Regular readers will know that I am distinctly devoid of family members, apart from my five descendants and two in-law descendants. No siblings, no first cousins and only six second cousins, all on the same side of the family. So, a third cousin (with whom I share great great grandparents) counts as practically my closest relative. Since I was a child, thanks to my great aunt and the family photo album, I was aware of my great grandmother Clara’s four sisters and brother. I was also aware of the children of those siblings, my grandmother and great aunt’s cousins. I had photographs of most of them too. This generation was born between 1878 and 1895.
About five years ago, I decided to trace these cousins of my grandmother further forward to the present day. Imagine my surprise and excitement, when I discovered, in my own generation, a third cousin who had been in my class at primary school. (I should point out this was not in some small ancestral village. We were living in a highly populated area, each having a potential of about twenty schools that we could have gone to). My mother was certainly not aware that my classmate was the granddaughter of the first world war soldier whose image looked out of the pages of our photo album.
Mary Archer Dawson née Bowyer our mutual great great great grandmother
Although I did not keep in contact with any of my primary school peers into adulthood, about ten years ago a few of us did get together via Friends Reunited. We formed a Facebook Group and some of us met in person from time to time. I attempted to make contact with my newly discovered third cousin but wasn’t able to do so.
Then, this weekend, one of our Facebook Group organised a Zoom gathering. By the process of osmosis, the word spread and there before me was my third cousin! Fortunately, she was as excited as I was.
There are some interesting events coming up. On 9th February I am taking part in the Institute of Heraldic and Genealogical Studies Diamond Event. I shall be giving suggestions for those who are wanting to write their own memories and sharing reminiscences of the period 1946-1969. There may still be spaces if you want to book. Then, in March, I shall be joining my down-under friends for the virtual Family History Down Under Conference, giving two presentations. In between I am criss-crossing the country with talks to local societies as well as running my own. Of course there are also the excitements of RootsTechConnect to enjoy this month.
I am still on a book selling mission. I had to repurpose two book boxes in order to send birthday presents to my descendants. This means I now have a pile of loose books looking untidy. So, if you were thinking of buying a copy of any of my books from me, now might be a good time. Just in time for Valentine’s presents! On the topic of selling, Martha is also selling some of her beautiful craft items (if privacy settings prevent that link from working, take a look at the post I shared on my Facebook page). I think Edward may be going to benefit from the proceeds.
I regularly receive catalogues from a seller of old documents and paper ephemera. This week, one of the items on offer was a Devon based, late nineteenth century chemist’s notebook, giving recipes for various medicines and ‘cures’. It was not what you might call cheap. Using the fact that I have been giving wall-to-wall Zoom talks over the past couple of weeks, including a voice damaging seven in five days, as justification, I parted with my hard-earned cash. I am now eagerly awaiting the postman. Said postman is officially a star. Today he successfully delivered a missive addressed to ‘Mistress Agnes, c/o Dr J Few, Buckland Brewer, N. Devon’. Given that about 1200 people live in Buckland Brewer, I thought that that was pretty impressive.
In other news, I have just been asked to share the story of my Thockrington One-Place Study to a Northumbrian Group. I am looking forward to this challenge.
Last but definitely not least, thank you to everyone who sponsored Martha and I for our Move for Mind challenge we hit our modest exercise and fund raising targets.
Well, I am certainly not going to be bored. I have Zoom presentations coming out of my ears, with five to deliver in three days this week, as well as some to listen to. The first of my own series starts tonight and I will be encouraging people to write their life stories, a great lockdown project. You can attend just this single talk if you wish but you need to hurry up and book! Having not, from choice, done any professional family history research for a while, recently, I had two requests on the same day. Obviously, I am limited to what I can do from home but I already have one happy customer and I am waiting for a marriage certificate before I can make progress on the other.
On the presentation front, I have had to climb the learning curve that is recording audio on to a power point. I thought I had cracked it as I worked my way through a whole presentation, doing the whole replaying and re-recording bit. The latter was a frequent occurrence as it is winter croaky voice season. It was going pretty well I thought, although I don’t sound my usual relaxed self, it is more like I am still getting used to auto-cue. Even though I am not using a script, it sounds as though I am, maybe because I am trying to enunciate clearly. At least it has slowed me down a bit. The problem came when I hit save. I was drastically revamping a previous presentation and it was in an old version of power point, which, wait for it, doesn’t support sound! By then it was too late to save as the new format. In the end there was nothing for it but to start all over again. It didn’t even seem to work copying the slides into a new format document, so it was definitely back to the drawing board on all fronts.
I am enjoying compiling the family history albums for my grandchildren. Probably more fun for me than it will be for them but I can hope.
