Have recently added Linkedin to my social media collection. A little worrying that they have interpreted my skills as being suitable for a post that involves ‘developing mathematical algorithms for high-order simulation of compressible flows’. I am sure I could, if only I knew what it meant.

French Exchange students with us in the seventeenth century this week. Somewhat anachronistic that they all began singing the Marsellais when doing pike drill!

Was not holding out much hope when I received a request to trace the Jones family. Things got better when I managed to get back to an Archimedes Jones (got to be better than William). They then got worse again as his birthplace was Jamaica!

Now on a short break resuming our south-west coastal path walk. This portion requires two cars. Not very ecologically sound but there are just no buses anywhere near the places we need to start and stop some of the sections. This means I have to work out a convoluted route so I can get to south Devon without encountering anything that purports to be a major road – the A38 for example. This is especially important as I am in the new-to-me car that I am not yet used to. The up side is that I get to pootle across stupendous countryside in the middle of nowhere Dartmoor. I stop for herds of horses and generally enjoy myself. I am fine until I get to Cornwood. Unfortunately the next bit is not on my map. Well it is but not on any of the maps that I have actually brought with me. Fine, I have borrowed the sat-nav. I’ll sat-nav on from here. Problem one – This is not my sat nav so it has to lie on the passenger seat. This means I can hear it but not see it, so not much time for anticipating what is coming next. Problem two – I lose GPS signal for about ten minutes on a very narrow road with a car behind me and no chance of stopping. During this period I have to guess the route. Problem three – the sat-nav would like me to go along the A38. By this time I am tired and hungry. A38 – whatever – it is only a road. I am to join the A38 on a blind bend with the sun in my eyes. My wing mirrors or angled down to facilitate getting up my drive, which is barely wider than my car, without untold damage to the Methodist Church next door. They are not angled correctly for seeing what is bearing down on me at a great rate on the A38. The wing mirrors don’t seem to move much. I am restricted to twisting round awkwardly and using my rear view mirror, which is about as helpful in these circumstances as a chocolate tea-pot. I launch myself into the unknown. There is no screeching of brakes or hooting of horns. I seem to have joined the A38 without incident. More by luck than judgement.

Driving along the A38 is fine, it is just the joining I have trouble with but this is seriously out of my driving comfort zone. I know, I know, I have been driving for twenty five years. Sadly, most of that was on the Isle of Wight, where you get a sum total of 200 yards of dual carriageway and joining that is controlled by traffic lights. I leave the A38 after 3 miles cross under it and – oh no – have to join it AGAIN going in the opposite direction! Effectively I am crossing it but not in a straight line. Arggh!

Chris and the caravan have been in south Devon for a couple of hours already. I am later as I have been conducting a Devon Family History Society session for beginners, slow starters and the generally stuck. In this weather the paddling pool in the adjacent park was probably more appealing but those who attended seemed appreciative. We plan an early start for tomorrow’s walk to avoid the forecast 30 degree temperatures.

We leave before 8 o’clock to walk from Bantham to Inner Hope. A comparatively short stretch but we are out of practice and the starting and stopping points have to take account of the many south Devon river estuaries. We leave my car at what will be the end of the walk and drive in Chris’ to our starting point. An unidentifiable red warning light appears on his dashboard. We ignore it – the wheels haven’t fallen off or anything – we will be fine. Against our principles but we have already paid a small fortune to park my car now we need to pay again to park Chris’. There is no on road parking for a very long way. Neither of us have had the sense to actually bring any money with us. We count out the copper and 5 pences in Chris’ car ashtray, wondering what plan B is if we can’t come up with the £5 required. Fortunately we have enough, although the car park attendant looks less than impressed with a handful of change.

We set off on a lovely stretch of coastal path. Bizarrely there appears to be a martial arts class going on on the beach. Landslips mean we are diverted on to a narrow road. Every time a car passes we have to squash ourselves in to the hedge, attempting to choose a portion that is lacking stinging nettles and brambles. We cross a rickety bridge, keeping a sharp eye out for trolls and manage to get back to my car before the heat of the day – pretty much just as everyone else is starting out. We drive back for Chris’ car. The only place to turn my car round is past the man collecting the £5s for the car park. An advantage of Chris being distinctive looking and I guess of us having paid in 5ps is that, amongst hundreds of customers, we are recognised and are allowed to drive past to fetch Chris’ car without being deprived of any money, which we don’t have anyway.

