I took an ancestry trip and it changed my relationship with my dad

As a third-culture child growing up in Hong Kong, I had a vision of landing in my father’s homeland and finally feeling like I belonged. 
 
My dad grew up in Wales, but no longer has family there. And most of my childhood holidays revolved around my mum’s Filipina family, whose eight siblings are spread out across the US, the Philippines and other countries. 

Like millions of others, I’m an identity nomad – too Western for the Philippines or Hong Kong and too disconnected from Wales. When I was younger, I spent a lot of time trying to dislocate parts of myself to try to fit in somewhere; dreaming of a place that I belonged to, and that belonged to me.  

When I was 16, my dad took my mother, brother and I back to his hometown of Newport – an industrial town that looked nothing like my fantasy pastoral paradise. He found a picturesque spot for a family photo, then drove us back to a petrol station on the Welsh border where we bought souvenirs and a national bumper sticker. It was all over so fast, and nothing about me had changed – other than being the proud new owner of a blow-up daffodil. 

More than a decade later, I returned to Wales with my husband. I had unfinished business and wanted to understand not only where my dad came from, but also my own origin story. 

The old-fashioned way 

Ancestry travel has risen in popularity over the past few years. According to the Travel Industry Association, nearly 30 per cent of travellers are looking into heritage trips, while Airbnb reported as early as 2019 that there had been a 500 per cent rise in ancestry travel since 2014. Studies point to an emotional yearning for the past, riding on a wave of nostalgia.  

Heritage travel apps have launched; tourism boards have dedicated pages to it and tour operators have jumped on board, charging as much as US$35,000 for personalised ancestry itineraries. 

I decided to do things the old-fashioned way: we hired a car, asked my dad for some tips, booked a stay at a country house a short drive from Newport, and set off with a Google Map studded with landmarks of my father’s life. 

Homecoming 

As we drove, the country lanes quickly gave way to paved streets and highways as we approached my father’s childhood home in Newport. The house was empty with a for-sale sign hanging outside. We parked on the ridiculously steep road – as my father quipped, “try parallel parking in front, then try it again in the snow” – and snapped a few pictures for posterity. 

Before messaging my dad, the house had just been a physical building. But now I imagined him sneaking home after a game of rugby, his Morris Minor car perched on the curb outside.  

Up to this point, so much of my dad’s life had been a mystery. But standing outside his boyhood home as I messaged him back in Hong Kong, I felt I was finally uncovering the paving stones of his childhood. Pieces were sliding into place, and I was connecting not so much to Wales, but to him.  

Tree of life 

From there, the pictures and messages came thick and fast – unusual for my dad who doesn’t like texting. 
 
My husband and I went to Aberystwyth, where Dad studied as an undergrad. Legends of his 21st birthday still resurface – recounted by those who helped him stumble home – as well as kayaking classes in swimming pools where he capsized. But he hadn’t told me just how beautiful the town was with its pastel-coloured houses overlooking a tranquil bay.  

The first landmark I added to my list was Gwent Crematorium, a memorial garden where my grandmother’s ashes had been scattered without a headstone. I’d never met her, but she’d raised my father on her own, and I’d been told many times over the years I looked like her, and like him.   

On that first trip all those years ago, my brother and I were told to stay in the car as my parents paid their respects, before silently making our way back to England. This time, I was determined to get out and find my grandmother. 

The garden was a riot of blooming flowers and lush, green grass – reminiscent of my childhood dream of Wales. Two trees marked the resting place of my grandmother and my great grandfather. As a nearby funeral began, I thought of my father who’d had to bury his mother alone.   

The grief felt physical – for my father, for the people he loved deeply and for the country he'd left behind. Standing in that secluded garden, I imagined my father and finally understood why he’d left and never looked back.  

I sent photos of the trees to my father, but he didn’t respond. We’d shared so much of this trip together, but some things must remain unspoken.

Rebirth 

After that, I fell in love with Wales. We drove down to the coast, eating fish and chips out of yellow boxes on a hill overlooking Tenby Beach. We skipped stones into St Bride’s Bay on blustery Druidstone Beach and stepped over tentacled creatures in tide pools.   

When I returned home to Hong Kong, I gave my dad a shot glass from Aberystwyth bearing a Welsh dragon-adorned bikini top – he laughed and recounted the story of his 21st birthday shenanigans again. Listening to it felt different this time, now that I’d seen where it’d all taken place. I didn’t feel any more Welsh, but I'd found something more profound: a deeper connection to my father.  

Later that day, I showed my mum a photo taken at the memorial garden of me standing next to my grandmother’s tree, an eerie glow to my right. “Your grandmother must have been with you on your trip,” she said wryly.