I wake in the night to hear the pattering of raindrops on the caravan roof. My washing is outside, on the airer attached to the window and is almost dry. Not wishing to venture forth into the dark and rain in my night attire, I hang precariously out of the window. The window is hinged at the top so it inconveniently closes on me as I try to retrieve the almost dry socks. The rain is not going to go away. The forecast ‘occasional heavy showers’ manifest themselves into continuous torrential rain until mid afternoon. This walking lark is meant to be fun so we abandon our plans and stay in the van. The upside of this is that I make really good progress on my forthcoming One Place Studies book.

Next day and for once it isn’t actually raining. We are still on the frustrating walking in both directions kick, due to the lack of public transport. We set off from Hallsands heading for Torcross. Coincidentally we see someone we know as we set off. I am carefully watching my footing as yesterday’s rain has made parts of the path very slippery. This means that I don’t spot an overhanging branch – ouch! There are plenty of early migrant geese on Slapton Ley. We read about the practice manoeuvres for D-Day that took place here, with the loss of 946 American servicemen’s lives.

Back to Hallsands and we now have to move campsites. I set the sat-nav. As we head towards Dartmouth I idly wonder at what point we cross the River Dart. Ah, that would be now. We are about to head on the Dartmouth Ferry. This is clearly my fault. Not being sure if the Dartmouth Ferry accepts caravans, we make a last minute detour before we are past the point of no return. This means it takes ages to get to the new campsite. The new-to-us caravan is equipped with numerous unnecessary gadgets, including legs that descend automatically. That would be automatically and incredibly slowly. There is no way of over-riding the automatic leg descending thingy. It also means, if the mechanism fails, there is no alterative method of making the legs do what they need to do. Once descended, the legs then take another millennia to, theoretically, level the van. The bleeping noise, that signals descended and levelled legs, finally sounds. I do not have a spirit level about my person but no way are these legs level. I test my theory by rolling a can of rice pudding rapidly across the caravan floor. There is nothing for it but to raise the legs and start again, as we get gradually colder waiting outside for the caravan to cease being legless.

Next day and at last we can walk in one direction, without having to retrace our steps. We set off for the bus stop in order to get the bus to the start of the walk, with the intention of then walking back to the car that is parked by the bus stop. I am not in Martha’s league but I do like to leave plenty of time on occasions like this, especially as there is only one bus an hour. Even by my standards, we leave early, to the extent that I am worried what we will do whilst waiting for the bus. There is thick mist and we have completely failed to take account of the fact that we have to drive through Totnes during rush hour. ‘Drive’ is probably a misnomer, as we spend most of our time at a standstill in grid-locked traffic. We make the bus with minutes to spare. I have not been looking forward to this walk, described as ‘strenuous‘. In fact it isn’t nearly as bad as expected. The first two miles along the bar at Slapton and are beautifully flat. We seem to be able to walk about as fast as the local toilet cleaning man can clean toilets, as we see the same man and van at no fewer than three toilets en route. Then up a steep but manageable hill before emerging on to the road. Our instruction book warns us that this stretch is ‘frankly unpleasant’. Chris  is waving a high viz jacket in an attempt to stop us being flattened by traffic as the road is busy, narrow and lacks pavement. He is not actually wearing said high viz jacket on the grounds of temperature.

Just as I am thinking that this isn’t too bad, we encounter a valley whose sides must be at a gradient of 1:2. The local sheep all have two legs shorter than the other two. The photographs do not give a true indication of just how steep this was. I debate sitting down and sliding. At the bottom we pass a couple traversing the valley in the opposite direction. We are a little disconcerted when the woman says she is recovering from heart surgery. Nonetheless she makes it to the top of her side of the valley more quickly than we do and appears to be still standing by the end.

I need to occupy myself during what is meant to be my holiday, whilst hsf is performing. The production team are scoring highly for food provision but low on verisimilitude. Hsf is a little disgruntled because the characters are wearing modern clothes but nineteenth century cork lifejackets. There is a Devon History Forum meeting in Exeter – mmm Exeter – takes some organising this. Plan B was put in to place, which involved me driving to Tavistock and scrounging a lift to Exeter from there. It also meant that I had to leave home very early, before daylight. I haven’t driven the new-to-me car in the dark before. I manage to locate the lights. I have a little more trouble with the CD player, which worked last time I tried it. Once I’d actually turned it on it was fine. Great to have Fishemen’s Friends’ rousing sea shanties to accompany me across Dartmoor, just in time to see a glorious misty early autumn sunrise.

The History Forum included a presentation from graphic designers who create touch screen and static interpretation boards. We also heard about a great oral history project, centred on Dunkeswell memories from the Second World War. These networking sessions are always useful, just a shame that there weren’t more groups participating in the day. On the way home, sunset across Dartmoor this time, I discover that my new-to-me car appears to lack any reversing lights. On narrow Devon lanes, with a larger than usual number of people coming the other way who have no reverse gear at all, this is a touch problematical.

Two full days of filming for hsf over and at last, we can head for south Devon, to try and get a little further along to south-west coastal path. We leave late and encounter mist and diversions. One of these diversions takes us up a road that is narrower than the caravan. A bit of judicious reversing is required.