Then the problems start. We are two of only a few cars who are heading up a single width road away from the beach as hoards of surf board carrying, spade wielding tourists are approaching it in their cars. None of these tourists seem to a) know the width of their car or b) be able to find reverse. Plenty of squashing into hedges, reversing and passing with half an inch to spare is required. Unlike the A38, this is fun. I can do this. This is what I do all the time. Slow, I’ll grant you but fun.

Thanks everyone for the Race for Life donations – it made all the ‘running’ in the hot weather worth while. The medals, that were awarded for not expiring from heat exhaustion on the way round, are equipped with safety gadgets in their ribbons. I suppose these are a nanny state necessity in case any hapless racers attempt to hang themselves.

 A nearby village has a scarecrow competition running. I accelerate nonchalantly hoping no one noticed that I slowed down for the lollipop lady. I did wonder why she was so far from the nearest school. Well she was very life like. The last week has seen us spend a seventeenth century day in the hottest classroom in the world. Fifty children were crammed into said room making matters worse. Some excitement was occasioned however when a gardener began some not very seventeenth century strimming outside. Obviously all the windows were open making said strimming distractingly loud. I was half way through the fourth of four hourly sessions so my voice was beginning to falter somewhat. I was just shouting my way through what happened when armour was hit by a musket ball when the strimming man’s strimmer flung up a stone and shattered the window. Any teenagers rendered comatose by the heat jerked into an excitable frenzy. I extolled the virtues of armour when being attacked by flying stones.

We rush home to show a Clovelly Archives Association member round her ancestral village. Needless to say she is related to Chris. Pretty much anyone with North Devon ancestors is related to Chris. Walking up and down the cobbles makes my muscles remember that I have raced for life the previous day.

Then one of our best ever days back at the 1646 ranch. Four wheelchair bound, brain injured, residents of a local care home come in with their carers. I open secondary doors to allow wheelchairs to pass through. I knew it was going to be a good day when one of the lovely carers, of ample proportions, suggested that this might be for her benefit, rather than that of the chairs. We were able to dedicate our day to these wonderful people. Pike drill was a blast – ‘place the right wheel of your chair against the base of your pike’.

A meeting to discuss our proposed Buckland Brewer History Group followed. Not being a milk drinker, when offering guests a cup of tea, I check the sell by date first. Unfortunately I did this after I had removed the lid. I did realise and stop tipping when my foot started to get wet. June 13^th by the way.

Off in our new to us caravan, in preparation for the South West Family History Fair at the weekend. We are struggling a little with the downsizing that is a concomitant of the new van. We call in at Street. For the benefit of my foreign fans, Street is the home of the Clarks outlet store. Clarks being one of our premier shoemakers and this being their largest store. We then commence the farce that is me attempting to buy shoes. My feet are pretty much square and when approached by assistants asking what I am looking for I am not joking when I say, ‘Anything that fits’. On previous occasions I have left this store because nothing does fit. This time I am after sandals. This is better than shoes as, with sandals, ones feet can sometimes hang over the edges a bit. I would really like some the same as I am wearing, purchased in this store about eight years ago. My shoe wearing and buying resembles that of my ancestors. I buy a pair of shoes (yes, singular) and then wear them until they are beyond economic repair. This is to postpone the awful shoe buying scenario for as long as possible. It is still very hot but shoe trying on requires sock wearing. I am now looking natty in my three quarter length trousers, sandals and socks. The assistant looks at me as if I am seriously sad when I ask if 2005 fashions are still in stock. I head over to the children’s department. The one advantage of having feet my shape is that I can fit into children’s shoes and thus avoid paying VAT. Oh silly me this is July and predicted to be the hottest weekend of the year. Of course sandals are not in season. Oh to live in days when shoes were home made and were for comfort not fashion. Of course at this time of year, many of our ancestors would have gone barefoot to preserve a valuable asset for the winter. The weird thing about historical shoes is that, allegedly Medieval and Victorian footwear had a left and right, yet in the seventeenth century shoes were identical. The reason I have heard given for this is that, if shoes were identical, it was quicker to pull them on in a time of war. How does this work? Were there then no wars in the Medieval period? I then try to emulate my ancestors by tripping barefoot down the prom at Weston super Mare for the first paddle of the season.

