boatmen losing their lives while going to assist a vessel showing distress signals in a storm.”

One of those who drowned while attempting to aid the ship ‘Carmelley’ in 1899 was my Nan’s poor dad, George Beecham. His body was never recovered. Incredibly, just two or three weeks earlier, his son, George Junior, also drowned “while bathing” nearby – he was just 13. Despite having lost its sails in “the full force of the gale,” unlike the men trying to help her, the ship and crew came to no harm.

Nan was just seven years old when she and her 7 siblings lost their dad. She told us he was a “lifeboatman,” but thanks to amazing RNLI records, we now know that isn’t true. He and his mates were local boatmen who sometimes made a living from salvage and rescue work. Nan often spoke of the tragedy and claimed she’d been sent to boarding school. We eventually worked out that she was placed in an orphanage and was ashamed of it.

After entering domestic service in London, Nan married one of the sons of the household, as maids sometimes did in those days!

All of us have fascinating family histories; so why don’t we write them down, ideally while the old ones are still with us?