In the interests of global warming and my sanity, we have left my car at home. Owing to a distinct lack of public transport, trying to accomplish this week’s walks with just one car requires an unsatisfactory amount of having to walk stretches of the coastal path in both directions. Diversions seem to be somewhat of a theme, as our first walk consists entirely of a diversion, due to a cliff fall. The diversion takes us a very long way round, inland. Not only do we have much further to walk but there isn’t even any coast! Added to that, a farmer has, he claims legally, diverted a bridle way, meaning that what should have been a walk of a couple of hundred yards becomes at least three times that. After walking for seven miles we are now three miles nearer to final our destination in Poole.

The next day, we park at Hallsands to walk from Lannacombe to Hallsands. Another annoying stretch where we have to walk there in order to walk back. A stiff breeze as we walk along the rugged coastline. A few more fellow walkers on this stretch. Hallsands has an interesting history. The fishing village was sold off, primarily to the tenants, when the owner died in 1857. In the 1890s dredging for shingle commenced nearby, in order to provide raw materials for development at Devonport dockyard. Total disregard for the impact that this was having on the tides, meant that storms had a dire effect on the community at Hallsands, which was lost to the sea in 1917. Quite an achievement to think we have now covered 462 miles of this wonderful coast, in the right order, without missing any bits. It has taken us ten years though.

Lots going on this week. Firstly, I am thrilled with the success of the inaugural meeting of Buckland Brewer History Group. Our venue was full and people were so supportive and enthusiastic – we can’t wait to put all our ideas into practice. Great to have such a hard working band of assistants on this one.

Three days in the seventeenth century then another weekend, another county. We head off to Somerset for me to speak about life in 1851 at the Annual Conference of Somerset and Dorset Family History Society. This was supposed to be the start of two weeks away but owing to my travelling companion’s burgeoning film career, we are required at home next week. This is a story worth telling. My travelling companion, a.k.a. a fisherman of my acquaintance, is approached, whilst minding his own business and is asked to present himself at the local Village Hall. Always one to do as he’s told, he turns up, along with hordes of wannabes, at the auditions for an advert for a well known brand of frozen sea food. He is allocated number 1066. I’m not saying there were 1065 other people there but it felt like it. He has his picture taken, he is signed up with a casting agency, he waits three hours, he is given a script. This would work well if only he had remembered his glasses. Meanwhile, back at home, an acting friend (that is a friend who acts rather than one who acts as a friend) has sent me the full person spec for this casting session. It seems, amongst others, they are seeking a hairy, smelly fisherman. How can he not be chosen? The audition moves on to sea shanty singing. Paired with another hopeful, the hairy smelly fisherman of my acquaintance agrees to sing along with the only sea shanty the other candidate knows. The fact that the hsf of my acquaintance only knows every other word doesn’t seem to matter. He joins in, with gusto, complete with actions. Now hsf’s singing is pretty much like mine, great on volume and enthusiasm but tunefulness is open to question. He obviously does something right as, after a call back, he gets the message to say he is required, so our holiday is on hold. We had better get a lifetime’s supply of fish fingers out of this.

Whilst on the subject of fame and fortune, the nominees for the Worldwide Genealogy Rock Stars were publicised recently and the list contained many friends and acquaintances. Now the winners of the virtual medals have been announced, I see I got an honourable mention as someone who should have been a nominee but wasn’t. As a friend pointed out, better a ‘should have been’ than a has been.

We arrive at our caravan site in Somerset and decide to try out the automatic movers on the new-to-us caravan. They seem to automatically move not a great deal, possible because we are on thick gravel. Back to brute force.

The day at the Somerset and Dorset conference was very successful. Nick Barrett, on the future of family history, was the first speaker. Some inspiring ideas about how we can reinvent family history for the next decade. He also stressed that the 1921 census will not be available before 2022. Despite appeals on the grounds of freedom of information, it would require an act of parliament to permit earlier release. Lunch was most acceptable but cold meat, salad and roast potatoes did seem a little unusual.

The whole day promoted the need for context for our genealogical data. The second speaker was a fellow seventeenth century historical interpreter who had done an impressive amount of work on Benjamin Blake, a native of Somerset and a brother of the more famous Admiral Blake. It was strange for me to be in the nineteenth century for the day whilst someone else was wielding a musket. My contribution seemed to be well received. It was pointed out that I had mis-spelt Bridgwater on one of my slides. I explained that, of course, this was done deliberately, to keep my audience on their toes. It was one of those venues with a lollipop mike. Never quite so keen on these and they are somewhat incongruous with period clothing; I always feel I should be on X-factor. Unfortunately, for this talk, I need to wear not very Victorian glasses in order to read the delights of the problem pages of The English Woman’s Domestic Magazine. I make mention of Widow Welch’s female pills, advertised in The Bath Chronicle in 1851 and which ‘effectively remove obstructions and overcome all other inconveniences to which the female frame is liable’, whilst being ‘perfectly innocent’ and ‘useful in windy disorders’. Someone in the audience says that these were still available in the 1960s! There was a great deal of interest in the Society for One-Place Studies and all my publicity leaflets were snapped up. Excited to discover later that my talk was being Tweeted by Somerset and Dorset Family History Society.