As to the whole pre-diabetic thing. I’ve now consumed my Christmas cake (ok cakes), one of my all-time favourite foods and cooked before the diagnosis. Now I guess I take it seriously. The fitness watch is still enough of a novelty to get me out of the chair. I wore it for a couple of days doing just what I would normally do to see how little I did. Bearing in mind I am not leaving home at the moment, I was expecting it to be about 200 steps a day and was surprised to find it was around 1600. Encouraged by Martha, we signed up for a challenge involving us in walking 100 miles a month. After a bit of adjustment, we worked out that 6666 steps a day would do it and I’ve managed to stick to it since January 2nd. I am a bit annoyed that we didn’t realise how many it was in time for 1st January but hey ho. It probably sounds pathetic to my fitness fiend friends but I am consoling myself with the fact that it is four times what I was doing. As this has to be accomplished in my tiny house it does involve quite a bit of jogging on the spot. I tend to make up the numbers in the evening during the adverts on commercial television – a bit of an incentive to watch BBC! You have no idea quite how many adverts Dancing on Ice has until you try this. The challenge does involve sponsorship and thanks to lovely friends Martha and I are nearly at our modest joint target. Of course, it would be great if we smashed it. If anyone would like to donate to the mental health charity Mind, particularly relevant at the moment, here are the links for myself and Martha.
Any minute now the watch will buzz to remind me that I haven’t moved yet today so I’d better get going.
Pictures of jogging would not be pretty sight so here are some flowers to cheer everyone up instead.
Last year I posted a round up of the 2010s and looked forward to what the 2020s might bring. The first year of the 2020s has certainly brought us rather more than any of us might have bargained for but in the spirit of new beginnings, I thought I would assess my progress towards my ambitions.
Family. I hoped I would be able to spend more time with mine. Well, COVID certainly stood that one on the head and this does not look set to change for the next few months at least.
Home and Community. My bedroom has been decorated this year and thanks to lockdown, there has been some progress in the garden but I might have expected to achieve more in this regard. My community input has been limited to organising weekly Zoom coffee mornings and monthly online History Group meetings.
Work. This has altered to take account of 2020 circumstances. I predicted that I would be doing more online. I could not have imagined how much, or how quickly. My speaking engagements went online. I set up my own course of lectures and have a lovely, friendly group attending these, with room to add a few more if you are interested. I have also spoken to many groups across the country and indeed the world, most of these would not have taken place in person.
Travel. Clearly, 2020 has not been the year to achieve travel ambitions but we did sneak off to the wilds of Northumberland and there is always next year.
Writing. I published my second novel and one of two planned booklets. Marketing has been tricky but book sales have held up surprisingly well. I have written up some more family history stories and was thrilled to win a short story competition.
Leisure. I have had a few piano lessons, mostly virtually, I have definitely improved and can manage a few recognisable tunes, albeit a bit slowly. I also don’t look at the keys all the time anymore. Learning Cornish got no further than buying some books and I still haven’t got back to my spinning.
Family history. All-consuming rather than leisure, so it rates its own category. The highlight in this respect has to be my Certificate of Recognition from the Society of Genealogists. I have added a few new ancestors to the tree but unsurprisingly, my three major brick walls remain. I have found myself as the chair of Devon Family History Society, which is an interesting challenge. I hoped I would inspire my descendants with a sense of their past and I do have plans in that direction.
Health. Not so good here and I have added an unidentified allergy and pre-diabetes to my list of ailments. In a vain attempt to knock the ‘pre-diabetes’ on the head, last week I bought a fitness watch. It seems that that isn’t enough, you actually have to do stuff as well. The first challenge was to get it to talk to my phone. That’s ok, there are instructions. Line one, ‘wear the product on the waist’. Really? I know I need to lose a few pounds but no way can I get this round my waist. Ah. It seems I am the victim of someone writing instructions using Google translate, for ‘waist’ read ‘wrist’. After two days, I managed to get the watch and the phone to communicate. Apparently, I get credit for ticking off five healthy habits per day. One is reading! I have so got this. Others are getting up early, check. Having breakfast, check. Going to bed early, check. This is a cinch. Ah. The fifth one is movement. Well, I move, probably not enough but I’ll give it a go. I am fascinated that it will tell me how much I sleep. Ok. So, I was expecting it to reveal that I don’t sleep much but 0%, really? Mind you I was allegedly awake 0% of the night too. Perhaps I haven’t quite got this sussed yet. Added later – it turns out you have to be asleep for four hours for it to realise that this is your night time and you are not just dozing off in front of the fire and register. I almost never have four hours of unbroken sleep, so it won’t be giving me statistics any time soon.
Here’s to a positive start to 2021. Let’s take care of each other and ourselves.
It started in the east this thing as plague, as cholera, had before it. It crept onto our television screens before last Christmas, lost in the news of Brexit posturings and snap general elections. In any case it was not about us. This was distant, sad maybe but it was happening somewhere else, to them and not to those we knew. We carried on with our lives as the insidious wave swept inexorably closer. By January, the infection reached our shores, brought back by travellers returning from overseas.