I pop in to a high street bank to pay in some cheques. Super keen Simon approaches. Would I like to try paying them in using the machine to save queuing? Well, not really but Simon looks like he is on some kind of payment by results deal so I agree. It is not a quick option this and first my debit card and then my cheques are swallowed by a machine. After a lot of whirring they are duly spat out again. Simon thinks it is because one of my cheques is not a standard size. Now I am at least three places further back in the queue to pay them in the conventional way.

So Racing For Life today. 1500 people have gathered in 27 degree heat. My companions have forty years on me. I am relying on them being slowed down by their tutus and fairy wings. I don’t envy the participants in the fleecy onesies. I feel a little conspicuous as I am not wearing regulation pink. I rarely do pink. My one pink T-shirt has long sleeves – you must be joking. You can always spot those who are taking this just a tad too seriously. They have personalised water bottles and are checking their stop watches. We do the obligatory prancing about that is laughingly called a ‘warm up’. Warm up? I am already sweltering.

I have a year’s worth of Zumbaing under my belt since last years R 4 L. Trouble is it always comes straight after I have spent a month being immobile as a result of the job I must not mention. I was hoping to get round the 5k in under 40 minutes. I contemplate jogging the shady bits – I don’t contemplate it for long. Actually there are very few shady bits. I am proud of myself for pretty much jogging the whole first kilometre, when bottlenecks allowed. I graciously allow the youngsters to get ahead of me – wouldn’t do to demoralise them too much. Manage to get round in 42 minutes 10 seconds – pretty good considering the heat. Great to see so many raising money for a good cause. Am I the only one to find it ironic that someone who has just completed the course, sporting a ‘let’s kick cancer’ t- shirt, is barely across the line before she lights her cigarette? The freebies for completion are somewhat minimal this year – maybe sponsorship is becoming harder to come by. Bring back the cool shoe bags, that’s what I say. Still time to sponsor my efforts.

 Home in time to witness Andy Murray’s win. Watching Wimbledon is one of my earliest memories. At 15 months old I was sat in my pram watching a nine inch square black and white TV. It seems I was probably watching Lew Hoad and Althea Gibson. Still mourn the days when there was no tie break and the top players played doubles and singles. Early memories are part of our family history and we need to record them.

Whilst taking the seventeenth century to a local high school last week, an interesting incident occurred. We leave our not very seventeenth century vehicle in order to check in with reception. ‘You’d better lock the car’, I say – not very quietly. ‘It’s got the gun in it’. A passing school librarian goes a peculiar shade of pale and is clearly wondering which emergency service she should alert first. Once inside, I am allocated not a classroom but a theatre. This gives me delusions of grandeur. I am playing to the gallery here – great stuff. Time to go home and we find that an over zealous work experience caretaker has given us a parking ticket. He has forgotten to check against the list of authorised visitors’ vehicles. We manage to talk our way out of this. Not sure they would want us to pay a fine in groats anyway.

I have made more progress on the American Braund who was incapable of telling the truth. Help from the Canadian Censuses and the ability to see the 1940 US census images free via Family Search. Courtesy of the American Newspapers site, I discovered that the poor man met a tragic end whilst suffering from a form of dementia. He cut his wrist and then, when that failed to work, hung himself. I did think that the sanitised version of events in the newspaper of his Canadian home town was a master of understatement – ‘although he had not been in his usual robust health for the past year or two, death came to him not unexpectedly’. Apart from apparently running off with the, much younger, wife of his former lodger, it seems he had another ‘wife’ whom he seems to have neglected to marry.

Village BBQ today. I have been delegated to provide bread rolls. News of my cooking ‘skills’ has obviously preceded me. We also have the annual Strawberry Tea, which is my chance to climb the church tower. Up and down the spiral staircase usually has after effects. As I have to ‘Race’ for life tomorrow, maybe I will give the tower a miss this year.

