When we came to Scotland two years ago we visited Osprey Haven at Loch of the Lowes in Dunkeld. Haven, yes. Osprey, no. We were three days too late. This time I am hoping that the jinx that we seem to have on local wildlife might have been left at home. We drive along the edge of Loch Tay and are now in Perth and Kinross; one of the many whisky distilling areas of Scotland. We take a slightly different route from the one recommended by the sat-nav with no ill effects and arrive at Loch of the Lowes Wildlife Reserve. If you decide to come here don’t expect extensive public areas. There are a couple of hides and a viewing window overlooking multiple bird feeders but it is well worth the journey. We begin with a visit to the ‘rest room’ where a notice instructs users not to put ANYTHING apart from toilet paper down the toilet. Ummm, how is that going to work then?

This year more than makes up for the disappointments of our previous visit. The adult ospreys arrived in March from their winter home; they spend the season in places such as Senegal and Gambia. They are taking it in turns to sit on three eggs and ‘nest cam’ provides a great view. The eggs are due to hatch tomorrow. I take a rather grainy photograph of the nest cam screen and one on full zoom (which on my camera isn’t very full) of the nest itself from the hide. I am almost as excited to see reed buntings as I am the ospreys.

We return to the viewing window where a gala performance is in progress. Two red squirrels who stay around long enough for a photo call and numerous birds including yellowhammers and a greater spotted woodpecker. I get some photographs that, considering I have a pretty basic camera and am taking them through glass from a fair distance, come out quite well; some are even in focus. I was somewhat disconcerted to overhear one of the volunteers telling a group of secondary school pupils that they were looking at a ‘yellow tit’ but maybe she was taking the proverbial. Note to overseas readers – there are no yellow tits – blue tits are predominantly yellow (confusing I know) but definitely no such thing as a yellow tit.

We walk for a mile or so along Fungarth Path towards Dunkeld. The ‘fun’ is provided by ‘talking posts’, which play recorded information when you press a foot pedal. The instruction is to ‘keep pumping’, so I pump continuously and rapidly for a few minutes before realising  that I have heard the same thing three times. It is jolly hard work all this vigorous pumping so I am please to work out, by post three, that it is, in fact, possible to pump half a dozen times and then stop, whilst the voice keeps going.

We are rewarded on this walk by vast, wooded hillsides misted in bluebells. The Scottish ones seem darker than ours and we learned on our previous visit that there is a move to get these recognised as a separate variety. Framed as they are by birch trees and beeches with their newly unfurled and unspoilt waxy lime green leaves, it was truly magical. No hardship on this walk to have to retrace our steps back to the car.

We take a slightly longer route home, via Perth, in order to buy fuel at a sensible price. Then it is along the A85 through Crieff and back to the van just in time to stop our laundry getting re-washed by the rain. There follows and evening of limbo dancing under wet washing in order to reach our on-board toilet.

Well the new ‘super fast’ router arrived and sat in its box for a while, awaiting the email to say all systems were go. In the end I listened to half an hour of ‘we are experiencing a heavy volume of calls’ in order to ask why there was a delay. ‘Oh, yours is due to go live today’, I am finally told. Like I believe that would have happened had I not telephoned. I carry on working awaiting the email. The telephone and consequently the internet, goes dead. After a quick foray outside to make sure that the lack of telephone hasn’t been caused by workmen abseiling down the church tower (you think I’m joking don’t you?) I intuit that this may be the grand switch over. I bite the bullet and connect the new router. If you’ve been following this saga you will know that this is no mean physical feat, this time a great deal of crawling under the spare bed whilst negotiating piles of books, was involved. Success but no sign of super-fastness or indeed any other sort of fastness. I seem to be able to connect to two versions of my router fast(ish) and not so fast. Unfortunately the signal from the so-called fast won’t penetrate through my two foot thick walls, so I am paying extra for speed I cannot use. I can’t move the router because that is the only place with a telephone line and a spare plug socket. Deep joy, this means another call to the provider to suggest that I might have been warned about this before being signed up. By the way, if you are wondering about the video I mentioned last time, it is now live.

