As one door closes.....

Well, here we are, at the end of a long, long road, although it's not really the end. Just one of a number of cul-de-sacs that tempt up through life.

The little acorn which started the whole thing off, over 35 years ago, was when my uncle Ivan handed my dad a magazine which referred to Judge Nichols, the hanging judge, of Faxton, near Lamport. Ken (dad) thought it would be great to mark a line of descendancy between Augustine (as was his name) and himself, thus started the quest I write of.
So many years down the line, so many church records read and re-read, so many miles of the countryside of England (and beyond) covered in this quest, and, such is the finality of what I have viewed this week.
Throwing all against the grain, the golden rule being broken too, the one which states you start with what you know, and work back. Well I've done that, and although it does bring results I was looking for more. Faxton is a dead village, not even a stone still exists, although there are memories written on the pages of the old church records. I decided to start from the beginning, rather than the end, and read through the whole gamut. This started with an inscription to Sir Augustine Nicolls, which I assume was taken from the plaque which now resides in a museum in London's fair city. But running through the records, I noted that for the first few years, the only entries were for the Nicolls family, the lords of the manor so to speak! Where were the real people? Not worth a mention came the stark reply!
Onwards through time I alight on an entry for the 20th January 1716. A death!
Sir Edward Nicolls, Baronet, died a bachelor - title extinct.
So, there we have it, unequivocal proof that the Nichols's are NOT  descendants of this hanging judge. Sir Edward was the last of his line - unless there was some deed of illigitimacy! Well, there lies another quest!

With this death comes life too, life in the form of the common man, the real people of the country and county. The Smiths and Jones's, the life and soul of this great land, these now come to the fore in the records of this now lifeless little village. So much for nobility, so much for a door closing, it still opens yet more. There are other avenues to trek, more unturned stones to lift. Another line, a real living and breathing line, which requires my attention, the salt of the earth, the real people, without whom there would be no Great in Britain (even though I pride myself in being English rather than British!). There is a trail, a quest, an obsession, an oddessy no less! The more there is, the more you want. For each stone turned, two more arise!