After my friend Randy and I had finished our steak and kidney pie, downed the last of our pints and paid our 10 pounds each, we decided to make the journey from Kaynshem to Staple Hill, Bristol, by foot. It was November 1987. The road was narrow and we even came across a man toting along his bell ringing cow; I thought we’d blasted back in time a hundred years. The smell of damp burning coal, the feel of the misty air and the stonewall fences brought back a flood of memories from a lifetime ago; memories I did not know existed.

Eventually we’d made it to the north end of Bristol, and, a little lost, we decided to look for signs that pointed to the city center; from there we could figure out our bearings. The plan, tonight, was to stay at my grandparents, on my fathers side, but by the time we’d made it down town, it was too late and too dark, so by the late afternoon, still lost, we ended up running into a bed and breakfast for thirty pound a night. It had a beautiful room with a bath tub which was perfect, since we’d been on the road for a couple of days and were in need of a good scrub. After our baths, we used the remaining water to wash our clothes and then we strung a line around the room in order hang dry them. Then, down to the pub it was, where we chatted with the bartenders over beers and by 1 am we were back in our room, snug in our beds ready to sleep.

Looking back on my journal, it appears I had no idea where my Gran and Gramps lived, and, why I didn’t bother planning this one detail, after meticulously mapping our route through Europe, is a mystery to me. I even knew, down to the detail, where we were going to be on certain days, what times the trains left the station, how to say “where is the bathroom” in 8 languages; we even had $50.00 worth of every country’s currency tucked away in our money belts, but I didn’t map out this one very important stop.

The following day, after we massacred our English breakfast, we decided to head over to the Police station to inquire the whereabouts of Gran and Gramps and to our surprise, ended up being taxied right to their front door by a kindly Bobby; 53 St. Johns road, Bedminster. I couldn’t imagine the look on their faces as two scruffy, sack toting, young men, one with a full beard, exited a police car in front of their house and then made their way past the dormant rose bushes and toward their door. Why they even answered the door, I don’t know, however, they obviously knew we were coming as they greeted us with beaming red Bristolian faces and a cup of hot tea.

My grandparents were amazing people; even at their age, they were so animated and had so much life in them. You could tell they were excited to see us, but, somewhat apprehensive, having two Canadian travelers stay in their home. I noticed, they began to take amusement in my travel partners name and had a hard time saying it with a straight face. When I found out what it actually meant in this part of the world, I too inherited it as my new mantra for the day. Each time I mentioned his name, I’d give it a little more emphasis like: “Hey RANDY, are you coming for tea? RANDY, eat your fried bread. Hey RANDY, gran and gramps are metered for water so no playing in the shower!” Apparently, the word Randy refers to someone who is…. uhm, shall we say, a little more eager in the arousal department. You are referring to them as a pervert! It’s true, look it up and poor guy, this wouldn’t let up until we were well across the channel and away from the big island. And he knew it too!

The house, I remember, was furnished in classic British style: floral wallpaper, red table linen, green drapes and plenty of flower vases with colourful arrangements in them. Grampy wore a wool vest, crisp blue shirt and tie and Nanny was dressed in her red skirt and white turtleneck sweater. It was a pleasant weekend; Nans would be forever in the kitchen putting pots of tea on and Gramps would be watching horse races; studying his picks, hoping for the big score. On the Sunday, I found my way over to the Jones’s; my grandparents on my mothers side. It was here that I reacquainted with cousins, uncles and aunts that I never new existed. There is a photograph taken on this day; all of us in front of a gorgeous hanging wall clock; again, floral wallpaper background, and there I am towering over them at 5’7; short by North American standards, but in this picture I could have been a basketball player.

After the visit, cousin David drove me back to St, Johns road in his three wheeled Renault, which was an experience; we said our good byes and that was the last time I ever saw this side of the family. Slowly, as time passed, most of those that were at the gathering disappeared off the world, but not from our hearts. All of them now live on in that photo, and looking at it now, I am wondering what kind of conversations ensued? If anything, probably just a lot of Bristolian banter with no real direction. I recall being fascinated by the coin meter near their front door, which controlled all of the power in the house. It had to be continuously fed, otherwise, lights out. If you ran into a week where you were short on change; you’d be living by candlelight, which, probably happened from time to time. Not such a bad thing, I suppose.

Upon my return to the Kelly’s I was treated by a visit from my uncle Patty. I don’t remember much about the conversation, only that I was a little weirded out by the fact that I was talking to my fathers doppelganger; only Patty had a calmer demeanor and I remember he looked distinctively like Richard Gere with his salt and pepper hair and contagious smile, but, again, that was the last I saw Uncle Patty as well. Years later, sadly, Patty would develop Parkinson’s disease and, eventually he would pass away, leaving a family, I’m sure, that misses him dearly. Another wonderful member of the family tree I will never have the opportunity of getting to know.

The following day, Randy and I departed for our rail adventure through Europe, where we would whip through six countries at breakneck speed, drinking wine and eating local cheeses on our night train excursions across mountainous borders. We were tired much of the time, I got a really bad cold and I sliced my finger open while trying to open a beer bottle with a jack knife. Randy lost his camera on the channel ferry and in Dover we were almost mugged in a local pub. We visited friends and some distant relatives of Randy’s, we jumped hurtles on horseback, went skating at the Olympic center in Munich, visited the somber Dachau concentration camp, drank beer from massive steins at the Hofbrauhaus and met way too many characters to list.

