There is nothing like the impending arrival of your first grandchild - our wonderful granddaughter, Esther, was born last month - to focus your attention on your own grandparents. It dawned on me that while she will know about us, I have little to tell her about my own roots.

The only grandparent I knew was my maternal grandfather, Jack Newman, who lived with us in Glasgow until he died in 1972. I adored him. He would tell me stories of his life in late nineteenth-century Russia, about his childhood work as a barber and silk salesman, and about how, in 1903, at the age of 15, he and his father finally left his village for Britain to escape the oppressive anti-semitism that constantly threatened their lives. If only I had paid more attention to his tales.

So, determined to discover my ancestry, I started a remarkable personal voyage - blessed with good luck at every twist and turn - that eventually took me to the Latvian hinterland where my grandfather was raised.

Every journey begins with the first step, and on this occasion, that starting point is my "aunt" Elaine, the elderly (forgive me for using that adjective, Elaine) niece of my grandfather. As the family historian, she tells me that Jack Newman and his family came from Tukums, a village in Russia, and that his Russian name was Nee. Disappointingly, a quick web search reveals nothing about the Nee family.

What I do read about Tukums, however, repels me. A substantial Jewish community from the 1850s onwards was systematically decimated by pogrom after pogrom. And what the Russian indigenous population began was finally completed by the Nazi invasion of Tukums (now part of Latvia) in 1941. Aided by the Latvian defence force, all the Jews were massacred by the Germans. There is no Jewish community there now.

For some irrational reason that I cannot explain, I become determined to sleep one night in the village where my grandfather lived. On impulse, I book a flight to Riga, and from there I will somehow make the journey 70km west inland to the village of Tukums. I allow myself 48 hours for the entire trip. Ironically, my grandfather and great grandfather take three months to literally walk their way out of Russia, bribing border guards, dicing with danger and sleeping rough, yet I easily secure a two-hour flight for 1p.

I then contact a Glasgow genealogist, Harvey Kaplan, who specialises in tracing family roots in Eastern Europe. Within minutes he finds that Jack Newman's naturalisation papers are listed in the Home Office database, and 24 hours later, I receive copies by e-mail. The papers reveal that his Russian name was Ney (not Nee), and that he indeed lived in Tukums before leaving Russia in 1903. They also contain another gem of information - his parents were Elias and Hannah Ney. My trip to the village now seems even more imperative. If nothing else, I will walk in the streets that he walked as a child.

Other searches from different databases throw up more information, and along the way I even discover a third cousin living in France, the grandson of one of my grandfather's brothers who emigrated from the UK to South Africa but was never heard from again.

Then comes a further lucky break. About a week before my speculative trip to Latvia, Harvey excitedly calls me to explain that the All Russia Census 1897 confirms Elias and Hannah Ney lived in Tukums that year, and lists the family's exact address. But will that street still exist? What are the chances that the original house in which my grandfather spent his childhood more than 100 years ago still stands?

My heart is pounding as I travel in from Riga airport by bus, carrying only a small rucksack and a wad of cash in four different currencies. Strange to think that I am now in a country that is part of my heritage, my ancestry, and yet about which I know so little; plus, I don't speak the language. I am not entirely comfortable.

With guidance from a helpful hotel clerk, I find myself next morning on the two-hour train journey to Tukums. As the carriage bumps along the rickety rails, I try to visualise what lies ahead. And I am afraid. Trundling alongside forests, all I can think of is the blood that has been spilled on these grounds over the centuries.

At last we arrive at my stop, and I am gutted to read the station's noticeboard: it describes the history of Tukums yet makes absolutely no reference to its former Jewish population.

I follow the few people who make their way from the small station into the village. Surprisingly, it looks clean and modern, immediately reminding me of a typical Scottish village. It is quaint and engaging with all the trappings of 21st century life, not at all what I expect. I fear that all the signs of the family history I am searching for have long been eradicated. The people seem ordinary, friendly and - if truth be told - annoyingly welcoming.

I scan the faces of those who brush past me in the street. I can easily visualise my grandfather blending into this Eastern European context. He would have looked quite at home here.

Entering the information office, I ask for an English-speaking guide. "No guide, no English", I am told emphatically. "Yes guide, yes English," I insist. And so we argue back and forwards. I sense that the success of my venture rests entirely on the outcome of this encounter, and I will not give up. After 20 minutes, the receptionist indicates I should be at the local art museum for 2pm that afternoon. My guide will be Ilze Paparinska, (who turns out to be a charming social historian with fluent English).

As our tour begins, I do not reveal the true nature of my visit to my guide. I trust no-one in Tukums right now. Why should I? My ancestors were driven from this place.

Ambling together through the small streets, I gradually see that amid the modern buildings lie older structures as well, artefacts of a previous way of life. There is a curious mixture of the past and the present, sitting elegantly side by side. Ilze makes reference to this house or that building previously owned by Jewish families, but I feign indifference. Soon we arrive at the former synagogue on Elizabeth Street - it is now a modern gymnasium, with the smallest of outdoor tourist plaques which only briefly mentions its former purpose. Aside from that one-line reference, there is absolutely no sign that the building once had religious significance. This makes me so tense. I am firing on all cylinders emotionally, but I force myself to smile casually. Ilze insists we go inside.

I already know that into this very room, all the Jews of the town were herded by the Nazis in July 1941, and kept there. After a few days the men were taken, some 25-30 souls per truck, to a spot 10km north. They were forced to dig a large grave by the lake and were murdered, their bodies thrown into the pit. During the next week, all the women and children followed a similar fate. Not one survived the slaughter.

Through the oppressive silence inside this former synagogue, I swear I can hear the victims calling to me. I also know already that this is probably the house of worship attended by my great grandfather, my grandfather and all the rest of his family, and I swear I can hear them calling to me, too.

That's when I break. It's too much. My tears flow. With my back to my guide, I struggle in vain to compose myself. "It's so sad," Ilze whispers.

Outside, we sit together in the oppressive heat. After several minutes, I pull myself together. My guide has already guessed the real reason for my visit. Indeed, she tells me that she instinctively knew the moment we met; that's why she steered me to the former synagogue.

I scour the modern village map for the street my grandfather lived on. Disappointingly, it's not there. I show the address to Ilze. She looks, smiles up at me and simply asks: "Do you want to see it? I can take you there now."

After a 200m walk, I am suddenly standing before Bolshay Street 21-4, Tukums, home of my great grandparents, my grandfather and his brothers and sisters. The cobbled street is exactly as it must have been over 100 years ago, 19 families still living in crowded houses with no running water - the well at the end of the narrow street is still the only supply. It's like a movie set. I am in a time warp.

Ilze beams with delight and states with complete certainty: "Richard, your grandfather played on these cobbled stones". Against all the odds, I have achieved my dream. I phone my wife but when she answers, my words won't come out. She understands. I am emotionally drained at this moment.

A fitful sleep that night is followed by an early morning hike to the former Jewish cemetery, 2km north of the town. Later that afternoon, I meet Ilze Paparinsksa and her children to say goodbye and thanks. She too has been deeply affected by our shared experience.

As the train pulls out of Tukums, 29 hours after I first set foot in the place that my grandfather left more than a century before in the hope of achieving a better life in the New World, I think again of that village. Strangely, I am no longer afraid. In fact, I feel damn good. I imagine myself asking in a few years "Esther, do you want to hear the story of Elias Ney, your great, great, great grandfather, and of his son, Jack Newman, your grandfather's grandfather?"