I am seeing the advantages of the C17^th lack of reliance on the internal combustion engine. Few people realise that, due to the state of our roads, wheeled farm traffic came very late to the west country – probably not until the late C18^th. River or sea was the easiest mode of transport, followed by horse or donkey, equipped with panniers or a device resembling a native American travois. Mind you, the current state of our roads is probably not much better. When looking for migrating ancestors people often don’t stop to wonder how these moves from a to b occurred. Even with minimal belongings, it can’t have been easy.

My dilapidated and elderly Nissan Micra has had to go to the big scrap yard in the sky. Chris seems to think I can drive his people carrier instead. Please remember, dear reader, that I am not a natural car driver – I don’t leap into any car without a thought and drive it as if it was my own, I don’t do busy roads, or indeed other traffic really (comes of learning to drive in the Isle of Wight where there is only a couple of hundred yards of dual carriage way). I am quite a dab hand at reversing long distances up narrow country lanes but there my driving expertise ends. I also have trouble with large cars because my feet are too small to comfortably reach the pedals. The people carrier is an automatic – I’ve never driven an automatic – I keep trying to change gear. I have yet to locate the hand brake. This is as bad as horse riding; I really don’t feel in control. I drive about 8 miles, twice. Chris now thinks I am fit and able to drive anywhere alone in this vehicle. I don’t even know how to make it go backwards (actually that is pretty much the same as other drivers on the Devon lanes). He is deluded. Fortunately for my North Devon friends I don’t think I am fit to drive anywhere, so you needn’t keep a safe distance from any people carriers that you see.

I now have a new to me car. The man in the garage asked what I was looking for. My criteria are: safe, reliable, ecologically sound, cheap, in that order. Oh and it must have four doors and I really don’t want a sun roof or electric windows. At this last the garage man looks at me as if I am barking – sorry hate them – I’ve only too often sat in a boiling car waiting for someone to turn the engine on so I can open a window. The car I fancy almost has a personalised number plate – when I see this I stop wondering if it is actually working and even ignore the fact that it has electric windows. Watch this space – I may be changing my middle name.

Apart from the time consuming job I must not mention, I have been to the C17^th. So rewarding when a six year old says ‘that was the best thing ever’, when you have just blown up buildings in London to stop the Great Fire spreading. Ok, so some of his class mates were in tears but most thought it was a wonderful adventure and modern children really shouldn’t be so woossy. I also managed to make over a lovely gentleman in a mobility scooter as a C17^th cavalry officer – well he had brought his horse. Mind you his horse apparently only goes 8 miles an hour instead of the more realistic 25 but it was the best I could do.

A lovely weekend in our village for Open Gardens, despite the weather. I did once open mine but currently, it would only serve as an example of what not to do. I do however now possess a certificate in healing garden design – just because I can!

Exciting developments afoot for local historians – plenty of possible projects for our proposed Buckland Brewer history group. Looks like there may be the chance to share my Neolithic house building skills with young people too.

Been a flurry of interest in The Braund Society lately. One enquirer had acquired her family tree from the internet. Interesting to see that it cobbled together no fewer than three different lines! The downside of the internet revolution in family history. Then a real tussle to take a New York Braund family back to the UK. Took 2 days but I managed it. Let’s just say that in 1900 he was called John Joseph Braund (he was actually John Thomas), he was born in 1845 (no – born in 1841), he was born in New York (born in Falmouth Cornwall), his eldest son (who may not have been his son) was born in Idaho (he was born in Canada). Sorry JT, despite all your efforts at covering your tracks (possibly because you appear to have run off with someone else’s wife who was 20 to your 45) I got you in the end!

If you’ve been wondering where I’ve been – you clearly don’t have enough to do – but I have been here there and Cornwall (twice). Another successful ‘Writing up your Family History’ day course – I cannot believe that people came from as far away as Stafford to Devon to attend. Looks like I will have to take this course on the road. Then down to Cornwall for some brick wall bashing. Happy to find 12 great aunts and uncles for a lady who thought she had 5! Back to Cornwall again the following day to talk on North Devon emigrants at a family reunion for a fellow member of the Guild of One Name Studies. Shame I can’t go into details but let’s just say that some interesting people are getting in to family history these days.