Then it began. It passed from one to another, reaching out. Survival instinct set in and showed itself in the scramble for toilet rolls, for pasta, for hand sanitiser and soap. We began to be afraid. At first perhaps a salacious, voyeuristic fear, still believing it couldn’t be, wouldn’t be, our friends, our family, ourselves who died. We were told that it was older people, those with underlying health conditions who were at risk but some of us were older, some of us were sick. We grieved for Italy in a way that perhaps we had not for Wuhan. Inexplicable this distinction but we’d holidayed in Italy, we knew people who knew people. It was still not about us but we began to believe that it could be.
Deaths were announced, in other cities, other towns. Deaths of younger people, healthy people. We were not immune. Yet still, for most, the impact was no more than shopping shortages, or small children being sad that the caretaker no longer high-fived them on the way into school. Then school children who had been on half-term skiing trips brought it to our county, our neighbourhood. We watched the lines on the graph rising ever more steeply.
As the number of cases grew, a numbing terror, a paralysing grief for the life we had known, a life we would never know again. By March, people who were able, or whose fear allowed them to do no other, began to hide in their homes. Then this became a requirement. Worried owners fastened the doors on shops and businesses, fearing that it might be a final closure. Children stayed at home, their parents forced into the role of educators, whilst teachers hastened to provide materials to support their pupils at a distance. Other teachers continued to work, foregoing their Easter holidays, risking their health and sometimes their sanity, to provide care for vulnerable children and the children of key workers. Mournful teddies peered from windows, hoping to catch the eye of a passing child, out for a fleeting moment, their exercise circumscribed by geography, by expediency. Rainbows of hope adorned fences and walls. Aimlessly they stretched across the smeared window-panes, symbols of an optimism that we did not really feel.
Many feared for their jobs, wondered how the next bills might be paid. Workers were furloughed as the government promised help, throwing money at the problem. For some this was a relief, yet others fell through this hastily cast net. We were told to keep our social distance. Suddenly, everyone understood just how close, how far, two metres might be. We became physically isolated from our families, our friends, our neighbours.
There was a frantic struggle to secure a supermarket delivery, if we did not go out would we be safe? Yet when those deliveries arrived there was the dread that somehow the unseen enemy had crept in unawares on our box of cereal or our tin of beans. People spent hours scanning websites or waiting in telephone queues, trying to get on the ‘vulnerable’ list that would entitle them to priority deliveries. Frenetically, we wiped our groceries, sanitised surfaces and washed our hands. Suddenly, every day was a birthday as we sang the song to ensure we had scrubbed away our infection and our guilt.
Obsessively, we tuned in to the daily government briefings, looking for guidance, looking for hope. We scrolled through social media, reading the horror stories because we could do no other. Seeing the breakfast TV News presenters ‘socially distancing’, sitting at opposite ends of the sofa, brought things home. This was real. This was now. Yes, this was happening to us. It ripped through our care homes, taking our most vulnerable first. Bewildered elderly folk died without the comfort of their families, excluded in a failed attempt to keep the virus at bay.
People spoke of waves of anguish, of incapacitating fear, of inability to concentrate, of not being able to settle or get things done. Here was something that we could not control. There were tales of overburdened hospitals. The aging and the unwell were encouraged to write DNRs so, if they were hospitalised, the decision as to who would, or would not, be given scarce ventilators would be taken out of the hands of the medical professionals. Sobbing health workers appeared on our screens, their skin bruised by goggles and masks, exhaustion etched on their faces and unseen scars branding their minds. They begged for PPE to protect them from this horror. Nightingale hospitals sprung up at amazing speed, designed to help cope with the strain on hospital beds. Retired medical professionals and the nearly qualified were pressed into service.
We lost track of what day it was, like a perpetual bank holiday but our weeks were punctuated by Thursdays, when at 8pm we gathered and we clapped and we cheered. Bells rang and saucepan lids clattered as we thanked those who nursed, who cared, who despaired. We did it for them but we did it for ourselves, buried in our impotence, in our guilt for letting others take the burden.
It was not all bad news. Captain Tom Moore, in his hundredth year, circled his garden on his walking frame. Endlessly walking, lap upon lap. He caught the imagination of a jaded public, of a grieving world seeking the good news story, a reprieve from reports of the soaring death toll. Donations flooded in, over £32 million but why did an old man have to walk and walk and walk again to raise money for a health service that successive governments have bled dry? With the morning came the irrepressible Joe Wicks. We jumped and stretched and let the aching muscles take our minds from darker thoughts for space. Children who would normally receive free school meals were left hungry at home. It took a young footballer, Marcus Rashford, to cajole the government into action, ensuring that our children were fed and another hero of the pandemic emerged.
There were too the villains of the piece. Dominic Cummings drove to Barnard Castle ‘to test his eyesight’, making a nonsense of government restrictions; their exhortation to ‘stay at home, protect the NHS, save lives’. Anger fuelled our fear, we were a rudderless ship and emphatically we were not all in this together.
