It is time for another major athletics event, this time the IAAF World Championships. We leave the campsite for the station in good time aka ridiculously early. Just at the point where we might have got lost we encounter a games runner clad in fetching pink, which is, for some unknown reason, the colour that has been chosen for the volunteers’ uniform. The hapless chap is now saddled with us he until gets to the stadium; we are working on the assumption that he knows where he is going. I have researched possible trains. In fact I have researched them twice as the results of the first attempt were recorded in a document that got lost in the bowels of the computer, only to be rediscovered after I had redone the list. We are to change trains at Lewisham or Greenwich. Or, as it turns out, not. We change at Woolwich Arsenal and the journey is a good 20 minutes shorter than my itinerary anticipated. Then there were the tickets. Fresh from my recent visit to London and anxious not to look like a yokel, I have instructed my companion in the use of his contactless cards in order to travel round London. I attempt this. It appears not to work. We pay for tickets at the ticket office instead. I then spend the day worrying that it may have worked after all and I will be racking up a massive bill as TFL will think I am permanently lost in the depths of London underground.

I would like to place on record that arriving at the stadium at 7.15am did not make us the first spectators on the premises. There were at least two others. The day officially starts at 10am, we can take our seats at 8.30am, so, no, not early at all. The grounds of the Queen Elizabeth Stadium are looking impressive with the planting that was done for the Olympics now mature.

Arriving in Good Time

Not being able to afford premium tickets, we are sat on the far side of the stadium from the home straight but none the less we have a reasonable view and are sat on the end of row 16. This turns out to be a BAD THING. It seems that all of the eighteen people who are sat on our right, between us on the aisle and a wall, have weak bladders, incessant desires for beer and sustenance, or both. We set a record for not having to get up to let someone past. Can we beat five minutes tomorrow? Obviously there are people who might require regular visits to the faciities but surely seeming healthy adults should be able to sit still for three hours and ensure that they equip themselves with necessary refreshments before hand. One guy even apologised for his weak bladder on his second trip past then return with his second pint of beer and a large coffee (both of which were for him), Needless to say, twenty minutes later……… and kebabs at 1045am? Really? In between the incessant getting up and down, we see qualifications for several field events including men’s shot put, women’s triple jump and women’s hammer, in which GB’s Sophie Hitchon qualified in third. On the track was the women’s 100metres, with all three GB girls qualifying, and 400metres and 800metres heats for the men. Sadly Martin Rooney lost out in the 400metres. The first two events of the heptathlon, hurdles and high jump, spread across most of the morning. Katarina Johnson-Thompson under performed in the high jump but Cuba’s Rodriguez got three personal bests and the Olympic champion Thiam also did well.

Much to my companion’s ’delight’ we get to do it all again tomorrow.

The downside of my three exciting overseas trips next year is that I need to acquire travel insurance and book flights. This is not going well so far.

Today my conversation with the insurance agent, who must have been all of twelve, went something like this:
Him: ‘Is that Miss, Mrs or Ms?’
Me: ‘It’s Dr’
Him: (incredulous intake of breathe)
Having established that, no, my christian name does not have double T, nor indeed a double N (to be fair he didn’t ask if it has two Js), I spell my surname with little hope that this will end up correct. I know it is only three letters but people have tremendous trouble with it.
Him: ‘Where are you travelling to?
Me: ‘Alaska, Peru and New Zealand’ (I don’t do things by halves)
Him: ‘So that would be Worldwide excluding USA, Canada & Mexico’
Me: (thinks) ‘ermm, not unless they’ve moved Alaska’
Then the lengthy health questions because what I have fits none of the boxes and is actually is a lot less serious than any of the scary things on their list but does need to be declared and it seems is going to cost me an additional £350.
Him: ‘When were you first diagnosed with this condition?’
Me: ‘February 2016’
Him: ‘Is this in the last 1-3 years?’
Me: (despairing) ‘Yes’.
Him: (question eleventy million) ‘Do you suffer from anxiety or depression?’
Me: (thinks) ‘Well I didn’t before this conversation.’

