Where have I been? You may wonder. So do I – surely it should be about April and here we are August coming to an end. No sign yet of the ‘less hectic’ year that I promised myself. I have been buried in visits from family and friends, always good fun. My children get me into untold scrapes. First a fairly pregnant Rebecca and I undertake a mad scramble across the rocks at Croyde. I have nobly leant her my brand new, ridiculously expensive, sandals on the grounds that they are blue and she is wearing blue. Keen as I am for her not to tear her feet to pieces on sharp rocks, I am not so keen on her getting the sandals covered in sandy salt water. Could I make my way across the rocks and throw the old sandals back to her? Could we wear one old and one new sandal each and hop? The whole process would be much easier if we weren’t laughing so much. We emerge relatively unscathed.

Then Martha and I get ourselves trapped in a local budget supermarket beginning with L. We are there to buy flowers. We enter with our basket. The flowers are outside. As we try to go back to the entrance, past the no entry sign the basket sets off the shop alarm. Even the empty baskets are alarmed here – what does that say about the residents of this town (unnamed to protect the guilty)? Not to worry we will just go out the exit and go back round again. It seems impossible to get to an exit without buying anything and what we want to buy is past the exit arghhh. In the end Rob comes to the rescue by barging his way past numerous people who have been over indulging on Doritos, lager and chocolate (I know I looked in their baskets) and brings us back in the flowers so we can exit in the appropriate way – i.e. having parted with some money.

Life in the seventeenth century continues, with now weekly visits from our friends at the local care home. We are working towards all their residents having enjoyed our peculiar brand of ‘fun’. If drilling holes in people’s heads and attacking them with pikes can be termed ‘fun’. One of our other young visitors, aged three, was very concerned that we didn’t seem to have any princesses with us. I might have pointed out that the princess of our time ended up incarcerated in Carisbrooke Castle under house arrest. Actually the young visitor was more concerned with telling me that she wanted to be Rapunzel when she grew up. There’s a career path. She also took well to pike drill with her mini pike. First time I’ve seen a pike wielded like a majorette’s baton.

I ventured overseas (well outside Devon) to give a talk on seventeenth century gardens to Bude U3A. I usually appear in period attire for these, leaving enough of my twenty-first (well ok twentieth) century clothing underneath, so I can strip off at the end without offending anyone. It was awfully hot but I went for it, tucking my trousers in my socks so they didn‘t show under the seventeenth century petticoat (an outer garment for the uninitiated). Pity I forgot to un-tuck them before sauntering back across the car park afterwards. The talk went very well, if the fifteen minutes of questions was anything to go by. Martha did point out that this might be because I hadn’t explained things properly in the first place but it didn’t seem to be.

An interesting Q & A session for the North Devon Group of Devon Family History Society and our 2014 programme is now nearly complete, with some fascinating presentations on the list. I’ve been revisiting a branch of my children’s ancestry, as we are planning a trip to south Devon and they came from that area. One individual, described as ‘an old offender’ seemed to spend every February being caught for salmon poaching. I am guessing it was a seasonal activity – something to do with spawning maybe. Thanks to the British Newspaper Archive, which I access via FindmyPast, I know all the gory details. Whilst on the subject of FindmyPast, I see they have added numerous Canadian resources. I hope that may help with my Devon emigrants research. I have also been running through (not with a weapon you understand – not in the C17^th now) my chosen emigrant examples for the Exodus conference in a couple of weeks’ time. This means immersing myself in the history of the Bible Christian movement.

In fact, much of my research time lately has been spent on Methodist related topics. I strive to understand the mind set of the people of the past – as all true family historians should. Why would a local Anglican Lord of the Manor continue to allow one of his properties to be used as a Methodist place of worship, whilst conducting an acrimonious exchange with another Methodist group in the local press? I have proof read a new edition of an excellent book and I have had discussions concerning a local chapel which may be used to combine evangelism and heritage – exciting times. Exciting times too on the local history/one place studies front. It’s a secret at the moment but do watch this space. Not a secret is the launch of Buckland Brewer History Group next month – first meeting on 18th September. Be there or be something or other.