Thanks for all the enquiries about the state of my back. Still with me I’m afraid. Seriously tempted to visit the barber surgeon but opted for ringing my local surgery instead. I asked for an appointment to see a member of the NHS (that which my C17th colleagues term No Hope Surgery). From the reaction of the receptionist, you’d think I’d asked her to walk on water. After I got through her ‘you must be joking’ attitude, I managed to squeeze a slot with what can best be termed triage. Lovely nurse but no diagnosis or solution and I hobble along. Appointment with the doctor today. So now I have taken up 2 appointment slots instead of one, bear in mind these appointments seem to be as scarce as hen’s teeth, how has this helped?

Sitting in the sun Doing some vital background research, I finally read one of my haul from February’s Who Do You Think You Are Live? – Anthony Adolph‘s ‘Who am I?’ – family history for young people. Another excellent book encouraging the next generation. I am already planning activities for my poor unsuspecting grandchild – who isn’t even born yet!

And AT LAST Clovelly Community Archives‘ Heritage Lottery bid is submitted – and I have had an acknowledgement and there’s no suggesting (yet) that we are lacking any vital documentation – hurrah – now we sit and wait to find out if we are successful!

Will I be resting? No. This week I have 2 days and an evening in the C17th, then off to the industrial north (be fair, pretty much anywhere is north from here) for the job I mustn’t mention.

Out with friends in the evening and ‘Bob’ makes a reappearance. He has managed to find some more trousers to wear (fortunate) but the waitress deposits a quantity of beer in his lap. We refrain from asking if he wants beer with his curry.

We are parked in a pretty corner of the caravan site, under a tree. The tree was a mistake. Chris is waging war on wood pigeons with incontinence problems. On another avian note, a baby sparrow has made a home under the wheel arch of our waste water container – hope it finds its way back to mum.

As my back is pretty uncomfortable whatever I do, we decide to make the most of weather that is far better than any we have seen at home and begin our four corners walk. We had previously tackled the round the coast of the island walk, now we are going for north to south and east to west. We successfully complete the ‘find somewhere free to park in Cowes’ challenge – though we probably lose points for not actually still being in Cowes. The first part of the walk, at a very slow pace, is pretty uninspiring, then we are on the pleasant course of the old railway along the western bank of the River Medina. Plenty of birds and wild flowers to observe, amidst the game of dodge the cyclist. I can look the unidentified ones up in my handy bird and flower books; well I could if I hadn’t left them at home. Someone coming in the opposite direction remarks to Chris, ‘Pro beard dude’. I am not sure Chris quite speaks that language. We pass the point where Chris’ ancestor, William Pengilly from Clovelly, fell through the viaduct on a walk from Newport to Dodnor after a drunken night out. Although we are great believers in walking in the shoes of our ancestors, we refrain from plunging to our deaths.

Viaduct where William Pengilly of Clovelly fell to his Death

Suggestions as to what this is welcome

I had decided that my back could cope with this walk on the ground of gradient. What I hadn’t factored in was the complete lack of places at which to give up and get the bus back to the car. Once on track it was pretty much finish the five miles or nothing. This was not one of my better ideas and by the end I have slowed to a stagger. I elect to find a seat, attempt to lower myself on to it and wait for Chris to return with the car. This means I am spared the jolting around that is the experience of travelling on a Southern Vectis bus. It also means that we don’t have to part with any cash for my fare; Chris being able to utilise his free bus pass. I was fairly pleased to see the caravan and relaxed in the afternoon, putting the finishing  touched to the next issue of the Braund Society journal.

Even if I, a participant in the event, say so myself, the Isle of Wight Family History Society One Day Conference was a very good day. The venue was the hottest in the world but apart from that it was lovely to see old friends. Really interesting to hear my fellow presenters, Dr Colin Chapman and Richard Smout on things C17^th. Our three presentations dovetailed together very well. First Colin on C17^th sources and what a wealth of these there is. Next my turn, or rather the turn of my alter ego Mistress Agnes. Today we were talking C17^th housewifery and Mistress A gave recipes for face cream and lip balm as well as her signature dish – roast cow’s udder. She spoke of Besoms (brooms), Battledores (or laundry bats), Bedsteads (well not actually sure she mentioned these but hey it begins with B) and bum rolls. Richard Smout then gives an insight into life in C17^th Newport. Apparently the local fire fighting equipment was stored in the church. Makes sense as a building that was easily accessible and also I guess it was less flammable than many structures. I do have an interesting struggle with the PA system. First I try the ‘hair band’ style microphone. Not only do I feel like I ought to be reading football results, it isn’t really compatible with the coif. I exchange this for the lollipop style mike mid-presentation and attempt to unthread the wire of the other mike from my bodice whilst still talking. I tend to wave my hands about a lot when I’m talking, so keeping my mouth within microphone range is a tad tricky. Despite this and my difficulties with standing up, my audience was appreciative.

