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.

Summer is over and there is a biting wind howling round the site. That’s fine, I have my C17^th spun/knitted hat, or at least I have had every other day. Today of course it is in the caravan 9 miles away. It is a community day so we have visitors and are encouraged to wear English Heritage Volunteer tee-shirts. Most opt to go for this on the grounds that it provides us with an additional layer, although it isn’t long before these disappear under any other garments we can find. Community day also means that there is a mobile canteen on site with warming soup and drinks in non-Neolithic polystyrene cups but there are only so many hot drinks one can have, especially with the consequent problem of negotiating many layers. We are reduced to more chalk pounding to keep warm, even though we have sufficient chalk for the floor that is being laid in 848.

I am pleased that my muscles don’t seem to be suffering from all the shovelling, riddling and pounding yesterday. My hands however are a different matter and have turned genuinely Neolithic. Despite liberal applications of not very Neolithic hand cream our hands are really effected from all the chalk even though we’ve been wearing gloves. Best I can manage is a C17^th hand cream recipe: To make the hands white, take the flower of Beans, of Lupines, of Cornstarch and Rice, of each six ounces. Mix them and make a powder, with which wash your hands in water.

Chris is, with permission, raiding the on site skip. Not only does he acquire useful materials for the build in this way but he also appropriates a slightly dilapidated model cannon. Chilly members of the public are trying chopping with flint axes, weaving hazel and helping to flatten our chalk floor. There are many favourable comments about the project.

As the community day draws to a close we are thawing out in our portacabin when someone remarks, ‘there’s a hurricane outside’. They are not wrong. I have never experienced a weather event like this as Neolithic land is engulfed in the eye of a storm. As we leave the safety of the portacabin we are covered in fine chalk dust that has been raised in the storm. Hair washing will be interesting, as adding water to chalk just makes it solidify. Will we be able to patent a new form of hair gel? We rush to cover our chalk pile and struggle to stay on our feet as rain begins to lash and we battle with tarpaulins in the wind, searching frantically for anything of sufficient weight to stop them blowing away. Then we notice that the fairly substantial English Heritage gazebo is about to take off. We have been watching parachutists over the site all week and it takes several people on the end of the gazebo poles to prevent us joining them. We are attempting to remove the cover from the metal uprights so that it no longer acts as a sail. The weighty two foot tent pegs have long since ceased to secure the uprights. I wonder if I am going to end up with only my ruby slippers (suitably health and safety approved) showing under the remnants of the gazebo, in imitation of the wicked witch of the west or if I am to be whisked back to Kansas. The ruined gazebo disposed of, we hope our rescue efforts have earned us Brownie points in the bid to be chosen to take part in phase 2. The tornado does provide useful evidence about the durability of our buildings. They are all still there, although there was a mad dash with a ladder to secure the thatched roll that protects the smoke hole of 851.

Sadly this is our last day on the project and we have to time travel back to our C17^th lives. We say goodbye to our new found friends and head home. Surely all this physical effort will have had its benefits when I stand on the scales, ah no. I am attempting to subscribe to the ‘muscle weighs more than fat theory’, or it could just be because my hair has solidified?

Well I must say today did actually feel like hard work. We need to crush chalk for the floors in two of the houses. I am excited to discover that not only does our Neolithic materials chalk sieve work but that modern equivalents have been abandoned in its favour and it is attracting a lot of attention. There’s been rain over night and today is a little cooler with a brief shower. Wet chalk is not fun, instantly we are a couple of inches taller and considerably heavier as the chalk sticks to our boots. So jolly sticky is it that it is difficult to lift our feet from the ground. We are using shovels that are, at their best and driest, heavy. Add to this what seems like several tons of soggy wet chalk and then the chalk that we are trying to shovel and you have something that even my arm muscles, hardened from hefting armour, find difficult – goodbye bingo wings. I have a sneaking suspicion that both Rosemary and Kath, in a similar age bracket to myself, are considerably fitter than I, or maybe it is just that they’ve been in the Neolithic era for longer. But chalk pound we must so it is a hard day at the chalk face. We commission a second sieve and Liz gets to work. Even our less expert sieve holds up for a whole day of basically having rock thrown at it. Together with Rosemary and Kath, I chalk crush all day, others joining us for shifts at various stages. This is such a rubbish job that we wonder if it would be reserved for lesser mortals in Neolithic society and if there was some kind of hierarchy – we guess yes, because those of religious significance would be at the top. Or maybe this was meted out as some form of punishment. A society that could construct Stonehenge must have had rules and by extension, transgressors.

Chris demonstrates the perfected chalk riddling technique

We are joined by a film crew making clips for the English Heritage website and in theory u-tube. We debate how well it would go down if we adopted cave-man speak al la Armstrong and Miller. Pretty much everything in a wide range is getting covered with chalk dust, including the camera equipment. Our feet are filmed as we tamper away. This means we have to sign clearance forms as our feet may be ‘published’. Our chalky hands are not a good combination with the producer’s posh pen. Neolithic persons’ hands must be jolly dry if they ever did this amount of crushing, sieving and tamping.

Down in the compound, floors are going in and chalk-wash is being put on the walls. I’d still like red walls and there is no archaeological evidence at all for white but there is a theory that white held some religious significance – not too sure upon what this is based. We discuss how Neolithic paint brushes might be made – some kind of porcine bristles seems likely but we are less sure if they would be fixed into something or kept on the skin and maybe wound round their hands like some kind of early paint pad. There is a debate as to whether there should be some kind of fixative added to the chalk paint. Personally I’d vote for urine which pretty much seems to do anything but solution 1 is washing-up liquid. It won’t have escaped your notice that washing-up liquid is scarcely Neolithic so an alternative has to be found and tried. If you ever want to chalk wash your walls (and my advice is don’t) just add an egg.

All this chalk crushing has made me slightly hysterical and I make the mistake of challenging Chris to a wheelbarrow race up the hill from the houses to the chalk pile. I think I may have won but I did have a slight head start. In case you are wondering, we were pushing the wheelbarrows not holding people’s legs while they walked on their hands as we did at school sport’s days.

An eat in meal at the Harvester today, mainly so I can at last get an Internet fix. I have had to leave my adoring public with us in Rutland 3 days ago. Never fear dear reader you will catch up in the end!