I am currently trying to cram six weeks’ work into one, as we will shortly be attempting to complete the Scottish holiday that ended abruptly with the demise of the car two years ago. Immediately I return I will be plunged into the black hole that is the job I must not mention for a month, so expect me to reemerge in the middle of July. A draft  of my booklet full of suggestions for involving young people in history and heritage is now at the publishers. This is something that I am passionate about so I am glad to finally get it to this stage. More details when I have them. The to do list was going reasonably well until I got distracted by a couple of research requests that weren’t on the list. Have you any idea how many John and Mary Rowes there were in North Devon? What ever you are thinking, the answer is more than that. One John Rowe confusingly managed to work his way through four wives and yes, two were called Mary. A great story though and another to add to my list of emigrants

Although it was six weeks ago, I haven’t said much about my birthday celebrations, mainly because life has been so hectic since and because I was waiting for photographs. It was a wonderful time with family visiting from far and wide. It seems that it is possible (just) to cram eight people into my house overnight. Thanks to all who were part of it. We danced to the Oggle Band at Poundstock Gild House – you knew there had to be an historical setting in it somewhere – and food provided by The Bell Inn, Parkham, The Royal Hotel, Bideford and The Half Moon, Sheepwash was consumed with gusto. Now I have to get used to being old. No pension, no bus pass, these are receding into the future with rapidity but whoopee free prescriptions! As part of the proceedings we had a series of photographs on display. Very touching that what Lucy thought was a picture of me carrying her was actually my Granny and me. Fits in well with the fun I have been having, comparing old and new pictures for the forthcoming booklet. This is the best I could do for a comparison for this one.

I am currently in what passes for a lull between the Guild of One-Name Studies’ Annual Conference and Who Do You Think You Are? Live, where I am being an ‘expert’, helping on stands and in the guise of Mistress Agnes, presenting. The best part of these events is of course meeting up with old friends, making new contacts and generally catching up on what is new in the genealogical world. All this comes hot on the heels of extended birthday celebrations, with 26 people staying and other day visitors. Wonderful of course and thank you everyone but hardly great preparation for a very hectic week.

First the Guild conference where somehow I ended up in an organising role, not sure how that happened! An initial problem was when the delegates’ badges mysteriously disappeared between the neighbouring county and my home, despite being posted, at huge expense, using guaranteed next day delivery. We set off for Birmingham minus the badges and our poor badge-making volunteer made a duplicate set and left home on an earlier train in order to get them to us on time. Once at the venue, it transpired that we were one of three conferences on site for the weekend. The Unitarian church were inconspicuous but it was immediately clear that we should be wearing furry ears or other outrageous garb in order to fit in with the UK Anime and Geek Culture Convention Kitacon Carnival (probably best not to ask) whose presence added a rather different dimension. Their event seemed to involve a great deal of posing for photographs and late night revelry. It is very hard to keep a straight face whilst speaking to Pikachou.

Having already replaced one of the speakers due to ill health, sadly another substitute was needed following a car accident. Trying to find alternatives for 25% of your conference speakers, especially when you have called in favours to create the programme in the first place, is not easy but wonderful people came forward and that was solved. So, grateful thanks to those who stepped in and best wishes to the incapacitated speakers. At 11pm on Friday night we ran the gauntlet of the audience escaping from an Adele concert and returned to the caravan. On returning to the venue at 7.30am the next day, we found that our registration desk, complete with conference packs and badges for our day delegates had disappeared into thin air. Frantic searching by the staff, including examining CCTV and raiding the bins failed to locate the material. In the end it took 24 hours to discover that the night staff had ‘helpfully’ donated our items to the Unitarians. You would have thought that the fact that the bags were emblazoned ‘Guild of One-Name Studies’ might have been sufficient clue as to which conference party the stuff belonged to but no.

The food was actually good but the first lunch, a buffet, was served without tables being made available. Buffet, in this instance, should not be translated as sausage rolls and sandwiches but a proper meal, with things like curry on offer. A tad tricky to consume whilst standing, especially for those with mobility problems. We solved this by moving to an adjoining room. In the end though, the two key conference elements, the presentations and the interaction with fellow delegates, scored highly, with several people saying it was one of the best programmes ever and there was a marked reluctance for people to leave the conference dinner table for over an hour after the meal had ended.