Manage to get a replacement TV aerial for the caravan TV on the way home. We get it all set up only to find that the night’s schedule features such ‘delights’ as The Eurovision Song Contest – why did we bother to reinstate access to TV?

I struggled through three sessions of costume and armour in the seventeenth century with a lovely local history group and some bemused French exchange students. The struggle being occasioned by my having done something dire to my back, making movement next to impossible. Normally it is my colleagues who only make one fit person between them, whilst I am relatively in one piece but not today. Thankfully I am allowed to depart as soon as my activities are complete and then I have to drive about 7 miles to Bideford. Getting to work had been ok but I am now rendered more immobile by the armour hefting so changing gear is a near impossible exercise. I debate completing the journey in one gear but cannot decide which would be the most appropriate. In the end I go for changes of gear but the only way in which I can get my foot off the clutch is to physically lift my leg up using my left hand. Good job the road was quiet.

We are off in the caravan again to attend the One Day Conference of The Isle of Wight Family History Society, of which I am President. We go to fill up with petrol. Chris is muttering something like ‘dozy ****** ***’ with reference to the man in front, who has drawn up on the wrong side of the pump and is struggling to make the hose reach. It is our turn. We draw up at the pump with car and caravan. Hmm it seems we are on the wrong side of the pump. In Chris’ defence, he does have more than one vehicle and the petrol caps are not all on the same side. As we are towing the caravan, our only option now is to leave the petrol station, drive round and approach again. We do so with more success the second time. Now we need to re-inflate the tyres. Guess what, this necessitates leaving the petrol station, driving round and approaching a third time. Whoever is monitoring the CCTV must be beginning to be suspicious.

An uneventful journey to the New Forest ensues. The ‘how to find the caravan site’ instructions are typically incomprehensible. The sat-nav begins by directing us up things that, even by our standards, are clearly not roads and then falls silent. We spot a camper van and deduce that it may be heading towards our destination. ‘Follow that van’, I suggest. Unfortunately the driver is attempting to qualify for the next F1 season and hurtles along at a great rate with us in more leisurely pursuit. Thankfully this does however enable us to reach our destination in time to secure a pitch before reception closes. By now it is past our bedtime, let alone time for food so we are pleased to see a fish and chip van on site. By the time we arrive to make a purchase we are left with one portion of fish and chips and one of chicken curry – that sounds fine. I eat the lumps from the chicken curry, which actually do resemble chicken and most of the sauce. ‘Bob’ (names have been changed for this portion to protect the reputation of those involved) leaves the remains of the curry sauce on the draining board and opens the overhead locker, out of which falls a Jamaican ginger cake. I can reliably inform you that dropping a Jamaican ginger cake from a height of three feet into curry sauce causes the curry sauce to splatter for a considerable distance. If I hadn’t been laughing so much I could be more precise and may well have had photographic evidence to prove it. ‘Bob’ is covered from head to foot and is wondering how to remove his curry covered jumper without getting sauce in his facial hair. There is curry sauce on the walls, on the bedding, on the floor. It seems that ‘Bob’ is wearing not just a considerable amount of curry sauce but also the only respectable outfit he has with him. I foresee a trip to A*** for something other than jogging bottoms. It is my left over curry sauce so clearly this whole incident is my fault.

