Do any of us even care about Australia day anymore? Or is it just another public holiday we’re grateful to have (or have come to exprect)? If you take a random selection of Aussie and asked them about the day I bet few of them would be able to articulate why we have the day off. So I’m beginning to wonder whether this public holiday really has lost it’s meaning.

Australia Day proclaimed on 26th January is the official national day of Australia. Formerly known as Anniversary Day, Foundation Day, or ANA Day until around 1890, it was declared a public holiday to commemorate the arrival of the First Fleet at Sydney Cove in 1788 and the proclamation at that time of British sovereignty over New Holland (the former name for the eastern seaboard of Australia).

OK, so for all of you convicts out there (and you know who you are), whether you stole a loaf of bread (or did something worse) here’s your opportunity to thank your ancestors for being so naughty and getting shipped to this far off penal colony to do hard labour. And if (life me) you are the descendant of a free settler or two then it’s time to acknowledge the bravery (or stupidity) of travelling a few months in a leaky ship to get to the end of the earth, set up camp and try your luck at some new venture.

I am fortunate to have such a good knowledge of my ancestry. My father’s ancestors immigrated from Neuchâtel in Switzerland in the 1850’s (thanks to prompting from the Governor’s wife, Sophie LaTrobe) and settled in the Yarra Valley, running cattle and eventually establishing what is now known as St Huberts, Yering Station and Chateau Yering (so you know why I love my wine). Around this time I like to go visit the cemeteries where they lie, and give thanks to my great-grandfather Hubert and his brother Paul’s bravery, as well as Alice and Eleanore’s loyalty in standing by their husbands in what must have been trying times. Obviously I never knew my great grandparents, and my dad’s parents both passed before I was born (it was commonplace for de Castella men to marry very late in life). But despite this there is a rich history they have left behind which I can access, including their former homes, several photos, paintings and their manuscripts which all help me feel a little closer to them.

My mother’s ancestors were also free settlers, my grandmother Esther’s side immigrated from Scotland, but it was my orphaned grandfather, Bernard, who at age 19 immigrated in 1928 from Poplar, London with the Big brother program (and I’m not referring to the reality TV show). He came with little more than the shirt on his back, managed to find a room for rent in Richmond in Melbourne, and promptly fell in love with the landlord’s daughter, Esther, and asked her to marry him.  And I’m grateful Esther’s headstrong nature in refuting her father’s orders and marrying to create a life, a home and a family with Bernard. As one of the strongest women I’ve ever known it’s the reason I dedicate my book to her. The rest, as they say, is history. But as it’s my history it’s especially today that I give thanks for Bernard’s bravery in travelling so far at such a young age, to leave behind the few relatives he had and to start a new life. For without that bravery I would never be. They both had such a huge influence on my life, and who I became … and I miss them.

And so whilst you may feel this Saturday is nothing out of the ordinary, perhaps it’s time to take a moment to reflect on your own family history. Ask who influenced you to be who you have become. Think about the family rights and rituals that have become ‘the norm’ and made your family who they are. And remember loved ones who have passed, and celebrate with those who are still here.