Gradually, resilience and determination begin to surface. We created our own new normal. Interaction circumscribed by our screens, our diaries began to fill with online events. We sported lockdown hair styles of increasing shagginess; some took matters into their own hands and inexpert hair-cuts appeared on our screens. A few took the idea of DIY to extremes and self-administered dental treatment. Those of us fortunate enough to have outside spaces dug the soil and squeezed joy from the nesting birds, the cleaner air and the silence, as traffic dwindled to a trickle. In all this awfulness, the environment was a victor. The birds still sang. Whilst some people baked soughdough bread or learned new crafts, others remained paralysed, fraught by memories a life that was no longer ours. We were told we were past the peak. Children began to return to classrooms.
Summer. Outside our bubble, our safe cocoon, in the heat and the terror, the world went mad. Democracy was thrown to the storm. The compassionate joined in outrage as another black life was lost to intolerance and hate. Then they gathered, coming together in their anger and their fear. The crowds formed because black lives do matter but the seeds of infection lay lurking amongst those desperate throngs, waiting for the unwary.
Small sighs of relief as numbers began to diminish. We donned our masks, the latest fashion accessory and ‘ate out to help out’, supporting the hospitality sector that had been so badly hit. Folk crowded to beaches, to areas that had thus far escaped from the worst impact of the virus. Relief that struggling business were being supported was accompanied by the fear that those city-dwelling tourists that were a life blood were, at the same time, bringing with them disease and death.
With public examinations cancelled, students received their teachers’ predicted grades. Another furore, was this fair, was it just? Schools and colleges opened their doors and gradually, relentlessly, the graphs that we studied so avidly began to rise once again. Universities restricted students to the corridors of their halls of residence in history’s strangest freshers’ week.
November and another lockdown, slightly less restrictive than that of the spring but now it was winter, we were weary, exhausted, drained. Plumbing the depths of our mental reserves, we sighed and reconciled ourselves to the inevitable, yet were mindful that there were those who had nothing left to draw upon. The virus brought not only its own casualties but other victims, those whose physical and mental health had been damaged beyond repair as a by-product of this year.
Then a glimmer at the end of the endless tunnel. News that a vaccine had been approved for use. The oldest amongst us stood by to receive it before the end of the year. The prospect of Christmas shone out, a beacon of hope. We could mix in a limited way, a reward for all that we had endured. The creeping worm of doubt, reverberated from the mouths of the scientists, the medics. Yes, we could but could was not should. We could but they would rather we didn’t. Many planned solitary celebrations that, although sad, would at least be safe. Others clung to the opportunity to see long-estranged family. Getting together would be a salve to their bruised and battered equilibrium.
As we fought back with the administering of the first vaccines, the virus did not lie sleeping. It retaliated with a mutation, more virulent, more terrifying. The promised comforting warmth of Christmas interaction was ripped from us. A necessary but devastating precaution. We dismantled our Christmas plans, unpacked our suitcases and wondered what to do with 24lb turkeys. Daubed ‘Plague Island’, Britain was shunned by its neighbours as Europe closed its borders. Thousands of lorry drivers were stranded on Kent’s roads and there were fears that our food supplies would be compromised. Tiers were tightened and more people were set to enter lockdown once Christmas was over. All this, interlaced with a Brexit deal that nobody, be they leavers or remainers, voted for.
Jupiter and Saturn aligned in what some saw as a welcoming echo of the Christmas star. Would the more superstitious regard it as being more akin to the comets that were in past times harbingers of disaster?
This was the year when every email, every virtual meeting, signed off with ‘take care’ or ‘stay safe’. A fruitless platitude but all that we could utter in our impotence. As 2021 dawns, with the vaccine on the horizon, we hope for better things, believing, trusting, that they could hardly be worse. When this is over, whatever over will mean, will we speak of ‘before’, as earlier generations spoke of ‘before the war’? For us all, whatever happens, 2020 has been a life-changing watershed; we and the world, will never be the same. So ‘take care’, ‘stay safe’, be kind and be hopeful.
As I haven’t done an ‘advent calendar’ on my blog this December, I thought I’d share my top fiction reads of the year. I have read seventy novels in 2020. With a week to go I might manage a couple more; this is about the same as in a ‘normal’ year. I know some people’s reading habits have changed in favour of ‘feel-good’ books during the pandemic but I have stuck to my usual fare. There is a bit of a witchy theme, perhaps because I was writing about witches myself at the time. These books do obviously reflect my own interests, that’s why they are my top ten but I hope you might be tempted to give some of them a try. I decided not to rank them 1-10, so here they are in alphabetical order of author. I have deliberately only provided links to the authors’ own websites, where I can find them. As an author, I know how important it is to encourage you to buy directly from authors, publishers or independent booksellers, rather than from major online retailers but if you want e-reader versions, or if you really must, you can find them there too.
