‘So, what’s the latest on the experimental archaeology front?’ I hear you cry. I’ve still not grasped the nettle and tried making stinging nettle string (see what I did there?). Plenty more reading about boat archaeology though, plus trying not to dwell on the impending feedback on the first assignment. I had to miss one of my tutorials when I was away, so was watching the recording. The Irish accents play even more havoc than usual with the subtitling, which has an entertainment value all of its own. Who knew that Medieval Ireland had a camel based economy? ‘Smell fairies’, was an interesting response to a question about average iron smelting times.

Each week we get a ‘what’s on at the university this week’ email. This is frustrating because there is a plethora of fascinating sounding activities that I am too far away to access. A couple of weeks ago, we were exhorted to attend Sexual Health and Guidance week. This series of events is referred to by its acronym – I’ll give you a moment to think about that. You have to commend them for attention grabbing marketing. As the email said, “this is sure to be a fun-filled and informative week.”

I was chuffed to find a second-hand copy of a book I needed for £3.84, when most copies were £20+. The downside is that the estimated delivery date is the day before my assignment is due. In theory it has already been dispatched from within the UK, no idea why this means it will be a month before I get it. Are they perhaps sending it by a particularly circuitous route? Are they employing super-slow carrier pigeons? Time will tell. The book has 250 or so pages. I will have twenty four hours to read it – good job I can speed read. Whilst looking for a copy of this book I got one of those ‘you may be interested in this’, emails. I always give a wry smile when these recommendations are my own books. In this case it was a series of manuscript volumes, which did indeed sound interesting but were priced at £128,068.55. Might give that a miss.

I am desperately trying to work out how best to be in Ireland in March for a week of real life experimental archaeology fun. We had a month long trip to Ireland planned for May 2020. No prizes for guessing why that didn’t happen. I don’t have a whole month free in March and anyway I am not convinced that March is the best time of year to explore Ireland. Options are being considered. Do we go twice, taking the caravan, which will give me somewhere to stay, albeit a bit further from the university than is ideal? Do I fly out on my own in March just for the week? Not sure ‘on my own’ appeals. It may depend on whether or not caravan sites are going to be open that early in the year.

I also need to say that this wonderful course that I am doing is now accepting applications for the next academic year. It really is great fun and the assessment side is comparatively ‘gentle’. Although archaeology conjours up visions of ancient civilizations and there is an element of that, there are opportunities to look at more recent manifestations of material culture (that’s ‘things’ to you and me). All my family historian friends out there, do take a look. I’m enjoying this course so much. You can really begin to understand about the homes your ancestors lived in, the boats that they sailed, the clothes that they wore and the artefacts that they made or owned. It is all online and open to students across the world. Even better, if you are looking for a face-to-face university course, or know any young people who are keen on studying the past, there are in-person undergraduate and post-graduate opportunities available in the same department. If I had the wherewithal to spend a year in Ireland, I’d be up for that. Sadly, this wasn’t an option when I was looking for undergraduate university courses.

I’ve just returned from a short stay on the Isle of Wight. Let’s just say that internet access was of the ‘five unbroken minutes is a positive’ variety. Phone signal involved standing on one leg on the balcony with the phone held aloft, hence the radio silence. Mind you, it was better off than being at home where rats eating through cables knocked out all internet connection in three villages for five days.

It is always good to return to the island, where I lived for nearly thirty years. Getting on the ferry was a challenge as we arrived to be told we weren’t booked. After enquiring, it turns out that the holiday park hadn’t cancelled our car and caravan booking (despite cancelling our ability to bring the caravan and swapping us to a chalet instead). The ticket collector was obviously wondering if he should ask us if we realised that we’d mislaid the caravan.

Most of the holiday was spent enjoying the company of Edward, along with his mum and dad. Adult activities included hot-tubbing and board game playing. We explored the delights of the Blackgang Chine’s dinosaurs and dodos. Not sure for how many more years I will be able to clamber across the scramble nets. My first visit to the chine was over sixty years ago, when there was considerably more of it; it has been badly hit by landslips. At that time, it lacked the theme-park activities that it now boasts but it was still a must-see place to go. We played crazy-golf, we built sandcastles and poured two pence pieces into ravenous arcade machines. I drove past the first house that I purchased and was shocked to realise that it is forty years since I lived there! Surely the 1980s are practically last week. Minus Edward, which is probably as well for the sake of the china, we visited Osborne House for the umpteenth time. I was pleased to find that there is a positive correlation between English Heritage visitors and mask-wearing, ferry travellers less so.

