When ‘Sheffield’s Date With Hitler‘ was first published sixteen years ago, I genuinely believed the project was complete.
Like most authors, I reached the final page, sent the book to print and thought I’d told the story as fully as I possibly could.
I couldn’t have been more wrong.
What happened next fundamentally changed the way I think about heritage projects.
Within months of publication, people began getting in touch. Survivors of the Sheffield Blitz who had never previously spoken publicly about their experiences decided they were finally ready to share their memories. Families unearthed photographs, letters and documents that had sat forgotten in drawers and lofts for decades. New archive film emerged. Original German military intelligence maps, showing how the Luftwaffe planned its attack on Sheffield, came to light.
The project hadn’t ended.
In many ways, it had only just begun.
As a social historian, it’s easy to think of research as something that happens in archives and libraries. Those places are, of course, essential. But some of the richest discoveries I’ve made over the past few years haven’t come from official records.
They’ve come from conversations.
They’ve come from people who simply wanted to ensure that their family’s story wasn’t lost.
Every heritage professional will recognise that moment when someone says, “I’ve never told anyone this before…”
Those words are a privilege.
They also carry a responsibility.
Because once somebody trusts you with their memories, you’re no longer simply researching history. You’re helping preserve part of their family’s legacy.
That changes everything.
It’s one of the reasons I’ve become such a passionate advocate for involving communities in heritage projects from the very beginning.
The best projects aren’t created for communities.
They’re created with them.
Time and again, I’ve seen how public engagement transforms a project. An exhibition sparks another conversation. A talk prompts somebody to bring along an old photograph. A social media post reaches a family who never realised the significance of what they had tucked away in an old biscuit tin.
History grows because people become part of the process.
That’s certainly been my experience.
The original ‘Sheffield’s Date With Hitler‘ took just over a year to research and write. The new 85th Anniversary Collector’s Edition represents another sixteen years of discoveries, interviews and conversations. It’s not simply an updated book. It’s the product of hundreds of people contributing, knowingly or unknowingly, to a shared understanding of Sheffield’s wartime story.
Perhaps the most personal part of that journey has been recording my own dad’s memories. At 89, he still vividly remembers life in wartime Sheffield. Sitting together and preserving those memories has reminded me why heritage work matters so much. Every story we capture today is one that won’t be lost tomorrow.
That philosophy has shaped every major project I’ve worked on in recent years.
Whether it’s the Sheffield Blitz, the King Mojo and Limit Club project, George Stephenson, or community initiatives supported by the National Lottery Heritage Fund, the principle remains the same. Heritage isn’t simply about recording what happened.
It’s about creating opportunities for people to contribute their own stories and ensuring those voices become part of the historical record.
That’s where communications plays such a crucial role.
Too often, communication is viewed as something that happens at the end of a project -a press release, an exhibition launch or a social media campaign.
I see it differently.
Communication is the engine that drives participation.
It’s what encourages someone to come forward with a photograph.
It’s what persuades a reluctant interviewee that their memories really do matter.
It’s what turns audiences into contributors and projects into living archives.
When we communicate well, heritage becomes something people don’t simply consume.
They help create it.
Looking back, I’m actually grateful I was wrong all those years ago.
I’m glad ‘Sheffield’s Date With Hitler‘ wasn’t finished.
Because if I’d assumed the story was complete, I would never have met many of the remarkable people who entrusted me with their memories over the following sixteen years. I would never have uncovered the extraordinary material that’s now helping future generations understand Sheffield’s wartime experience in greater depth.
The biggest lesson I’ve learnt is a simple one.
Publishing a book isn’t the end of a heritage project.
Sometimes it’s the beginning.
If you’d like to discuss how community engagement, storytelling and strategic communications can strengthen your own heritage project, I’d be delighted to hear from you. Whether you’re developing a National Lottery Heritage Fund application, planning an exhibition or looking to capture and share local stories, the most powerful histories are often the ones we uncover together.