The holiday is over but due to the non-existence of the caravan site’s internet for several days, you think I am still stranded in Northumberland. All this happened a week ago; I promise you will catch up eventually.
What is life like in the frozen north? you ask. Bracing, I think would be an accurate term; windy, a bit drizzly and about 10 degrees. It turns out that the car’s funny noise means it needs a new alternator and that is booked in for four day’s time. Now all we need is for it not to break down completely in the interim. We drive out to the edge of the Keilder Forest for more gravestone hunting of ‘almost certainly my ancestors’ the Newlands and the Corbitts. All I can say is that I have not inherited their hardy gene. They must have been very resilient, trying to eke out a living here 300 years ago. The landscape is inspiring but forsaken and bleak. All I need to do is to find a tiny bit more evidence to confirm that John Hogg really was the son of Robert and I can claim this area as an ancestral home. All the evidence suggests that John son of Robert should be on my family tree but I am waiting for something further (which I may never find) before I ink him in.
Another day and more ancestor hunting. This time though in a town, so slightly more adventurous. I enter the large town churchyard in search of a grave. I have no burial plan and there are hundreds of graves. What I do have is a photograph with a tiny bit of background that I am hoping to identify, in order to take my own photo. I pause just inside the entrance and hold up the blurry picture to indicate to my companion that we are looking for a grave near to a fence and a lamp post. I look at the grave immediately in front of me – and it was the one I sought! It also contained information that wasn’t legible in the photo. Definitely a win this time. For those who have been following my recent family history adventures, this commemorates Peter (he of the pig and the 5 women) his parents and two of his children, one of whom I had not been aware of before.
This success was followed by my first visit to a supermarket in more than six months. It was a smallish supermarket and it seemed to pass off without incident but I will be relieved to get back to home deliveries.
After braving the town, we feel in need of a socially distanced day, so it is off to one of my one-places for some covert photography of people’s houses. We are used to narrows country roads but my proposed route does take us to some ‘interesting’ places. Despite the fact that my companion is very keen on his ‘new to him’ car, he bravely goes where no self-respecting driver has been before. This is clearly not the place for the alternator to expire completely.
The non-road takes us past the ruined peel tower that might have been the home of the Hoggs who I hope are my ancestors. Some of the one-place farms are too far up drives to be photographed. Although my partner-in-crime expresses a willingness to turn up a front doors of strangers when we are in an area where visiting other people’s homes is forbidden, I am less keen. I am already aware that we have zoomed in to take pictures of farms displaying large ‘cctv in operation’ signs. I suspect the local farm-watch hotline is already buzzing with our descriptions.
This is the day when I should have been doing my alternative Race for Life. Given that my back is still not conducive moving much, I have decided to postpone my 5km run/jog/walk until I am nearer home. I have been ridiculously poor at asking for sponsors too, so if anyone has a few pennies to spare this is where to go.
Another day, another historical novelist and again a writer based in Devon. 
The History Interpreter - Janet Few 