Next day, we have arranged to collect some Braund memorabilia from a Braund Society member for preservation – what a wonderful treasure trove. By this time I am feeling rather peculiar, what in my teenage years may have been described as ‘spaced out man’. Perhaps this is a result of the super-strength pain killers that I have taken. I make the most of the opportunity to have a quiet lie down in the caravan (the advantage of our snail like existence) whilst we wait for the Red Funnel ferry. I should place on record that I hate the Red Funnel ferry. Not only does it take twice as long as the other routes but they make you get out of the car and the cold plastic seats are uncomfortable at the best of times. It has been chosen on the basis that it was considerably cheaper (in the context of Isle of Wight ferries ‘cheaper’ is a relative term) than other options. We get on the Red Funnel ferry. I discover that there is free wi-fi on Red Funnel. I would like to place on record that I love Red Funnel ferries.

The video taken during our time with Neolithic Houses is now on the English Heritage website. You see my feet, a bit of my body pounding chalk, my chalk sieve and bizarrely, Chris and I doing a wheelbarrow race. Great quote from Luke Winter our project leader, ‘We only get to grips with the past and the way people lived by seeing where they lived and how they did it’.

This week I have been an auction lot. I donated some research time to a charity auction and the highest bidder claimed their prize. No wonder they gave up on this research and asked me to take up the challenge because challenge it was. The family seem to have avoided every census enumeration – even searching with no surnames failed to find them. One individual deducted 10 years off his age, Edwin became Edward – well I anticipated that – but the Cutcliffes became Cutlands and there were other complications. I did make some progress but as always the answers just raised more questions.

My lovely neighbour, who used to live in my house, came in with some fascinating details of its history. It seems that part of my bedroom used to be a box room belonging to the house next door, as a sort of flying freehold. Now I can move the bed and say I am sleeping in a different house. He also had stories of fireplaces that used to be in the middle of my kitchen and staircases winding round them. The earliest documentary evidence for my house is 1750 but architectural evidence leads us to a date nearer to 1600. This style of staircase and fireplaces in the middle of rooms might be more suggestive of something even earlier – who knows. Sadly my house has been gutted of most of the original features – although my walls are gloriously uneven.

This website has now passed the milestone of 10,000 hits – in little more than a year – wow can people really be interested in my chaotic life? Mind you, these include random hits from places like Lithuania – surely those people must have arrived here by some quirk of Google. I am always amazed by the search terms that lead unsuspecting surfers to my ramblings.

More days in the seventeenth century since my last post – some lovely children to work with and we have actually succeeded in making butter on two occasions. Today my barber surgeon colleague was administering an enema. The victim patient commented ‘I saw that being done to a woman when I was at the doctors once’ – remind me to avoid his doctor. A positive meeting of Clovelly Community Archive Association and plans for a gravestones project similar to that for Buckland Brewer. In addition, the rumblings of a possible local history group here in Buckland – watch this space.

Great new historical witchcraft website including names of those involved in the trials – will definitely be incorporating this into my witchcraft talk.

After the excitements of the Neolithic era you’d think a quiet week would be in order but no such luck. 4 days in the seventeenth century ensue. The final day in a Cornish High School with the less academically able was one of the best I’ve spent as Mistress Agnes. A room containing a fair proportion of students who do not normally engage with what goes on in a classroom, some of who have issues such as ADHD and I was bombarded with signs of real historic thinking and excellent questions. Normally my colleagues have little trouble gaining fans in this situation – after all chopping arms off and torturing people has a certain appeal in some quarters. These students however seemed equally enthralled by bum rolls and buff coats. It is great to go home and feel that you’ve really achieved something.

As if all this C17th stuff wasn’t enough I spend one evening going to speak to Weston Super Mare FHS, a regular gig for me and always a pleasure to speak to this group – this time on my Who Do You Think You Are? experiences. This late night meant that I ended up making Martha think something was awry as I sent her an email at 11.00pm – not an hour of the day that I see very often.

Back at work I am tasked with tidying our supply of C17th costume. Never one for half measures, I excavate parts of the staff room where no one has gone before. This includes unearthing some C17th cobwebs – always handy for putting on wounds.

My next job for the Marine Lives project is one where I can use my family history skills to investigate the biographies of various crew members of C17th Arctic whalers – looking forward to this.

And a favourite website of the week – the Letters of Bess of Hardwick.

So now a quiet weekend then? Not a bit of it as 50 Braunds are descending for our annual 4 day reunion.