I am a great fan of genealogical mysteries and Nathan is one of the best exponents of this genre. During the first lockdown he created a choose your own adventure for his long-running character Morton Farrier. This is a work of genius, as it is read online and you can follow Morton’s research via links to genuine documents and websites. I can only imagine how much effort it took to construct the story and create all the conceivable choices. I loved the topical references as Morton and his family struggled with food shortages and virus restrictions. Even better, you can read it for free. If you enjoy this and Nathan’s books are new to you, then there are plenty more Moreton adventures for you to enjoy.
I do prefer Phillippa Gregory’s books about ‘ordinary’ people to those whose main characters are royalty and this is one such. It is the story of Alinor, a wise woman who lives in 1648, when England is in the grips of the Civil War. At a time of turmoil, neighbour begins to turn upon neighbour and Alinor is in the line of fire. As you’d expect, it is well-researched and well-written. This is the first of a series and I am looking forward to the sequel.
Killing the Girl – Elizabeth Hall
An absorbing psychological thriller in which the lead character, Carol, is forced to revisit incidents from her past. It is difficult to say very much without spoilers but I was immediately drawn into the story. Some of it is set in a realistic 1970.
The Familiars – Stacey Halls
I usually try to avoid ‘Best Sellers’ that everyone will have heard of but I couldn’t ignore this. Set as it is against a background of the Pendle witch trials, this was likely to hold my interest. Stacey Halls has taken real people as her main characters and has created a plausible story about Fleetwood and Alice, who come from different walks of life.
This book was previously published as The Lost Book of Salem. It is set during the Salem witch trials, with a more recent strand. In 1991, Connie comes across the physic book whilst researching for a PhD and sets out to discover more about the life of Deliverance Dane. In the process, the reader is given an insight into the world of late C20th American academia.
A Kind of Spark – Elle McNicholl
A neurodivergent lead character, historical witchcraft and a struggle for acceptance. This had to be on the list. A coming of age story in which Addie comes to terms with who she is and how others perceive her. Elle McNicholl has used her own experience of neurodivergence to craft a compelling novel, which draws links between past instances of intolerance and bullying and Addie’s own life. Definitely a must read for anyone who wants to understand the overwhelming nature of neurodivergence and to rejoice in Addie personal triumphs.
Another of my favourite authors of genealogical mysteries. This is the latest of a series of books featuring genealogical sleuth Esme Quentin. Set in North Devon and featuring, yes, you’ve guessed it, more witches, as well as a curse and a mystery to uncover. Wendy’s, or rather Esme’s, genealogical research is believable and I enjoy learning more about Esme with each book Wendy writes. Although this is one of a series, you don’t need to have read the others but having read this one, you will probably want to.
More seventeenth century (inevitable really). Sara Reed has used her academic research about the history of early modern midwifery and crafted a fascinating account of Lucie Smith, who practices her craft of midwifery as London begins to be gripped by the plague. I like my historical novels to be rooted in sound research and this certainly is. A fascinating story.
A story set in my home village and based on real nineteenth century events. Liz has set her characters against a carefully researched background and I was quickly absorbed in the story of the Mitchell children. A beautiful evocation of the Devon landscape and a wonderfully detailed portrayal of Victorian rural poverty. It is difficult to write a convincing book for adults with children as the main characters but Liz has achieved this with admirable skill.
Who’s There – Karena Swan
A compelling read this one and a little different from the historical novel fare. We follow the story of Arnold, a young man with learning difficulties who is taking his first steps towards independence. Sadly, there are always those who seek to exploit the vulnerable and the plot takes a sinister turn. The characters were convincing and portrayed with empathy. A gripping recounting of how terrifyingly easy it is to become a victim.
Regular readers might recall that I often do daily ‘advent calendar’ posts but I decided to give that a miss this December. What I am preparing is a list of the top ten books that I’ve read this year. I’m not going to rank them one to ten but just the ten best of the 70 or so fiction books that I have read in 2020. If you are wondering if that is more or less than usual because, well because it is 2020, that’s probably about normal for me. Then there is all the non-fiction but I tend to dip into many of these rather than read from cover to cover, so my list will be fiction only. Stand by for this nearer the end of the year.
Now to recording. A few weeks ago, I was invited to chat to the lovely History Hacks Ladies. As a result I am now a podcast, whatever that is. So if you want to hear me chatting about Sins as Red as Scarlet in a very croaky voice you can. There’s plenty of other good stuff on there too, so head on over and listen in.