Then home to the inevitable catching up. I’ve just written a three-volume novel that is the list of things to do before Christmas, currently standing at 117 tasks. There are three big speaking engagements on the horizon, as well as many other presentations for audiences from Devon to New Zealand, the latter sadly only virtually. I am looking forward to chatting about how the world of genealogy can become more accommodating across the age range as part of The Really Useful Show. Next up will be three presentations for THE Genealogy Show and I’ve just heard that I will have to tackle the learning curve that is recording two presentations for next year’s Rootstech.

A few things to report that have been crossed off the to-do list. I complied a list of best genealogical mystery novels for a Best Books website. I’ve also got an article on the Civil War hot on the presses of Who do You Think You Are? Magazine. Oh, and nothing to do with the to do list but I have Commonwealth Games tickets, only one set but I guess that’s a bonus for the bank balance. Now back to the course reading, of which more in a separate post.

Saturday was the all-day Mayflower 400 International conference. The eagle-eyed mathematicians amongst you will note that it is in fact 401 years since the Mayflower sailed in 1620. The conference was originally scheduled for last year and was to be a live event. It was delayed by a year and finally converted to an online format. This meant that there were attendees from across the globe, many of them watching at hours when most self-respecting folk were asleep.

After a very interesting and relevant introduction from Charlie Courtenay, Earl of Devon, Master Christopher and Mistress Agnes chatted about their lives in Devon in the fifty years since the Mayflower sailed. For various logistical reasons we had pre-recorded this, amidst a certain amount of issues, such as very loud, large tractors driving past, or the phone ringing at inopportune moments. Cue take 3, or 4, or 10.

After us, Cor de Graaf gave the Leiden perspective. I am so in awe of people who can present in a second language. After some friendly lunchtime chat, that is characteristic of Devon Family History Society meetings, Phil Revell told the story of the More children from Shropshire, who were dispatched across the Atlantic on the Mayflower, having been taken from their mother.

This was followed by Debbie Kennett, explaining the uses of genetic genealogy. Then a thought-provoking session from UK based, American TV journalist, Jim Boulden. He was analysing why lineage societies, such as that for Mayflower descendants, are so popular in the US.

Jo Loosemore told us about the problems of curating the Mayflower Exhibition at The Box in Plymouth, during a pandemic. Hearing about the ethos behind the exhibition, which incorporated heavy involvement from the Wampanoag, was fascinating. Unfortunately, now the day was virtual and therefore extended into the evening, I didn’t get to stay for Nick Barrett’s closing session, a real shame as Nick is always an excellent speaker.

Two years ago, I purchased tickets for the Torrington Bonfire. If you are thinking, pile of sticks, add a match, you couldn’t be further from the truth. I have been to three previous bonfires and these are truly spectacular events. They are organised by Torrington Cavaliers who spend two or three years building elaborate constructions, which are then burned, raising thousands of pounds for charity. Previous models have included the Victory, a Medieval castle, Trumpton and London’s Pudding Lane. So convincing was this last construction that a local estate agent was approached by someone trying to purchase one of the new houses that were being built on the common. This time, in another delayed event, it was the Mayflower that was to be consigned to the flames. The first thing of note was that this was a full-scale model and it really brought home just how small the Mayflower was and how hazardous that transatlantic journey would have been.

I am now going to get a bit ranty, so you may want to stop reading here. First, some context. In the past week Devon and Cornwall have been declared an area requiring enhanced response measures, due to levels of COVID that are twice the national average. In my immediate area, nearly half of all recorded COVID cases have been in the past month. Our major hospitals are on red alert. Although nothing is mandatory, extra caution, including continued mask-wearing, reducing social contact and regular self-testing is being advised. I have been doing all this as a matter of course anyway.

We debated whether it was sensible to attend a large scale event (the actual attendance was 9000). This would be the first time in eighteen months that I had intentionally put myself in a situation where there would be more than half a dozen people together. We reasoned that it was outside and we could remain on the outskirts, or even come home if we wanted to. We also decided to miss much of the preliminary activity and go later than we otherwise might have. Stupidly, we also thought that the recently announced need for particular caution might mean that people would be more considerate. Naturally, we resolved to wear masks.

We did indeed station ourselves on the periphery, in a place where we could see many of the other 9000 or so attendees passing by. We were several metres from anyone else until the very end when a raucous, large family pushed in front of us, despite there being plenty of space elsewhere. I passed the time waiting for the fireworks people watching and then with incredulity, counting the mask wearers. You might expect older people at least to be more cautious (nope – not one person who appeared to be over fifty, apart from us, with a mask). The first aiders then, they’d need to wear masks, wouldn’t they? No again, one out of the four that I saw. Out of 9000 people, of whom I estimate I saw well over 2000, sixteen, just sixteen were wearing masks, most of them children. I know we were outside but closer to the centre of activity, people were crammed in. Then, in what I thought was the height of irresponsibility, one of the live bands encouraged the audience to sing along. Bear in mind that most of the non mask-wearing audience were shoulder to shoulder with strangers.