The last few weeks have seen me wrangling with officialdom on a not infrequent basis. First there was that sinking feeling when I checked my bank account to find that I had allegedly purchased a very expensive bathroom from an outlet in Hull. Credit to the bank who had the money back in my account by the same afternoon but I did find it more than a little odd that I was asked if I was sure that I hadn’t forgotten about this purchase. Like I spend a fortune on a bathroom every day of the week. Whoever hacked my account must have lacked forethought as this was an online purchase and they presumably had to give their address for delivery!

I now have a lovely new-to-me car that is ridiculously smart and I hardly dare use it. In fact I nearly couldn’t use it as it proved almost impossible to tax and insure. Firstly, transferring my old insurance to the new car. The first person I spoke to claimed that she couldn’t identify the new car and requested more specification details than I could provide. Having ascertained that there were no more specification details, I tried again and this time got the holder of the insurance office brain cell. They could identify the car with no problem but then there was the usual hiatus because none of my occupations appear on their magic list. As I do several jobs I was asked how many hours I spent on each one – do I have any idea?! I am now down as an interpreter – my skill at languages is barely above zero. Hurrah though, there is nothing additional to pay for the remaining insurance period. Imagine my horror when the two days later I get a bill for £194 as the excess required for two months insurance – you must be joking was the polite version of my reaction. Another phone call to the insurance company. I should explain that each of these calls necessitates the caller in listening to how important their call is for a full fifteen minutes. “Our call lines are open 24/7” – no, they so aren’t. It, fortunately, transpired that the bill was a mistake but what a performance.

Then car tax. As a new owner I needed a vital part of the log book in order to tax the car online. This would be the vital part that the garage had inadvertently lost. The necessary twelve digit number was a mystery. Allegedly, it would cost £25 and take five weeks to replace the missing piece of paper. I am standing in the garage trying to collect a car that I am unable to tax and therefore, dear overseas readers, unable to drive legally. The garage receptionist sifts through the paperwork. She finds an eleven digit number. Using the mobile phone of a random fellow customer (my emergency phone is ten years old – it make phone calls – period) we go online and try the eleven digit number prefixed by a zero – eureka I have a taxed car. It still seems far too posh. It has a radio that changes colour as you drive along. Actually this is highly irritating and despite pushing, pulling and twisting every available knob and button, it does not seem to turn off but I am learning to ignore it as it blends from pink to yellow to blue.

We also had a car park incident – we really aren’t fit to be let out. We’d collected our ticket on entry to a multi-story car park and were queuing to pay on exit when the car two in front of us caused chaos by apparently losing their ticket. I’ll not lie, during the ten minute wait my driver was more than scathing. It is our turn to exit, we can‘t seem to see the slot for putting our money in. It turns out that we should have paid and validated our ticket at a machine two floors away before joining the queue. Guess who was dispatched at a run to accomplish this task. The fifteen people in the queue behind us barely hooted their horns.

My success at naming the Mutant Hero Ninja Turtles during my last outing to a local quiz went before me and I was asked to make up a team again. Did my alleged prowess at history stand me in good stead this time? No. My claim to fame on this occasion was to provide the name of a member of Take That!

Last week I had an invitation to be interviewed about my books on Radio Wolverhampton. Did I want to come into the studio, I was asked, or be interviewed on the telephone? No brainer that one. So tonight at 8.10pm I will be interviewed by Philip Solomon. His email told me that past interviewees include Noddy Holder, Chas & Dave, P J Proby, Alvin Stardust, Uri Geller, Neil Morrisey, Ken Dodd, Leo Sayer and errrr now me. I expect it will be a blink and you miss it occasion but if you are really short of things to do tonight you can it seems listen online if you have downloaded the appropriate thingy.

When Peter’s sister, Lucy, was born, I wrote about her direct maternal line. Four months later and her cousin Edward’s post was about grandparenthood. Now it is Peter’s turn. When I learned what his name was to be my immediate reaction was that it was a new name for our family but actually it isn’t. I can only comment on his maternal ancestry but there are six Peters amongst his known direct ancestors on this side of the family. What follows is their story; young Peter needs to be aware that he can’t choose his ancestors!