Then, whilst I was still reeling from all the Genealogy award thing excitement, came the amazing news that I had won a writing competition. I found out on Monday and once I’d picked my jaw up off the floor, spent most of the week with a stupid smile on my face. I don’t usually ‘do’ short stories but both my novels are on the Trip Fiction website, so when they announced a competition I decided to give it a go and well, wow, just wow – look! You can read my story and those of the other winners on the site. It is also a great place to look for books that are set in your favourite locations. If you are expecting my story to be set in the West Country, sorry, no, Northumberland this time. I’m afraid it is no good sending begging letters asking for a share of the prize money as a significant proportion has already been donated to charity. If you like the story and still haven’t dipped into my novels, if you are very quick, I can still send signed, festively wrapped copies out to the UK in time for Christmas – you do need to order directly from me for this though. P.S. and here is what the lovely judge said – I still can’t believe this is about something that I have written.
In other news, I glimpsed this under the clematis yesterday. I am hoping he is hibernating not deceased and will add more leaves and possibly build a shelter to put over him as this looks a bit exposed. The first photo was taken in the summer.
With a sold-out talk for the Society of Genealogists in the offing my lap top decided to go slow and then grind to a halt. As I was fresh from a ‘discussion’ with Amazon who decided they couldn’t verify my bank account in order to pay the paltry royalties due to me, this was the last thing I wanted. I should add that Amazon have been using this bank account for over two years with no problem but I guess they have to check occasionally. The issue seemed to be that the account officially uses my initials whereas the system assumes it uses your name and insists that you enter that. Anyway back to the expiring laptop. Good news, the repair shop was open during lockdown. Bad news there could be a week to wait. I review the alternatives for giving the three Zoom talks I have in the next week. I can use a lap-top that only has the free version of Power Point, meaning I have to alter all the fonts. Alternatively, I can use a teeny tiny lap top that is more difficult to use. A bit of testing and it seems I can make this work. Hurrah.
I am sat in the conservatory because that is the best light. The talk, on Madness, Mania and Melancholia: mental health of our ancestors, goes well. I am just in to the 35 minutes’ worth of questions when a neighbour arrives at the glass door with a brace of very deceased pheasants in his hand. I try to subtly gesture to the front door indicating that he should ring the bell, which should summon my lockdown companion. No, subtlety isn’t cutting it. I have to abandon the audience briefly to explain. I guess it beats the Zoom call cats.
The catalogue of woes continues. In order to complete a job due next week I need to download some software on to the borrowed computer. To do this I need to access a website. I have forgotten my password (which is saved on the defunct computer). Simples, I will reset it. It needs me to answer a ‘secret’ question. ‘What is my mother’s maiden name?’ That old chestnut. Clearly I do know what my mother’s maiden name is; I am a family historian. I don’t normally give the correct answer as it is in the public domain (you can probably find it on this website). It is also very easy to guess. I try the only two plausible alternatives – wrong. I try the actual maiden name – also wrong. There is no way round the ‘secret’ question. There should be a help phone number but guess what, the document with these useful numbers on is accessed via the website I can’t currently get in to. You couldn’t make it up.
I won’t mention the other website I can’t get into because I am not receiving the verification codes that they are allegedly sending me. Oh and then there was me trying to connect the borrowed laptop to my printer – don’t even go there. ‘You have 90 seconds to use this verification code.’ On this teeny tiny lap top – no chance. Good news I have a wireless keyboard and yes I can even locate it in the crowded loft. What I can’t locate is the little USB thingy that has to go in the laptop – sigh. Expect typos.
Then there is Tesco’s, fortunately to reset their password you do not need the inside leg measurement of your infant teacher’s uncle. I put in a new password, ‘that is your old password, please choose another password’. Arrgghhh.
Another day, another Zoom talk. I have finished the actual talk and am trying to minimise the presentation in order to copy and paste my web address in the chat. I press the escape key. Ah well on my computer it would be the escape button. On the one I’ve borrowed it is the power off key. Luckily this one was a double-hander so I just had to pop up on a different screen in another room in my house. Never work with children, animals or technology.
Sorry for the long silence dear readers. It certainly hasn’t been because I have been idle. Although I am continuing to stay at home, I have been around the world virtually, Zooming into homes across the planet. I am pleased to announce that I have enough support to continue to present my ‘History Interpreter Online’ series of Zoom family and social history talks. This is deliberately a small group so we maintain a friendly, chatty atmosphere but we do have room for a few more, either as occasional visitors or ‘season ticket’ holders.
I’ll start with the exciting news. I have had the great honour of being awarded a certificate of achievement by the Society of Genealogists. These are awarded annually ‘in recognition of efforts and activities that have made some exceptional contribution to genealogy to the benefit of anyone wishing to study family history’. I know I am in some very illustrious company, so it did come as a bit of a shock. The precise citation is, ‘For long-term services to family and local history and encouraging the involvement of young people in history and heritage.’ The ‘long-term’ bit makes me feel very old but I suppose I have been seriously researching my family for 43 years so I guess it is justified! I am looking forward to the face-to-face presentation, which can hopefully take place in August next year.