A pot pourri of bits and pieces since my last post. First – the end of our walking adventures:-

A thick sea mist today, so leaving early to avoid the heat wasn’t really necessary. A bit of a detour trying, unsuccessfully, to find free parking in Salcombe. Better luck in Hope Cove, where today’s walk starts. This section, 8 miles from Inner Hope to Salcombe, is described in our instruction book as ‘strenuous’ – deep joy. In the end it turns out to be less strenuous than anticipated and we even finish in 3½ hours – half an hour less than the books suggests. It is however very humid so we are soon ‘glowing’ nicely. Views are not on the menu with the thick sea mist. Unlike yesterday, we certainly do feel we’ve done something today.

First port of call on returning to the site are the showers. I grab some clean clothes to put on afterwards. I am wearing walking trousers with detachable legs. Unfortunately, as I leave the shower, I realise I have brought the legs and not the shorts part. Not wishing to put on the less than savoury pair that I have just removed, now I am nice and clean, I go for wrapping a towel round me instead. I then have to nonchalantly saunter back across the site trying to make a bath towel look like a fashion statement.

By the next day I am almost immobile again. Notwithstanding, we set off to walk from East Portlemouth to Prawle Point. This wasn’t the intended stopping point but there is an annoying diversion due to a cliff fall. I limp along personfully as my knee joins my back in the list of bits of my body that don’t work properly.

We decide to call it a day and cut short our trip, returning to the rugged north. By this time even I am sick of the very long stretches of barely car width road. Glorious drive back across Dartmoor – even more glorious because I avoided the A38 this time. As I herd a flock of sheep with my car in order to make progress, I revel in how wonderful the Devon landscape can be.

We are in the midst of a wonderful fest of family and friend visits but I am making time for history too. Another great day in the C17^th with folk from the local care home and others, plus promoting Clovelly Archive Association at Woolsery Show and planning for the soon to be launched Buckland Brewer History Group.

On the writing front, Family Historians’ Enquire Within is now at the printers and I am waiting for proofs. Put it on your Christmas list folks – you won’t regret it. A new project beckons – watch this space. 3 entries to whet your appetite:-

A is for AIM25 The website provides access to collection level descriptions of the archives of more than a hundred institutions within the London area. These include the records of London livery companies, higher education institutions and learned societies.

B is for BARGES See also Boatmen, Canals and Watermen. From 1795-1871, all boats and barges exceeding thirteen tons burden used on inland navigations had to be registered with the Clerk of the Peace. Such records are with the Quarter Sessions (q.v.) records in CROs. Information on the history of the sailing barge can be obtained from the National Maritime Museum. The Society for Sailing Barge Research website is useful. A website entitled Thames Sailing Barges is also very informative and details a number of museums and other sources of information.

C is for COUNTESS OF HUNTINGDON’S CONNEXION This was connected with the Methodist denomination. The Countess Selina (1707-1791) advocated the principles of Methodism and appointed George Whitfield, a notable preacher, as her chaplain. Her name was given to Whitfield’s followers. The Countess founded a college in Wales and built many chapels. The earliest register of this sect comes from Norfolk and dates back to 1752. The movement spread throughout the country. Registers were deposited with the Registrar General in accordance with the 1840 Act and are in TNA.

Have recently added Linkedin to my social media collection. A little worrying that they have interpreted my skills as being suitable for a post that involves ‘developing mathematical algorithms for high-order simulation of compressible flows’. I am sure I could, if only I knew what it meant.

French Exchange students with us in the seventeenth century this week. Somewhat anachronistic that they all began singing the Marsellais when doing pike drill!

Was not holding out much hope when I received a request to trace the Jones family. Things got better when I managed to get back to an Archimedes Jones (got to be better than William). They then got worse again as his birthplace was Jamaica!