I know I am over cautious, I know people are desperate for things to be ‘normal’ but I was shocked at the total lack of awareness and concern. I also know that mask wearing isn’t pleasant. It was the first time I had worn mine outside for several hours and as the night grew colder, I was either viewing the spectacular fireworks through a fog or wiping my glasses every ten seconds. No it wasn’t pleasant, yes it was a pain but I did it and willingly. Not only because I want to reduce my risk of being seriously ill, requiring hospitalisation or dying but I also want to reduce risks for others. I too want to go back to ‘normal’. I want going out to be safer for those with vulnerable, as yet unvaccinated, children and my immune-compromised friends for whom vaccines are unlikely to be effective and for whom COVID would be extremely damaging or fatal. I guess others who feel like me chose to stay away from Saturday’s event and attending was certainly out of character with my behaviour over the past eighteen months. I am still not sure if I regret going. I felt that for the most part, we minimised risk but it shouldn’t just have been up to us. This is a community issue and everyone should be playing their part. Vaccination helps but is not immunity. Outside helps but is no guarantee that infection won’t spread. Take care of yourselves people, take care of each other. So, a great event; the fireworks were particularly impressive, shame about the audience. I am sure if each one of those people was asked what they would do to save the lives of their children, grandparents, loved-ones, they’d say ‘anything’. We are not being asked to donate our kidneys, to do ‘anything’, we are being asked to be careful, considerate, human. I am not ‘living in fear’ or being dictated to, I am making informed personal choices and taking reasonable precautions to keep myself safe, in the same way that I wear a seatbelt, or exercise and eat reasonably sensibly. I can’t understand the thinking behind the behaviour I witnessed on Saturday night. I can only assume they think the risk is minimal that the odds are ‘it won’t happen to me’. I hope for their sakes their gamble with those odds pays off.

Undaunted, well fairly undaunted, we drove to Kingswear to try to tackle the coastal footpath in the right order from that end. It would be a mere two miles from where we finished the previous day (and then another two miles back to the car). We would then decide if we wanted to repeat the bit we’d done in the wrong order to ‘do it properly’. Kingwear has a very attractive harbour, even though it is sad to see the fishing fleet of the past has been replaced with pleasure yachts. The first part of the walk from Kingswear in the Brixham direction is on pavements out of the town. The gradient is, shall we say, challenging, even if it is smooth underfoot. I just about managed this and then the route took us through a wooded section. I was very thankful for the shade as it was another very hot day.  After half an hour, there was an encouraging sign that told us it was only 1¼ miles to where we had abandoned the walk the previous day. Yay! 1¼ miles is but nothing. Except that it was.

We descended into the valley via a flight of steps and a rough path to Mill Bay Cove. I am used to reading Ordnance Survey maps. Perhaps I should have taken better note of quite how close together the contour lines were – that would be practically on top of each other. I started to climb the steps cut into the path as we left the cove. I stopped for a rest. I climbed some more. I rested some more. I climbed a little further. My body really wasn’t playing ball. Reluctantly, I decided that a walk was a walk and I ought to be proud of how far we have come since Minehead, rather than how much we didn’t complete. Even though my future walks will need to be on flatter terrain, I guess I should be grateful that I am still able to go for a walk, albeit a flattish one.

We returned to the safety of the car; its thermometer told us that the outside air temperature was thirty degrees. That seemed to escape the weather station statistics. An afternoon of rest, if not full recouperation, followed.

Taking it easyish seemed to be the best plan for the next few days. Day four was showery and cooler but humid. In search of places that wouldn’t be too peopley, we drove out beyond Buckfastleigh, on the edge of Dartmoor. Venturing down some byways that were, at least in theory, roads, we reached Hembury Woods. Lacking a map, we were keen not to get lost on our woodland wander. Our first attempt was unadventurous and based on keeping left but we ended up back at the car after about three hundred yards. We would need to be more daring and try to remember lefts and rights. One woodland path does look very much like another. We tried leaving field signs – once a Girl Guide …….. – although I was concerned that a passer by might move our carefully laid twig arrows. In the end, it seemed we were following a pre-laid trail, as small piles of sawdust were laid at intervals along our way. The woodland was strewn with a wildflower, later identified courtesy of the flowers book as Small Cow-wheat. Not heard of it? No, me neither.