Then the travel agent for one of our trips who sent us ‘the only’ flights. Outward at 6.20am (meaning 3.20am check in) – much as I love early mornings – just No. It so isn’t the only flight – I can use an internet search engine near me. Dashes off reply email politely declining these options and providing flight numbers of more civilised (and similarly priced) flights. I also quietly pointed out that her suggested return flight was 14 days before the holiday ended – sigh.
I hardly dare try to book our New Zealand camper van.

On Saturday we travelled to see the amazing Fisherman’s Friends at the unusual venue Carnglaze Caverns. We are great fans of the sea shanty group that is Fisherman’s Friends and booked for this concert when the one nearer to home was cancelled in the spring, due to the liquidation of the local theatre. I was giving a talk to our local family history society in the afternoon so, afterwards, we set off for Cornwall, planning to grab some fish and chips to sustain us before the concert started. Carnglaze Carverns is not near anywhere much, or certainly not near any take-away outlets, so, having established where the venue was, we went into the centre of Liskeard to look for a Fish and Chip shop. We went round Liskeard, up and down Liskeard and through Liskeard. We approached Liskeard town centre from every conceivable direction but not a Fish ad Chip shop in sight. Actually that isn’t true, there was one that clearly had not been open for some considerable time. We passed up the options of kebabs and pizza and finally managed to purchase sustenance in a Chinese take-away.

I should explain that there are no numbered seats at Carnglaze Caverns. The doors were to open at 7pm for an 8pm start and seat allocation was to be first come first served. This obviously means that my plan was to be near the head of the queue well before 7pm. If it had been up to me I’d have been there about 3pm. This was all going well before the extended tour of Liskeard. We hot tyre it back to Carnglaze Caverns with our take-away steaming in the car footwell. As we approach the caverns, there is someone directing traffic. We are deemed not to be of ‘low mobility’. This is a moot point as my back is still not behaving itself. I should have done a better job of looking feeble, as, being allegedly of high mobility, we are to park in the overflow car park which is, we are told, 200 yards up the road and ‘a quick walk through the woods’ to the caverns. After identifying the overflow car park, a very long 200 yards away, we consume our hard won take-away. I am trying not to be concerned by the fact that many people are heading towards the front of the queue before us. More worryingly, they are all carrying cushions. We have no cushions. We have nothing with which to improvise. Ah well, you live and learn. Replete from the largest portion of chips we have ever seen, we head towards the cavern. We are parked in a squelchy field and water is seeping into my trainers. The walk may be quick but it is also very muddy and I speculate on how the return journey is going to go, as the path appears to be unlit and on our right is an un-fenced babbling brook. I am glad that, although we do not have cushions, we do have a torch.

Soggy socked we enter the cavern. Caves are not exactly my companion’s favourite thing but he appears not to be having a panic attack and we are ushered past many seated concert goers to the fourth row from the front. To be honest we are just glad that we are not seated under one of the persistent drips from the roof of the cave. There are yellow plastic wedges inserted in various fissures in the wall. We assume that, if one of these falls out, it is time to beat a hasty retreat. Always the girl guide I have availed myself of the facilities that I spotted on my way from the car. This was clearly A GOOD THING. Those less substantially shod than I are having to retrace their steps for some considerable way. The concert, as ever, was brilliant and the venue was certainly atmospheric. It turned out that the path back to the car was lit after all and we are soon driving home through the mists of Bodmin Moor.

You’ve persisted thus far, so you deserve to be in on the great reveal. The exciting news is that we will be going to the 2018 New Zealand Society of Genealogists’ conference next June. I have been sitting on this secret for a year and am really pleased to finally be able to say that I will be in attendance, along with Master Christopher and Mistress Agnes. Full details and fanfares have to wait until later in the year.