Now on a short break resuming our south-west coastal path walk. This portion requires two cars. Not very ecologically sound but there are just no buses anywhere near the places we need to start and stop some of the sections. This means I have to work out a convoluted route so I can get to south Devon without encountering anything that purports to be a major road – the A38 for example. This is especially important as I am in the new-to-me car that I am not yet used to. The up side is that I get to pootle across stupendous countryside in the middle of nowhere Dartmoor. I stop for herds of horses and generally enjoy myself. I am fine until I get to Cornwood. Unfortunately the next bit is not on my map. Well it is but not on any of the maps that I have actually brought with me. Fine, I have borrowed the sat-nav. I’ll sat-nav on from here. Problem one – This is not my sat nav so it has to lie on the passenger seat. This means I can hear it but not see it, so not much time for anticipating what is coming next. Problem two – I lose GPS signal for about ten minutes on a very narrow road with a car behind me and no chance of stopping. During this period I have to guess the route. Problem three – the sat-nav would like me to go along the A38. By this time I am tired and hungry. A38 – whatever – it is only a road. I am to join the A38 on a blind bend with the sun in my eyes. My wing mirrors or angled down to facilitate getting up my drive, which is barely wider than my car, without untold damage to the Methodist Church next door. They are not angled correctly for seeing what is bearing down on me at a great rate on the A38. The wing mirrors don’t seem to move much. I am restricted to twisting round awkwardly and using my rear view mirror, which is about as helpful in these circumstances as a chocolate tea-pot. I launch myself into the unknown. There is no screeching of brakes or hooting of horns. I seem to have joined the A38 without incident. More by luck than judgement.

Driving along the A38 is fine, it is just the joining I have trouble with but this is seriously out of my driving comfort zone. I know, I know, I have been driving for twenty five years. Sadly, most of that was on the Isle of Wight, where you get a sum total of 200 yards of dual carriageway and joining that is controlled by traffic lights. I leave the A38 after 3 miles cross under it and – oh no – have to join it AGAIN going in the opposite direction! Effectively I am crossing it but not in a straight line. Arggh!

Chris and the caravan have been in south Devon for a couple of hours already. I am later as I have been conducting a Devon Family History Society session for beginners, slow starters and the generally stuck. In this weather the paddling pool in the adjacent park was probably more appealing but those who attended seemed appreciative. We plan an early start for tomorrow’s walk to avoid the forecast 30 degree temperatures.

We leave before 8 o’clock to walk from Bantham to Inner Hope. A comparatively short stretch but we are out of practice and the starting and stopping points have to take account of the many south Devon river estuaries. We leave my car at what will be the end of the walk and drive in Chris’ to our starting point. An unidentifiable red warning light appears on his dashboard. We ignore it – the wheels haven’t fallen off or anything – we will be fine. Against our principles but we have already paid a small fortune to park my car now we need to pay again to park Chris’. There is no on road parking for a very long way. Neither of us have had the sense to actually bring any money with us. We count out the copper and 5 pences in Chris’ car ashtray, wondering what plan B is if we can’t come up with the £5 required. Fortunately we have enough, although the car park attendant looks less than impressed with a handful of change.

We set off on a lovely stretch of coastal path. Bizarrely there appears to be a martial arts class going on on the beach. Landslips mean we are diverted on to a narrow road. Every time a car passes we have to squash ourselves in to the hedge, attempting to choose a portion that is lacking stinging nettles and brambles. We cross a rickety bridge, keeping a sharp eye out for trolls and manage to get back to my car before the heat of the day – pretty much just as everyone else is starting out. We drive back for Chris’ car. The only place to turn my car round is past the man collecting the £5s for the car park. An advantage of Chris being distinctive looking and I guess of us having paid in 5ps is that, amongst hundreds of customers, we are recognised and are allowed to drive past to fetch Chris’ car without being deprived of any money, which we don’t have anyway.

Then the problems start. We are two of only a few cars who are heading up a single width road away from the beach as hoards of surf board carrying, spade wielding tourists are approaching it in their cars. None of these tourists seem to a) know the width of their car or b) be able to find reverse. Plenty of squashing into hedges, reversing and passing with half an inch to spare is required. Unlike the A38, this is fun. I can do this. This is what I do all the time. Slow, I’ll grant you but fun.

Thanks everyone for the Race for Life donations – it made all the ‘running’ in the hot weather worth while. The medals, that were awarded for not expiring from heat exhaustion on the way round, are equipped with safety gadgets in their ribbons. I suppose these are a nanny state necessity in case any hapless racers attempt to hang themselves.