Having reached what I felt was a suitable half way point if we were to have a not too strenuous walk, I was keen to retrace our steps but my companion was confident we could make a circular route. I was less convinced but we soldiered on. Behold and lo! There was the car. In order to keep the step count up, we also returned to the country park next to the site and were rewarded by the site of a roosting buzzard. Small birds and squirrels were feeding heedlessly nearby but perhaps the buzzard had had its lunch.

A last minute change of plan meant that we were left with a few free days. I wonder what they are? The weather had finally decided that it was no longer winter, could we find the one caravan site in the country with vacancies? It turned out that we could, so we decided to head south to recommence our walk round the South West Coastal Path. We began this seventeen years ago when we were a lot younger and fitter. Even then, not for us the twenty-five mile a day stretches, complete with tents to our backs. No, this is supposed to be pleasure. Over the course of ten years, we completed the Somerset coast, north Devon, the whole of Cornwall and got as far as Dartmouth. It took us 73 walking sessions to cover 477½ (don’t forget the half) miles. Then the grandchildren arrived and we found better places to go when we have days to spare. We had also reached an off putting stretch where there is no public transport to get us back to the start. The options being, walk 10½ miles described as ‘strenuous’ and get an expensive taxi back. Or cover this in three sections walking about 3½ miles in both directions in order to get back to the car. It really is very dispiriting to have to walk twenty miles to end up only ten miles further on. If we were ever going to finish the remaining 153 miles however now was the time. 10½ ‘strenuous’ miles is probably just within our capabilities but given that I have spent a year barely walking further than the front gate, it didn’t seem sensible. So the bullet needed to be bitten, three lots of there and back it was to be.

Day 1 consisted of arriving at the caravan site and completing a warm up stroll round the beautiful neighbouring country park, when the wildlife actually played ball. There was also a lengthy conversation with the caravan site wifi help line. I wasn’t going to be caught in an internet black hole again. It turns out that it was a ‘no help at all’ line but I solved the problem by reregistering with another of my many email addresses. I just have to remember who they now think I am.

Two more days of shower dodging and ancestral parish visiting were planned. Firstly, I returned to the hotspot for the next deluge of emails. Ah the hotspot was no longer hot. I failed to connect to the internet. Fortunately, during the previous day’s foray online I thought I had better send the next  lesson to my online students whilst I could, even though it was a few days early. That would have worked well except I had inadvertently sent lesson five masquerading as lesson four. There was nothing for it but to try to do things on my fairly new to me phone, beyond making a phone call. This, dear reader, was a learning curve. I managed to use up my miniscule data allowance (miniscule because this is not how I normally use my phone) and work out how to access some of my emails. I even manage to send replies and an s.o.s to my boss who could send my poor students the correct lesson on my behalf. I tried again to book our National Trust tickets. Still no email confirmation but a booking number appears on the website so I was hopeful that that it was indicative of a booking.

The parish visiting took us through several picturesque villages on the Hampshire/Wiltshire borders and I discovered that, in the 1840s, the family lived on a farm that had been targeted by 300 Swing Rioters, ten years earlier. Driving from parish to parish, punctuated by shower-dodging photography, is not very conducive to accomplishing my three miles a day of walking, that I have managed to keep up all year so far. My solution at home is to jog up and down on the spot to make up the steps. My travelling companion doubts that the caravan floor will cope with this. Walking round the caravan site proved to be the only option. On day three the weather did not play fair and although I set off in the dry to complete an estimated ten circuits of the site, before I got to the end of circuit two, it began to rain. By circuit three it was torrential and as I was wearing wellies, I had developed blisters. Did I give up? Well it was very tempting, especially as I kept passing the warm and dry van but no, I soldiered on.

No family history for our last day. Instead a drive out past Stonehenge to Stourhead Gardens. These are beautifully landscaped grounds that were laid out in the eighteenth century, complete with numerous classical follies. It turns out that my initial booking had gone through, as had my attempt to book using the phone, so we could in theory have gone twice!

My only previous visit to Stourhead was forty years ago. We walked round the path that meanders round the lake, amongst mature trees and rhododenrons that were at their best. There were swans, coots, mallards and Canada geese on the lake. A double bonus. This was the best day weather-wise so we stayed dry and the designated, strictly one-way only, walk round the grounds was more than enough for my daily step-count, so no circulations of the campsite were required.

All in all this wasn’t quite the relaxing break we had planned but better luck next time. I am not looking forward to catching up with 600 or so emails on a borrowed computer. I am hoping that my own was curable and will be ready soon, although I am aware that I may have to bite the new machine bullet before too long.