Photo credit David Griffiths

It has been as stupidly busy as ever over the past week. As the Braund nine day reunion drew to a close, I played truant in order to attend the British Association for Local History conference in London. This involved leaving home at 6.00am and getting the last train home, arriving back at 10.45pm. We know how to live in the country – our last trains aren’t exactly late. I had decided to stay up past my bedtime in order to collect my certificate as an author of one of the short-listed ‘best long articles’ that appeared in last year’s British Association for Local History digests. Well it seemed like a good idea at the time. Apart from a serious case of exhaustion, my friends and family, who were aware I was in the big city, panicked somewhat when the appalling news of the London Bridge incident broke but fortunately I was away from London long before the trouble started and I was in a different area. The worst I encountered was a stag party on the Exeter-Barnstaple train home. The driver did threaten to stop the train, which caused some consternation but fortunately she decided to carry on despite raucous shouting and copious amounts of alcohol being consumed.

Then Tuesday’s technological challenge. I closed the lid of my laptop and opened it up again to find zilch, nothing, a blank screen that no amount of ‘gentle persuasion’ a.k.a anguished key banging could rectify. Now we all know that there is never a good time for a laptop to decide that it will cease to be but with the job we much not mention, that is wholly dependent on computer use, looming, this really was not a good time. Quite apart from the job itself, everything else that needed doing before the middle of July needed to be done this week. I drove to the computer shop and threw myself on the mercy of the chap behind the counter. He hummed and haaaed and said it would all depend when he could get a part. I returned home and a fisherman of my acquaintance, who clearly could not tolerate the prospect of associating with someone who was lacking a computer for an unspecified period, came to my rescue. He is well aware that I start to twitch on the rare occasions when I am surgically removed from my laptop. He kindly decided to bring forward his own planned purchase of a new laptop so that I could borrow it whilst mine was being repaired. Back to the computer shop. They were trying to araldite some unidentified parts of my laptop together. In the end that proved unsuccessful and my laptop is currently on its way back to the manufacturers in Germany while I struggle with a new operating system and different software on the borrowed machine. I am very grateful that a) I had recently backed up the old laptop and b) that I have another machine to use. I am sure computer shops should offer courtesy computers in the same way that garages offer courtesy cars.

I am now in the throes of said job we must not mention. It necessitates more sojourns in the smoke – two trips to Manchester. I’ve said it before, I really am not fit to be let out. First, that moment when you turn up at a motel to be told you aren’t booked in. You insist you are. You are correct but that is next week’s trip and this week you are booked in to a different motel in the same chain. Then day one and I am working in a hotel that is in the centre of a protest march by a neo-Nazi group. I think the entire Manchester police force must have been in the street outside. There was shouting, there were police helicopters circling and I did wonder how I was going to get back to the motel. Fortunately, by the time we had finished, the protesters had dispersed, although the police were still very much in evidence.

Has anyone tried prosecuting shower-gel manufacturers under the Trade Descriptions Act? Mine is allegedly ‘revitalising’ hmmm I could certainly do with some revitalisation. It has been a very hectic ten days, hence the social media silence. Nine day Braund reunions I can cope with, it is trying to combine them with normal life that is more difficult.

It was a Thursday evening when we set off to greet the early reunion arrivals, a US contingent who were new to the mayhem that is a Braund gathering. After introducing ourselves and leaving them to their jet lag, I headed home to find that three very loud bees had inhabited my bedroom and seemed intent on creating an insomnia inducing row whenever the light was on. Now you might think this would not be a problem – simply turn off the light. Even without bees I sleep badly and on the half dozen or so occasions when I wake up each night, the only successful way to get back to sleep is to read. This doesn’t mean, read, feel sleepy, turn off the light. It means read, fall asleep, hope the book doesn’t fall on one’s nose, light stays on. (I do know sleeping with the light on is supposedly bad for you – believe me I’ve tried other options!) Reading requires a light, which sent the bees into a state of buzzy agitation. I turned off the light and attempted to lure the bees out of the open window with a torch. It seems that torch light is insufficiently attractive. All the torch waving achieved was to thoroughly wake me up.