Despite the ‘long-term’ research I have managed to add 9x 10x and 11x great grandparents to a branch of my tree this week so there’s always something new to discover.
Of course, it is impossible to ignore the fact that, in general, things have been on the gloomy side. Christmas, as expected, will be different this year. I had planned to visit the descendants right at the end of the school holidays, giving family members who are in school as much time as possible to develop any nasties they may have picked up. The freedom that we have to visit for five days around Christmas Day itself just doesn’t work for me, especially as we would have a 600 mile round trip to make and the world and his wife will all be travelling on the same days. It is a very long way to go to wave to your nearest and dearest from the other side of a chilly field, which is what it would mean if we went in early January. Although I would go to the ends of the earth to see my family, my head says that, having been so careful for nine months, it would be stupid to be reckless now. So, I will, regretfully, continue with my ‘just because I can doesn’t mean I should’ stance and make the most of what technology will allow.
It is, of course, that time of year when not just visiting but also seasonal gift giving is in our thoughts. Many of us are unable or unwilling to visit shops in person at the moment, so we are seeking other alternatives. Living, as I do, a distance from a shopping centre, relying largely on online shopping is the norm, although I do love the atmosphere of the shops at this time of year. I usually try to find a garden centre with displays of decorations. I am planning a swift visit to acquire a Christmas Tree but shan’t be lingering any longer than necessary. The added consideration this year is that gift purchases will need to be sent directly to the recipients or be easily postable. I am hoping to patronise as many small independent online shops and sellers as I can. If I was more talented, I would be hand-making gifts. I am also hoping that folk may want to relieve me of a few more books. I am happy to gift wrap these and send them straight to the recipient if you are looking for gift ideas. My fictional offerings are described here and for non-fiction you need to look here. I don’t charge for postage to the UK. Or you could gift a season ticket to my talks!
Zero progress on a potential new novel I’m afraid. My writing has been devoted to finishing a new course for Pharos and an article for Who Do You Think You Are? Magazine, due out next year.
The next thing to look forward to will be getting the historic decorations out of the loft.
Next week I am co-hosting a themed #Devonbookhour on Twitter, when we will be focussing on historical novels, with a special emphasis on those set in Devon and/or written by Devon writers. This begs several questions. Firstly, what constitutes an historical novel? There are probably as many definitions as there are readers of this genre. Clearly some proportion of the book has to be set in the past but how much of the book and how far in the past? Time-slip or dual time-line novels are popular; I’ve written one! I do class mine as an historical novel and in my case 75% is set in the 1600s, with the remainder in a somewhat alternative version of 2020. My own opinion and I know that others will disagree, is that more than half needs to historical for it to be an historical novel. What then is history? The Historical Novel Society stipulate that books for review should be set at least fifty years ago. I think most of us struggle to accept anything that is within our lifetimes as ‘historical’; I am just coming around to considering books set in the 1960s and 1970s, that were written more recently, as historical. There are of course many books that are set in what is now the past but are emphatically not historical novels because they were contemporary when they were written.
Historical novels come in many guises and all are valid in their own way. There are those that seem to have been written as historical novels in order to justify the swashbuckling pirate type and a woman in a corset on the cover. Sometimes there is little evidence of historical research and the plot, frequently a romance, would have worked equally well in the present. I am not intending to be disparaging here, this is a hugely popular and highly marketable, version of the historical novel, even though it would not be my personal preference.
Then there are the immaculately researched historical novels, where the historical setting is intrinsic to the plot. This category can be sub-divided into those that feature famous people, frequently royalty and those whose main characters are purely fictional. In this respect, my own books are in a minority, as they tell the true stories of real but little-known people.
Why do people read historical fiction? Is it to learn more about the past in a digestible way, or is it because they are fascinated by history, or both? My own love of historical fiction and history blossomed concurrently. I can tell you exactly when my historical novel journey began and it did not grow out of reading children’s historical novels; I came to the likes of Rosemary Sutcliff and Cynthia Harnett as an adult. At the age of eleven I watched the film of Dragonwyck, probably on a wet Sunday afternoon, on a flickering black and white TV. I would probably struggle to sit through it now but somehow it spoke to me. I was already an avid reader, consuming up to five books a day in the school holidays. It was a diet of Enid Blyton, Malcolm Saville, Monica Dickens, Elinor M Brent-Dyer, Enid Blyton, Ruby Ferguson, The Pullen-Thompson sisters and yet more Enid Blyton? I have no idea how I realised that Dragonwyck was a book but realise I did and I quickly worked my way though Anya Seton’s entire output. I do still reread these. I then turned to Jean Plaidy. I have kept a shelf full of her books but I haven’t read one for decades. Then Norah Lofts, Cynthia Harrod-Eagles, Daphne du Maurier R.F. Delderfield and Susan Howatch were added to the repertoire. Next, inspired by the first Poldark series (despite the obvious attractions of Aiden Turner – he of the unrealistic scything – I never got into the remake) I read Winston Graham’s novels. It was fortunate that I latched on to such prolific authors. By the time I reached adulthood, I was eagerly awaiting the yearly offerings from E.V. Thompson, followed by Lindsey Davis and Susanna Gregory. I am a bit of a sucker for series, where I can follow the characters from book to book. I was looking forward to more from Ariana Franklin, when sadly, she died. You will also find Barbara Erskine and Phillippa Gregory’s non-royal fiction on my shelves.
