Resting on the mantelpiece in my grandmother's house was a photograph of three children in their national Russian dress. It remains one of the most memorable images I have of both my grandfather and my own Russian heritage. In his last years, when I was a little girl, I remember laughing at him, a little frightened, when I heard him speak in his strange, beautiful language. He didn't like to talk about his own childhood much. From my mother I had learnt that he had lived in St. Petersburg and remembered the streets literally running with blood the morning that he left - a 12 year-old boy on the wrong side of a revolution in 1917.

Taking this trip to Russia with my mother to see her father's - my grandfather's - homeland had become surprisingly and quietly urgent for my mother and me. The decision to go was inspired by a need to spend some time together after what had been a challenging 18 months for both of us. My sister had separated from her husband and it had thrown all our family ties into some turmoil, upsetting the family balance. Living some distance away and charged with uncompromising demands from my job, I stood mostly on the sidelines. I felt that, by acknowledging and re-affirming a place and time that was important to our family's history, it was Mum's hope that she could save her family and herself. It was to be a once in a lifetime trip, not least because of the expense, but also the distance and the desire to do it together.

After two days in Moscow, we sailed out on the Moscow Canal, a golden light filtering through, the warmth of the sun tangible. It felt like Russia knew we were here. As we looked out at the immense land passing by, I kept thinking: this was my grandfather's country nearly 100 years before. And this Russian language which I now spelled out letter by letter the way a child learns to read, had been his language; this mother-tongue which Alzheimer's had given back to him during the last year of his life. But the disease had also stolen a history that had been rarely spoken of. "I can't believe you never asked about that", became my constant refrain to my mother, when I wanted to know more about where he came from.

For the next nine days or so we travelled through the interior of the country by water, bound for St. Petersburg. The boat stopped most days, or at least every other, at a place of interest - a small town or village, or one of the many, very beautiful domed Orthodox churches. We were sharing a cabin - which left little room for privacy - and remembering to respect each other's space was more than just a matter of cabin geography.

I know we both felt the pressure associated with finally doing something that we had long been a goal. One's dreams are always perfect, but as challenging, and at times disappointing, as some of the elements of the trip were, the value of going for both of us was immeasurable.

Arriving in St. Petersburg, we made our way to where my grandfather once lived, now strewn with expensive shops and boutiques. The architecture had remained the same, however, and the sense of history was inescapable. We had talked about this trip for years, and for the past 14 days we had felt it intensely as we travelled through the heart of Russia, but to be there on my grandfather's doorstep, brought it all forward for my mother and I for the first time. That we should feel so strongly for a place neither of us had ever been to before was surely ridiculous, and yet we did. I watched my mother look into the faces of the people we passed in the street, inviting them to recognise us, as she searched their faces for traces of our own. For me, it felt as though looking at my Mum in Russia was what I had most wanted to see all along.

Sophie is a photo-editor at Phaidon books. She assisted on the international best-seller 'Century', and is responsible for a recent photo-graphy book on civil rights in America, 'Freedom'.

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(c) Sophie Spencer-Wood
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