 A nearby village has a scarecrow competition running. I accelerate nonchalantly hoping no one noticed that I slowed down for the lollipop lady. I did wonder why she was so far from the nearest school. Well she was very life like. The last week has seen us spend a seventeenth century day in the hottest classroom in the world. Fifty children were crammed into said room making matters worse. Some excitement was occasioned however when a gardener began some not very seventeenth century strimming outside. Obviously all the windows were open making said strimming distractingly loud. I was half way through the fourth of four hourly sessions so my voice was beginning to falter somewhat. I was just shouting my way through what happened when armour was hit by a musket ball when the strimming man’s strimmer flung up a stone and shattered the window. Any teenagers rendered comatose by the heat jerked into an excitable frenzy. I extolled the virtues of armour when being attacked by flying stones.

We rush home to show a Clovelly Archives Association member round her ancestral village. Needless to say she is related to Chris. Pretty much anyone with North Devon ancestors is related to Chris. Walking up and down the cobbles makes my muscles remember that I have raced for life the previous day.

Then one of our best ever days back at the 1646 ranch. Four wheelchair bound, brain injured, residents of a local care home come in with their carers. I open secondary doors to allow wheelchairs to pass through. I knew it was going to be a good day when one of the lovely carers, of ample proportions, suggested that this might be for her benefit, rather than that of the chairs. We were able to dedicate our day to these wonderful people. Pike drill was a blast – ‘place the right wheel of your chair against the base of your pike’.

A meeting to discuss our proposed Buckland Brewer History Group followed. Not being a milk drinker, when offering guests a cup of tea, I check the sell by date first. Unfortunately I did this after I had removed the lid. I did realise and stop tipping when my foot started to get wet. June 13^th by the way.

Off in our new to us caravan, in preparation for the South West Family History Fair at the weekend. We are struggling a little with the downsizing that is a concomitant of the new van. We call in at Street. For the benefit of my foreign fans, Street is the home of the Clarks outlet store. Clarks being one of our premier shoemakers and this being their largest store. We then commence the farce that is me attempting to buy shoes. My feet are pretty much square and when approached by assistants asking what I am looking for I am not joking when I say, ‘Anything that fits’. On previous occasions I have left this store because nothing does fit. This time I am after sandals. This is better than shoes as, with sandals, ones feet can sometimes hang over the edges a bit. I would really like some the same as I am wearing, purchased in this store about eight years ago. My shoe wearing and buying resembles that of my ancestors. I buy a pair of shoes (yes, singular) and then wear them until they are beyond economic repair. This is to postpone the awful shoe buying scenario for as long as possible. It is still very hot but shoe trying on requires sock wearing. I am now looking natty in my three quarter length trousers, sandals and socks. The assistant looks at me as if I am seriously sad when I ask if 2005 fashions are still in stock. I head over to the children’s department. The one advantage of having feet my shape is that I can fit into children’s shoes and thus avoid paying VAT. Oh silly me this is July and predicted to be the hottest weekend of the year. Of course sandals are not in season. Oh to live in days when shoes were home made and were for comfort not fashion. Of course at this time of year, many of our ancestors would have gone barefoot to preserve a valuable asset for the winter. The weird thing about historical shoes is that, allegedly Medieval and Victorian footwear had a left and right, yet in the seventeenth century shoes were identical. The reason I have heard given for this is that, if shoes were identical, it was quicker to pull them on in a time of war. How does this work? Were there then no wars in the Medieval period? I then try to emulate my ancestors by tripping barefoot down the prom at Weston super Mare for the first paddle of the season.

I pop in to a high street bank to pay in some cheques. Super keen Simon approaches. Would I like to try paying them in using the machine to save queuing? Well, not really but Simon looks like he is on some kind of payment by results deal so I agree. It is not a quick option this and first my debit card and then my cheques are swallowed by a machine. After a lot of whirring they are duly spat out again. Simon thinks it is because one of my cheques is not a standard size. Now I am at least three places further back in the queue to pay them in the conventional way.

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.