We also ran completely out of money by the time we’d returned to home base in Bristol. It was an exciting whirlwind adventure and I would highly recommend this to anyone, including my own kids. Don’t pack suitcases, tote knapsacks with the bare minimum and stay in Youth Hostels. Stay away from the popular tourist spots and sit in pubs and cafes and speak with the locals. We spent too much time trying to find places like the Louvre, or Versailles, when we could have been learning about local life and politics, speaking with people in their habitats; sampling local wines and foods. Besides, I was almost kicked out of the Louvre for taking a snap of the Mona Lisa; apparently they don’t like that very much. It was a great and memorable trip and by the end of it, because we had spent so much time in close quarters together, Randy and I were like a bickering old couple, but, his name was still RANDY, so I could always pull that card on him if things got too heated.

Returning back to my Grandparents, we took a three hour bus ride from London to Bristol, and had drank too much water prior. No bathroom on the bus, we happened to find a bottle at the back which became our portable latrine. Imagine trying to take aim into that little opening while in a moving vehicle, needless to say we left our mark on that bus trip; I feel sorry for the passengers who’d discovered our little contribution afterwards.

One final misadventure occurred, before we were able to return to our lives back in Toronto: We decided not to purchase return air tickets when we’d originally booked our flights into the UK, because we’d read about these Bucket shops where you could buy cheap last minute fares out of London. Having to borrow money from my grandparents, we purchased bus tickets and two one-way fares to New York city; from there we would do a little site seeing, sprint over to Buffalo and then across Lake Ontario in smaller planes. It was an ambitious and horribly arranged plan, but, we couldn’t resist the opportunity to experience another of the worlds great city’s.

Come the day of the flight, because I was carrying a UK passport with only a one-way ticket into the US, they wouldn’t let me on the plane, so, I let Randy go and told him I’d meet him at the Airport in New York the next day. Off I went back into London to the US consulate so I could stand in the worlds longest line up and hopefully get a green card stamped into my passport, before the offices closed. It didn’t look good. I feared I would be stuck in London for at least a few days, not that it was a bad place to be stuck; it was a bad place to be stuck without money!

It was at this point that, over the next 40 hours, or so, a few timely interventions occurred that came to my rescue. As I was standing there in line on that cold late November afternoon, wondering how the hell I was going to survive the next few days, I felt a tap on my shoulder. For whatever reason, a consulate employee singled me out and asked if I needed to be fast tracked. “Yes!” I said, as he pulled me from the line up and lead me a long the queue toward the entrance to the building. “Thank God!” I received my stamp and then checked into whatever hotel I could find that accepted American Express. I spent most of the money was left on the card on a hotel room, breakfast and transportation back to the airport, and by 1:30 pm, the next day, I was in the air, on my way to New York city! What I was going to do when I arrived was still a mystery, but, I would leave that up to the invisible hands of fate. At least, I would be on the right continent!

When I arrived at the airport in New York, I was dumbfounded to find Randy waiting for me, along with a girl whom we’d met while travelling through France. It turned out, she was on Randy’s flight the previous day and touched by his plight, offered him accommodation at her Dad’s loft in Greenwich Village and a return ride to pick me up the following day. For the next 24 hours, Randy and I were toured around New York city, experiencing Central park, the New York Subway, Time Square and, to top it off, an evening in a smoky Jazz club. It was a small miracle this happened, but, also a testament to the powers of random connections.

Although I did return to Europe the following year for a solo trip through Ireland and Eastern Europe, the trip Randy and I took would prove to be the final time I saw most of my relatives including Nan and Gramps on both sides. I never returned to England, and to my knowledge, both sets of grandparents did not visit Canada again. When I was a child, I remember Grampy Kelly would hoist us onto his knee and weave together a story out of thin air, always including us grandkids as the central characters. We were mesmerized by these loosely constructed fantasies and we were always pestering him for more. Two generations later, as if he had reached down from heaven and passed the baton; my grandfather has inspired me to carry that torch and, although, my stories do not include tough cowboys and brave soldiers, they do include many real life characters that I would consider to be heroes. I write about my children and a I write about my brothers and sisters and parents as if they were characters in an ongoing epic story. A story that continues to unravel, as we navigate the mountains and valleys of an altered world that, in my opinion, seems to have lost it’s sense of direction.

When Randy and I were lost in Bristol; it wasn’t a GPS, or a map that solved our dilemma, although those would have been handy tools to have around, it was the kindness of a human connection that led us to our destination, and in our current world, I believe the same holds true. We seem to be looking to our governing powers to guide us out of the forest, when the answer may be as simple as connecting closer to the ones you love, even in the face of those who tell us not too. The power of a connected family is unbreakable and enough of them strung together will create a force far more subversive then an army of misguided self servants.

As we enter into the following weeks, heading toward the big day, I feel it is more important now then ever, to connect with family. For me, that means phone calls, texts and perhaps a video call. But, if by chance, you are alone, and many of those you have loved are no longer with us, reach out to the heavens; as there is always a Mother, a Grampa or an Uncle or a sibling or an Aunt, reaching down, offering their hand to you. Take the torch, ignite the road ahead and charge on….

“My father used to play with my brother and me in the yard. Mother would come out and say, ‘You’re tearing up the grass’; ‘We’re not raising grass,’ Dad would reply. ‘We’re raising boys.’“

Harmon Killebrew