When I first took up family history many years ago, I set off by train and tube to Bethnal Green in the hope of finding some graves of some of my ancestors. I knew one of the churches where they'd married so as it was Sunday morning I headed there, arriving while the congregation were having a post-service cuppa. The vicar was standing on the church steps smoking a cigarette and rocking back and forth on his heels. He was less than delighted to hear my explanation for my visit and my request for the location of the burial ground, and casually informed me "Oh, we've levelled it to make a play area for the children."
I almost passed out on the spot. I didn't know whether to laugh or burst into tears. He chivvied me inside and handed me over to a lady called, if I remember rightly, Betty, who was doing the teas but was the resident local history expert. I was given or sold a booklet about the history of the church and sent on my way. I had the feeling that I was an unwelcome nuisance to the vicar, although not to Betty who did her best to help.
