KEY POINTS:
I could say it was an attempt to awaken a sense of whakapapa or plain egocentricity, but it felt bloody good to have my arm wrapped around a road sign with my name on it.
Well, when I say mine, I mean my family's. We're on the
map you know. Twice. Yeah, sure, it's the map of England, but that's still pretty cool. And as I seemed to be the only Perrott within shouting distance, the moment was all about me, damn it.
Much of my pleasure was due to Perrott being an odd-looking surname - vaguely French, definitely over-consonated, and no one's sure if you pronounce the Ts or not (not, apparently, but that seems a bit stuck-up for dinkum Kiwis). It's a name that almost never pops up on the news or as a Shortland Street character. It's one of those names that looks ripe for playground taunting, but apart from the occasional lacklustre "parrot," I wouldn't say it's been a burden. It doesn't rhyme with any bodily function and isn't easily shortened, so I've got no major complaints other than it being a bugger to sign the same way twice. On the big upside, Kiwi swimmer Rebecca Perrott's a Perrott, and rugby league's Sam Perrett (okay, the spelling is different, but the sentiment is the same) is a Kiwi, which isn't a bad fame rate for a family.
Still, I'm exceedingly grateful that my grandma's campaign to have me called "Peter" never grew legs.
But never mind all that, the matter at hand is my own mini-me Roots. My story begins, as these egocentric things tend to do, with a self-google - and don't look at me like that, everyone does it.
In less time than it took to type it, there they were - North Perrott and its neighbour, South Perrott. Cool, we've got land. And not only is it land, unlike dumpwaters such as Huddersfield, it's land sitting in the nice bits of England where it's not all grim, grey and chavved. But as I say, they're in England, and that's ... oooooh, not anywhere near Mt Eden, anyway. So the discovery was filed away in the "isn't that nice" bit of my brain and I went back to worrying about rugby and leaks in my kitchen until the opportunity to get there, borrow a car and a blonde, and go bush came along. Smashing.
"Go west, young lady," I said to my winsome guide once we'd got off the plane. Quite a bit west as it turned out, the northern Perrott sits in the south-eastern corner of Somerset (cool, cider!) while it's southside namesake is in north-western Dorset. I thought I knew a little bit about the region from the telly until I found out Worzel Gummidge was actually shot in Hampshire. Damn. If it helps, the nearest proper town is Crewkerne. Nope, I hadn't heard of it, either.
No worries, we're off. Now, there's an odd natural law that once you start looking for something you begin seeing it everywhere. In our case, we were yarning about Perrott's Folly, the twin towers that served as the inspiration for the pair featured in The Lord of the Rings, when we found ourselves on the outskirts of Glastonbury crossing the River Parrett - and before you ask, ye olde English were fairly random spellers, so our macro-family line includes just about anyone who's surname starts with a P has two Rs in the middle and ends with a double T. No, it's true. Really. Anyway, it felt like I was on the right track, a track that took a jolly turn in Bath where we stumbled across The Old Green Tree which is not only a great pub, but a pub offering Mr Perrett's Stout on tap, a family taonga if there ever was one. If I can just pause here for a moment and take a quick squizz at the scoreboard, that means the Perrotts, Parretts and Perretts can now boast two villages, two towers, a river, a medal-winning swimmer, a tryscoring leagie, and a damn good drop. Hoorah for us.
But there's no time for that, we've got obscure country lanes to negotiate, and when I say lanes, I mean tarmacked tracks only a kid on a tricycle should squeeze through, bordered by hedgerows exactly high enough to prevent any chance of seeing where we were. The English clearly like their mazes, but they couldn't fool us for long. After a couple of hours of this way, that way; car coming, what do we do now?; off again, next left, no right ... there it was, a little white sign advising North Perrott was one and one quarter miles nigh. Even the distances are quaint.
Then there it was, for real. I had no idea what to expect, but it was lovely in the way that only tiny English country villages are lovely. Old stone homes hugging the main road, well-loved flower beds, an old bike leaning against a wall, a roundabout complete with tumbledown tree and a circle of tiny standing stones, and not a soul in sight. The only face to be seen was the smiling mug of district councillor "Racing" Ric Pallister who, according to the poster, would be facing his absent constituents in the village hall on Sunday.
We're here, even if no one else is, now where do I start digging up family roots? The best bet would have to be the oldest building in town, the church.
So off we went to the pub. And the Manor Arms came up trumps, Yellow Hammer ale. Yum. Was the barwench impressed by the return of a prodigal son? Not really. "Perrott you say? No, can't say I know anything about that name. But tell you what, if you come in around 8ish, the locals will be drinking at that end of the bar."
Never mind, I'll just nurse my pint and have a nosey. The walls are fair groaning with faded photos proving the pub's antiquity, old toby jugs, bridles and sundry metal oddjobbery. But what's this? A framed murder ballad? That's more like it, an ode to the dastardly death of one Ruth Butcher on or around the 16th or 17th of March 1874.
"At the village of North Perrott Three miles from Crewkerne as I hear,
A brutal murder was committed That fills each heart with fear.
The victim's name it is Ruth Butcher Who in the village used to dwell.
In a sad and cruel manner By a murderer's hand she fell."
It goes on, and on, and I'd like to say they don't write 'em like they used to, but I'd be lying. Where's our church then? Just a short, sunshiny stroll up a tree-lined, horse-pooped lane as it turns out. So, this is where our serfs are, all tucked up safe and sound underground? No, the soft click of leather on willow and occasional acclamation drifts through the hedge - they're at the cricket. Lovely stuff. They play on as we scour the graveyard for lost rellies.
Alas none can be found. You'd think a Perrotty church boasting a list of rectors going back to William de Conry in 1297 could produce at least one ancestor. Never mind, after a relaxing wander about and photographs to prove the place exists, it's time for South Perrott to step up.
Damn, the pub's closed. Never-theless, the southside is at least as lovely as the north. More stone homes, with Potter-esque names like Otter, Owl, Badger and Kingfisher, and a beautiful, if slightly tilted, medieval church atop Pipplepen Lane. Again, no dead Perrotts, and this church dates back to 1180. At least there are friendly locals to be questioned.
Peter Coles is the church warden and stunt preacher when their usual gets stuck in traffic. Has he heard tales of Perrotts lurking on the moors? Nope. Who? But they do have an extremely rare pre-reformation chalice that comes with it's own lovely joke: After hearing they still use it for services, their gobsmacked insurance assessor asked "but what happens if you drop it?" "Why, we just pick it up again." Ba-doom kish.
As for the family connection, nice Mr Coles may have solved the mystery. You see, running between the villages is a wee creek he assured me was the beginnings of the mighty River Parrett we'd met near Glastonbury. As I've mentioned, correct spelling isn't a necessity in these parts, so, as sad as it is to relate, the villages are most likely its vowel-shifted namesakes. Even sadder, that lets the good Perrott people off the overdue rent hook. It's back to Lotto tickets, then.
Ah, but at least there's that river to rejoice in. Liquid gold that is. Umm, no it isn't. According to what my computer is now telling me, Parrett refers to "barge river", as derived from the Latin "paradie barse". Stink. If I'd researched just a tad more fulsomely, I could have saved myself a trip and kept my pipe dream alive. But never fear, the family still has The Lord of the Rings, some sporty types and the beer, and in these parts they count for a hell of a lot more than a bunch of old Pommy shacks and an oversized drain.
And did I mention some of my rellies were eaten by Ngati Porou? Now that's cool.