After about two hours sleep, I awoke at 5.30am as usual. We had already had to rescue two of our party from a clutchless camper van, now another pair of reunion attendees were up the A39 without a clutch pedal. Nonetheless it was glorious sunshine and the beautiful Devon countryside was on show as we took our guests to the homes of their ancestors. We spend quite a bit of reunion time in local churches as we know that family members will have set foot inside to be baptised, married or buried. We upset a bigot in one of these. We were explaining the history of the place to our visitors, in tones that could be heard by those of our party that were hard of hearing. A fellow visitor objected to us speaking in the church. Let me be clear, this is not during a service, he is not apparently praying, merely looking round, as are we. We are not screeching obscenities, just commenting on the state of the church in rural Devon and discussing the history of this particular establishment. Apparently we should keep our ‘conservative views’ to ourselves. I am in total bewilderment as to how anything that was being said could be construed as ‘conservative views’. Thanks sir, you effectively put people off re-entering the church and gave a very poor impression of British hospitality to our overseas visitors.

So what other reunion issues must we not mention? Well there was the incident where the person with the cheque book (that would be me) left a venue without paying. Then I am sat in the gloom at a place I won’t identify, watching a video about the history of the area. This is actually quite good but hidden amongst the information is a statement that is quite blatantly wrong. Thinking I was sitting with others of our party, I began muttering, ‘total rubbish’ and similar phrases. Well, to be honest, it was more of an exclamation than a mutter. I then realised that I was surrounded by total strangers.

Making Cob at Poundstock Gildhouse

We also don’t mention how several of us forgot to bring raffle prizes, so we had to postpone the raffle. We don’t explain why one of our party had a plastic bag on her head, or how many belts were needed to reach round the circumference of a reunion attendee when he was donning Tudor dress and we definitely don’t mention how long it took for Brian’s chips to arrive.

Whisper it quietly – the patio is nearly done. A slight grout non-delivery issue means I will have the pleasure of Greg’s Garden Services one more time to finally finish off but I am really pleased with it. I hasten to add that the lack of grout is not Greg’s fault. Now comes the task of creating a lawn and planting some flowers but I’ll get there. I even did the laundry today on the reinstated washing line.

Despite Braund reunion attendees beginning to flock (well maybe ‘flock’ is a bit of a strong word – trickle perhaps) Devonwards I even sneaked a quick sit on the new patio. Actually, I may be reduced to living on the patio as my lounge is crammed with reunion paraphernalia. I have spent the past few days struggling to stick numerous twenty foot family trees together, to create name badges and stuff reunion bags. Sticky tape and I are now sworn enemies and I have humanely disposed of a printer cartridge in the process. Actually there’s a lie there, the reunion bags are as yet unstuffed, awaiting the collection of the reunion booklets from the printers. This has been left to the last minute so the attendees list is as up-to-date as possible. I am now waiting for the last minute bookings and cancellations. These occasions (and this is the 35th one) are always great fun and this year, in honour of the Coral Anniversary, we have a week and a bit of reuniting.

Blogging, if any, may need to be done at 3am and there may be a struggle to move when it is all over, judging by the number of meals out that are involved but hey, the diet starts in June (not committing to which June). The waistline is not helped by the temptation to sit in the glorious sunshine and eat ice cream on the patio

We have returned to what passes for normality, whatever that is, after more days with family and friends on the Isle of Wight. Our stay co-incided with ‘Walk the Wight’ when large numbers of people circumnavigate the island on foot in aid of charity. They assemble in a field about 5.00am, make a great deal of noise and finally set off when a very loud claxon sounds at 6.00am. This is all very laudable, except that the assembly point was in a field directly behind our caravan. We did our own portion of Wight walking up and down Culver Cliff without the benefit of a claxon or the need to scream and shout vociferously as we set off.

