My interest in family history started when my mother-in-law died and I wanted to find out about a coat of arms on a silver tankard that had been passed down in her family. It has taken years of work and visits to Record Offices and churches to trace the different branches of my and my husband's families. Luckily I never throw anything away! I keep all the birth, death and marriage certificates I have in an old case handed down to me by my parents.

My family's connection with Wales began with my father, Arthur Wilson. He grew up in Haverfordwest having been adopted as a small baby. When he was given up for adoption he was actually handed over at Paddington Station in London, rather like in 'The Importance of Being Ernest'. He was born in February 1883 and was handed to his adoptive family in the Second Class waiting room on the departure side on a Saturday evening in the April of that year. I still have some letters sent to his adoptive family from his birth mother, though he was never to see her again.

He qualified as an electrical engineer and in 1904, at the age of 21, he and his uncle travelled around the world, keeping a diary of their adventures. When he returned to Britain at the end of that year he went to work in Trafford Park where, towards the end of the First World War, he met my mother. She was working as a Welfare Officer for the women filling shells in a munitions factory. They married in 1921 and I was born the following year.

My husband's grandfather was born in 1844 in what is now Vilnius in Lithuania, of distinguished Jewish parentage. His father was a learned Rabbi and he himself passed the Rabbinical exams and was appointed to an important post in connection with the Israelitish Alliance. He travelled all over Europe and on one journey met a Roman Catholic priest with whom he had a talk which left a deep impression on his mind.

He came to England in the 1860s and came under the influence of other Christians, resulting in his conversion to Christianity, which meant giving up his family, friends and fortune. He had to face the loss of all his career prospects and the bitter persecution of his own people. His baptism aroused such a storm of feeling among the Jewish community that he had to leave London. He returned in 1875 and prepared for Holy Orders. After 30 years of ministry he died in 1907 and was buried in Highgate Cemetery.

He was married to Mary Rosenthal, nee Margoliouth, whose mother, Sarah was born in 1823 and lived until 1916, being remembered by her grandchildren as a lively and attractive old lady. 'Keep your temper in your pocket', was a favourite saying of hers, and she kept her good looks, her wit and her wonderful memory to the end. Tradition maintains that her husband came to England from Greece, and that she got tired of waiting for him to return, so she embarked with her children to follow him to London.

Mary spoke French, German and Italian fluently and was good at music and painting. She taught her children French and Latin. Sadly, she died aged only 43, leaving three children, the youngest of whom was only seven.