A Bit about Grass but Nothing to do with Gardening

There is life beyond the garden. I am three talks in to an eight talks in eight days marathon. Why did this seem like a good idea at the time?

Then, last weekend, we braved drizzle and bracing winds to take part in a harvest mouse survey in the nearby country park. Given that I had barely moved further than from chair to bedroom since New Year (thanks Covid), we decided to drive to the car park rather than walk, as we normally would have done. We had studied the risk assessment – we were therefore aware that we night get hit by a golf ball (it is near the golf course), or get sand in our eyes, or get kicked by a horse, or get spiked by spiky grass. Spoiler alert, none of these calamities befell us. A couple of dozen intrepid volunteers set out to ferret around in clumps of grass, on muddy terrain, looking for last year’s abandoned nests. As you can see from the photograph, these are pretty jolly tricksy to spot, yet within about thirty seconds one was found. As usual our luck with wildlife, or even evidence of wildlife, was out so, although we didn’t find any, in all the team located ten, a significant increase from last year, which bodes well for the population of our second smallest native mammal. Having wandered a couple of miles across the country park in our quest, we were very glad we’d decided to take the car, especially as, by the time we’d finished, the drizzle was seriously persisting and the wind was positively howling.

What’s this with the grass? You might well ask. Well, deep breath and bear with. In the new house the former garage has been converted into two rooms. What has become known as the ‘posh’ half has double glazed patio doors leading on to the garden and a smart light fitting. The un-posh aspect was the flooring, which was very bumpy, painted concrete and I clearly needed a floor covering. I wasn’t up for spending a fortune on a room that isn’t really part of the house, so I investigated the options. What might be described as a glorified shed really wasn’t suited to cream, deep-pile carpet, so I was looking for something rather more hard-wearing and dirt resistant. I headed off to the local carpet shop, thinking I might get some form of coir or jute matting. The first problem was that carpet tends to come in four metre widths. The room was 2.6 metres square, so I’d be paying for a lot that I wouldn’t be needing. They could order me the sort of thing I was thinking of but it would, at nearly £400, be a tad over budget. I looked at the remnants but again may of these were larger than I needed. Then my eye alerted upon a fake grass offcut. Hard wearing, cheap, fitting for what may become a garden room when it is no longer required for toy storage for visiting grandchildren.

I headed to the check out. Firstly my partner in crime asks if he qualifies for a staff discount. The assistant asks how long ago he worked for that establishment. He truthfully admits that it was fifty eight years, to be told his qualification for a staff discount must have expired the previous day! She tactfully describes my choice as ‘unusual’. I didn’t tell her that she was speaking to a woman who once papered a room with rolls of brown wrapping paper. A couple of days later the carpet was duly fitted and that’s another space almost sorted. The shelves still need to be arranged but I am pleased with the result. I’ll draw a veil over the condition of the adjoining half a garage, which currently contains everything that won’t fit in the roof or anywhere else.

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Up the Garden Path 2

To be honest, it hasn’t really been the weather for fair-weather gardeners like me, or indeed any sort of gardener but yesterday the sun came out and the temperature was in double figures, so I ventured forth. The previous owner of my garden had left me numerous pots containing plants in various stages of liveliness and an eclectic selection of garden ornaments. I decided to triage these into ‘will keep’, ‘will humanely dispose of’ and ‘not sure yet’. Plant wise, there are more exciting finds as the year moves on; today’s included hellebores and miniature daffodils.

We began to trim back the winter jasmine, which is rapidly taking over the one flower bed. Other tasks for the afternoon were to deal with my many troughs of geranium cuttings which have been keeping warm in the summer house. Obviously not warm enough as about half are dead, or covered in what Mr Google tells me is powdery mildew. Sick plants were removed and what remained were rationalised into fewer troughs.

Next came the task of measuring the garden, in preparation for trying to draw up a plan. I decided to go for feet and inches, rather than anything metric as I still have to ‘translate’ metric measurements in my head. This was a test of my mathematical skills as my trusty assistant kept calling out the measurements in feet and inches, rather than just inches, which us what I wanted. Good job I know my twelve times table. The whole measuring thing was definitely not easy as I can’t actually reach some of my boundaries due to shrubbery and the many sheds. Added to that, the plot isn’t even remotely rectangular. Not only are there some funny angles created by the perimeter fencing but the garage and sheds are also not all set square. I have a load of scribbles and numbers but whether I will stand any chance of making it into a coherent drawing whose edges join up remains to be seen.

For those who are interested, very roughly, the plot is 35 feet wide by 22 feet deep, minus the space taken up by the conservatory and plus the extra space along the side between the bungalow and the house. One pretty much counteracts the other space wise. Note for some of my overseas readers, in the UK, a bungalow is a single story dwelling not a shack. If my maths is right, I have about 70 square yards, not, of course, at all the same as 70 yards squared! For those of you in foreign, about 58 square metres, which, unbelievably because it seems really tiny to me, is classed as a medium sized garden by the RSPB (Royal Society for Protection of Birds) when you submit your results for their great garden bird watch. By UK standards, particularly with a newer built property (mine was built in 2000), small gardens are the norm. On the subject of birds, I was concerned that this would be one thing I’d lack when I moved but I’ve seen eleven different varieties of bird in the garden (or viewed from the garden on neighbouring roofs or trees) so far in February, a similar number to the old garden, although very different regular visitors. Not bad considering the property had been empty for a fair while before I moved in, so, despite the bird table that was left behind, I doubt the birds had been fed here for over a year. The bird bath, another legacy from the previous owner, is very popular and that will definitely be staying.