Three of the Peters are members of the Elford family, grandfather, father and son; baby Peter’s 12, 11 and 10 x great grandfathers. The eldest of these is one of our earliest known ancestors and very little is known about him. Peter Elford senior was baptised in Mary Tavy, Devon in 1584, the son of William and Joan Elford née Cudlipe. At this time, Queen Elizabeth I was still on the throne and Walter Raleigh found Roanoke Island in North America. Mary Tavy, four miles north of Tavistock, on the edge of Dartmoor, was in the nineteenth century home to the world’s largest copper mine. It is likely however that the Elfords were yeoman farmers. Peter senior married Jane Bowden in 1606, the year Guy Fawkes was executed and Macbeth and King Lear were first performed. They had eight children. One of their daughters, Joanna, is a strong candidate for the Joanna Elford who was indicted for witchcraft in 1671. The youngest child, Peter, was baptised in 1622. In 1641, two Peter Elfords signed the Protestation Return in Mary Tavy; probably Peter senior and his son. Peter senior died in 1650.

The second Peter Elford married Katheren Wills in 1646, just as the first phase of the English civil war was coming to an end. Peter served as parish constable and churchwarden for Mary Tavy. A lease dated 1669/70 shows that Peter was a yeoman of Peeke’s Tenement in Mary Tavy. Peter and Katheren had five children. Their son, the youngest Peter Elford, was baptised in 1647. He married Margery Spiller in 1676, just as Christopher Wren was putting the finishing touches to the Royal Greenwich Observatory. They too had five children.

A pair of Peter Geachs, father and son, are young Peter’s 10 and 9 x great grandfathers. Peter Geach senior married Frances Addams in St. Mellion, Cornwall in 1674. He leased a property called Forse Field, Viverdon Common in St. Mellion and was described as a husbandman. Only two children have been found for Peter and Frances. Peter Geach junior was baptised in 1675. He and his wife, Anne née White, moved from St. Mellion to nearby St. Dominick, where they had four children.

Norham

The most recent Peter is Peter Eadington, young Peter’s 6 x great grandfather. Edington and its rarer variant, Eadington, is a surname found predominantly in Northumberland. It is a locational name, taken from the hamlet of Edington (Ida’s town), which is three miles south west of Morpeth. Peter Eadington arrives in the family history as the father of Isabella E(a)dington who was baptised at St. Cuthbert’s, Norham, Northumberland on the 29th of June 1789 to Peter Eadington and Isabella Mather. Baptisms in the area do sometimes give mothers’ maiden names but the entry suggests that Peter and Isabella Mather were not married. This is borne out by the existence of a bastardy bond citing Peter Edington, a miller of Norham, as the father of Isabella Mather’s unborn illegitimate child. There are other baptisms in Norham for children of Peter E(a)dington around this time. He appears to have had four children by Alice, to whom it seems he was married and another illegitimate child by Mary Brown in 1794.

Norham is right on the Scottish border and it has been difficult to identify the site of the mill. Local folklore suggests that it was on the site of what is now Tower Cottages and the adjacent ‘vennel’, or alley, is known as The Mill Opening. A painting of 1907 depicts what might be a sail-less windmill. Ordnance survey maps however suggest that this structure was a dovecot. The deeds of 14 Castle Street, next to Tower Cottages, confirm that a miller lived there but there is no certainty that the mill was next door. The Tithe Map and schedule site a mill on the opposite side of the village green however there were no male Eadingtons in the parish at that date. This building is near a tributary of the River Tweed and would almost certainly have been a water mill. There was no building on the site of this mill by 1898. Even if the site of the mill could be identified, there is no proof that this was the mill worked by Peter Eadington. Call Books listing freeholders for the manor of Norham Town do not list Petter {sic} Eadington until 1795 and he sells his freehold to principal landowner Sir Francis Blake in 1805. The land tax for 1798 mentions a mill in the hamlet of Twizel in Norham so it may be that Peter worked here before moving in to the centre of the village.

So, just tiny fragments of Peter’s ancestry and rather a mixed bunch but all part of the rich tapestry that is our family’s history.