I’ve just finished making myself a ring. It’s something I’ve done many times for other people — taking inherited stones and gold, reshaping them into something new while holding close the stories and sentiment of what came before. But this time, it was for me.

The diamonds came from my paternal grandmother’s engagement ring. Her name was Barbara Whitehead, and when she married my grandfather, she became Barbara Macleod. I was given Barbara as my middle name. I never met her — she died before I was born — but older relatives sometimes say I look like her. There’s something quietly moving in the idea that a face, or a certain turn of expression, can travel through generations.

There’s always a certain mystery when it comes to inherited pieces, especially when they belong to someone you never had the chance to meet. You hold these stones in your hand, imagining all the places they’ve been — dinner parties, long walks, quiet mornings. In my case, I’ve pieced together fragments of my grandmother’s story from old photographs and family tales. I believe the diamonds are transition cuts, which fits with the time — a beautiful cut that bridged the softness of the old European cuts with the brighter sparkle of the modern brilliant.

Before remaking the ring, I wore it for a few months. I wanted to live with it, to understand it better and feel its weight in my daily life. It wasn’t quite my style, and I worried that the diamonds were no longer secure in their original platinum settings, so I knew a change was needed. I imagine the ring was made by a local jeweller in Chile, perhaps with materials sourced in the region — another subtle thread tying me to that part of my family’s history.

My grandparents Barbara and Murdo Macleod

It can feel a little indulgent to make something for yourself — I’ve had moments of that feeling — but I do truly believe that these small acts of remembrance are meaningful. The essence of the people who wore these pieces lives on in their new forms. And when you reimagine them in a way that suits your own style, they’re no longer tucked away in a drawer — they’re worn and loved again.

It’s a quiet way to stay connected to the people and places we come from. A grounding gesture.

Barbara and Murdo met in South America in the 1930s, where they were both working. She was from Surrey, and he from the Isle of Barra in the Outer Hebrides — an adventurous pairing. They married in Valparaíso and lived in the neighbouring coastal town of Viña del Mar, where my father was born. I imagine the diamonds and the platinum came from there too, though I don’t know for sure. They eventually returned to Barra in the 1950s to settle.

I love to picture my grandmother on her wedding day: a beautiful satin dress, yellow flowers in her hair, marrying among friends in their adopted home. Afterward, they boarded a cruise liner for a long journey across the Atlantic, sailing to the UK to meet each other’s families — a slow, romantic crossing that feels worlds away from how we travel today. There’s something poignant in that long voyage, setting out into the unknown together.

For the setting, I used inherited gold from another side of the family — this time from my mother’s auntie May. She has her own story, one I’ll save for another day.

When I’m working with people to remake inherited jewellery, I always love hearing about the hands these pieces have passed through. So I thought I’d share the story of my own ring.

My grandmother and grandfather, Barbara and Murdo, on their wedding day. Vina del Mar, Chile 1938.

My grandmother’s original engagement ring. I used the middle and 2 outside transition cut diamonds in my new ring with the two old European cut diamonds for another project.

If you feel inspired to reimagine your own pieces or begin a new chapter with a bespoke design, I’d be delighted to help…

BESPOKE

A Ring of My Own

Saying Goodbye to my Sketchbook