In preparation for the Twitter event, I have looked at several ‘Best Historical Novels’ lists and these rarely contain my favourites, several of whom are now considered to be a bit outdated. Here are three such lists and from their combined suggestions I’ve probably only read a dozen.
I have attempted my own list of authors, rather than specific titles, below. Some rate a place for nostalgic reasons, rather than as a reflection of my current reading habits. I don’t go for a particular time period, my favourites span 2000 years. Although I am happy to read a book set in wartime, I am not so keen on books that focus on the battlefront. The geographical setting is also an attraction for me. I do enjoy reading about places I’ve been. I tend to favour books set in Britain, particular the west country, which is probably why I have read so few on the ‘best’ lists. Strangely, some of the best known and highly revered historical novelists do not feature on my list. I promise I have tried the likes of Hilary Mantel and C J Sansom but just couldn’t get into them. It sounds slightly ridiculous but it is partly their sheer size. Not that I mind the lots of pages thing but I tend to read in bed and believe me you do not want Wolf Hall landing on your nose when you doze off. Perhaps I should try them again as ebooks.
I have yet not mentioned the output of my many author friends, some of whom will be less widely known but whose new books I eagerly await. I do enjoy genealogical fiction and my own Sins as Red as Scarlet has a nod to this. Although these tend to fit better into the genre of crime novels, some have considerable historical content. I have already written about several of my favourites. In fact, if you check my blog archives for December 2016, I singled out an historical novelist for each day of advent.
So here are some authors whose books I have enjoyed, as well as those mentioned above. I have made no attempt at ranking here (I have gone for alphabetical order). I am sure I will have missed some, so sincere apologies if I have offended you by not giving you a mention. It may not be because I didn’t enjoy your book!
Piers Alexander
Rebecca Alexander
Kate Braithwaite
Ruth Downie
Stacey Halls
Paul Marriner
Wendy Percival
Sara Read
Liz Shakespeare
Reay Tannahill
M J Trow
Beth Underdown
Join us on Twitter on Monday 9 November 8.00pm for #Devonbookhour (except it will be an hour and a half!).
Sometimes I review books on my blog. This is one of those occasions. I would like to introduce you to two offerings from The Genealogical Publishing Company, in Maryland.
The first is Roots for Kids: finding your family stories by Susan Provost Beller (2020). I am passionate about involving young people in exploring their history and heritage and I was intrigued to see what this 68 page book had to offer. I even managed to get past the use of the word ‘Kids’ in the title, which I must confess does tend to set my teeth on edge but that does not detract from the content. The author, very sensibly, focusses on family stories, rather than formal genealogy. The book is written by a US author, which means that some of the activities are not so appropriate elsewhere, or need ‘translating’. For example, there is an assumption that the reader will have immigrant ancestors within the genealogical timeframe, which is less likely in a European context. This might mean that it is not an ideal gift to a young person from outside the US but nonetheless there are some excellent suggestions that are universal. For the British reader, it is probably a book to be used as a source of activities for adults to present to a child. The book is enhanced by black and white drawings.
There are suggestions for ways to approach older relatives, a section on surnames and hints for organising information. Despite the rather steep £14.78 UK price tag, this book would be very useful for adults working with young people and hoping to introduce them to genealogy, through the medium of family stories. It is probably best suited to the 8-12 age range.
The other book is a substantial volume by J Michael Cleverley, entitled Family Stories and how I found mine. I always recommend that my ‘Writing up your family History’ students read family histories by others, in order to see what they feel might work for them. This book would be particularly useful as it adopts a rather different approach. The author has obviously carried out an enormous amount of research into both his own family and the broader historical context. Spanning 900 years, the author recounts his own family story, setting it firmly within the broader history of the time. Unlike many family histories, the author tends to focus first on the broader history and then introduce the appropriate family story, rather than the more common approach of beginning with the family. This makes this family history a bit different and works very well.
The intrinsic family story is obviously of greatest interest to those who share this ancestry but it is definitely worth a read to find out about the background, which has a broader appeal and as a good example of how a family history might be approached.
The book is accompanied by outline family trees, giving names only. These were a little faint and would have benefited from including some dates and place names. The book includes an impressive bibliography, detailed endnotes and an index; all valuable additions to a family history. Again, this volume attracts a hefty price tag, £36.39, something for a family history society library perhaps.
I was given free copies of these books in return for a frank review.