Whilst I have been away gardeners have been at work, finally installing the patio that I have been planning since my conservatory was built three years ago. Why is it that projects such as this are always accompanied by heavy rain? I now have a swath of mud in lieu of a garden and it seems mud pretty much everywhere else too. I am trying to console myself with the theory that things have to get worse before they get better. They are certainly currently at the ‘worse’ stage. Some plants I hoped to retain are no more. I just hope the gardeners didn’t encounter the cats’ last resting place.

The dust, mud and gardeners mean that I have no way of drying any laundry. My clothes line has gone the way of other things in the garden. I plan to take the wet washing to a clothes line belonging to a fisherman of my acquaintance. I peg my underwear to one of those multiple peggy things that mean you only have to grap one item instead of several in case of rain. Next, to put the washing in the car. I have forgotten that a cement mixer now resides where my car should be. My car is a considerable way up the road. I treat the neighbours to a sight of my ’smalls’ to start their day.

In other events this week, I have listed to an excellent talk by Pamela Vass about the Lynmouth floods and whether cloud seeding experiments played a part. If you’ve not heard of this, look it up. Pam seemed to have read every flight log at The National Archives in pursuit of her research. Her book Seeds of Doubt is a fictionalised account.

Most of my time has been spent finishing my In Sickness and In Death: researching the ill-health and deaths of your ancestors course. Yesterday I was completing the section on tracing medical personnel. The online course starts in August if you want to join the fun. Great to hear yesterday that a former student on my Writing and Telling Your Family Story course has completed a family history; you can join that particular party too but you have to wait until October for that one. Now it is a mad rush to get through the to do list, which is still longer than my prospective novel (well almost) before the job we must not mention hit’s the fan. Oh and a nine day family reunion to host in the meantime. Life is never dull.

Today was the annual conference of the Isle of Wight Family History Society of which I have the honour to be a vice-president. I got the day off this time and could listen to others speak. I did have my turn at the front earlier in the week, addressing my local WI who were hosting their group meeting. I was regaling them with memories of 1946-1969 an activity that was not without attendant problems. It is very rare that I use notes for my talks but this one involves reading passages from Remember Then: women’s memories of 1946-1969 and how to write your own, so I have the relevant passages ready typed in one hand. I have my remote control for moving on my slides in the other hand and in my other hand I have my X-factor style mic. The observant amongst you will have spotted the first problem here. The theme of the afternoon was the 1960s, complete with appropriate dress. Having found a 1990s outfit that paid homage to the 1960s, I then stupidly decided to wear hand-me-up high heeled boots that originated with Martha. My strange shaped feet rarely fit in to normal shaped footwear and this was no exception. Having successfully cut off all circulation to my toes I hobbled away from my audience smiling bravely.

Anyway, back to today. As always a wonderful opportunity to meet old friends. We managed to work out that some of us first met 29 years ago when they attended my family history classes. In fact still others go back 32 years to when I first joined Isle of Wight Family History Society, when I returned to live there after three years on the mainland. It was a very good day, with two interesting tales of families who left the island. These were great illustrations of how you can weave a story from your research findings. The day finished with Richard Smout’s excellent talk about early years and childhood on the Isle of Wight.

Today also a strange encounter with “an online worldwide e-commerce marketplace connecting millions of subscribers with local merchants by offering activities, travel, goods and services in more than 28 countries.” Whilst attempting a purchase I am instructed to ‘Enter your house number here’. My address is numberless. I enter my house name. ‘Your house number must not exceed 7 characters’. That’s tough it has 13. Instead, I enter the house name in the street box, along with the village name that has to be substituted for the road name I also don’t have. I now have a 29 character street name. ‘Your street name must not exceed 19 characters’. Great. Given that I have to provide a postcode, I can risk leaving out the village name and just put the house name under street. ‘You must enter a house number.’ Lacking the seemingly essential house number I try putting a full stop in this box. Eureka! Whether the parcel will arrive is another matter. I know I have an unconventional address but I can’t be the only person whose house name exceeds 7 characters. I fire off a complaining Tweet to the appropriate e-commerce marketplace, which makes me feel better.