This is a long-term project. Don’t expect swift progress!

Up the Garden Path 1

I can’t pretend other than that one of the downsides of the new house is the conglomeration of concrete and sheds that constitute the ‘garden’. In estate agent speak, it is more of a courtyard than a garden, or perhaps we just term it that valuable commodity ‘outside space’. Having left behind what I felt was an attractive cottage garden, a wildlife haven, I was aware that this was a compromise but assured myself that it could be improved. Having gone through some seriously stressful battles with the technology associated with the job I must not mention last year, I steeled myself not to walk away by promising that I would earmark the earnings to be the maximum budget for improvements to the new garden. A lesser known fact about me as that I did complete a garden design course a few years ago, so I am eager to get out the tape measure and graph paper. Caveat – I am not an avid gardener, I like to potter but gardening needs to be your main hobby and it isn’t mine. I do love to be surrounded by plants though, so a garden is a must have. Now the post-plague exhaustion is abating, I can make a start. An added advantage is that, at least today, it is a little warmer and not raining, mind you that’s not set to last.

I thought you might enjoy following along with the garden make-over journey. Here are some pictures of what I am dealing with. A long overgrown shrubbery, an eclectic selection of garden ornaments provided by the previous owner, a lot of concrete, three sheds, a summerhouse in need of tlc and a garage, all set on a very tiny east-facing plot. On the plus side it isn’t overlooked.

You are in at the beginning, as all I have done so far is add a stone seat in a random place (it won’t stay there it is just where the removal men dumped it) and twenty or so pots to those already here; mine mostly contain Mistress Agnes’ herbs. Oh and I’ve planted one white lilac that I bought before Christmas and felt would be happier in the ground.

I have a list of ‘must have’ plants, the challenge will be where to put them. I am also adverse to pulling up existing plants in any great number, although a couple do look seriously deceased and I am aware that I may need to see the seasons round to know what is here already. There does seem to be colour for all seasons, with winter jasmine and three camellias, two of which are coming in to flower. Annoyingly, the sunniest corner of the garden, let’s be honest here, the only bit of garden that gets any sun at all this time of year, is currently occupied by the unsightly tin shed. I am reliably informed it is plastic not tin but it looks like tin and helps me distinguish it from the wooden shed and the blatantly obviously plastic shed. Not wishing to have to sit on the shed roof, the current thinking is that the wooden shed will be humanely disposed of and the ‘tin’ shed moved to take its place. Still not sure how two of us move a six foot square ‘tin’ shed but my unwilling partner in crime is of the opinion that it may come apart. The jury is out on whether or not it will go back together again – watch this space. This could rival the flat-pack furniture building scenario. The other debate is to reinstate some grass, or not to reinstate some grass. I am a fan of grass, both for the smell and the wildlife potential but grass has to be mown. Fine now but going forward this may mean I need help with the garden sooner that I would with a grassless plot. Does this matter? Probably not; decisions decisions.

Rootstech Ramblings – my pick from the live online schedule

So the Rootstech schedule is now available and the excitement is building as we can begin to plan our time for the three days of intensive family history fun from 29 February to 2 March. Do you need to head off to Salt Lake City? – no – although I am sure in-person attendance would be great. Do you need to part with large sums of hard earned cash? Again no, if you are attending virtually, as I am, absolutely free. If you haven’t registered yet you can do so here.

I’ve been trawling the schedule of online talks deciding how to spend my time. It has required tricky choices, as there are often clashes but here is what I’ve decided. Bear in mind that there are plenty of great sessions and because this is not geared to UK time, I have had to forego some presentations that really are in the middle of the night. You can make you own choices here.

These are my decisions, though I reserve the right to change my mind. I’ll be back to tell you about some of them after the event. Thursday first. I am going to kick off at 3pm UK time with Nicholas Dixon’s Metropolitan Ancestors: finding families in Georgian and Victorian London. This complements my own ten minute recorded session that you can view any time London Calling, listing some key online resources for London research. With Smith ancestors in London this one is a must. I’ll follow it with Who is my Ancestor? Tracing individuals with similar names by D Joshua Taylor. Although it is US based, I thought it might be fun. Then an evening session with Diane L Richard Researching Modern Ancestors: unlocking the life of an English Rose, focussing on twentieth century research. This takes me to past my bedtime, so I will call it a night.

Friday next. I thought I’d listen in to the Impact Forum about the impact of family history beyond the genealogy community. I’ve changed my mind several times about the 7pm session but have gone for Reconstructing the Lives of our Female Irish Ancestors by Stephanie O Connell. I don’t have any Irish ancestors of my own, although my grandchildren do but with Forgotten Women in mind, I thought it would be interesting. No choice for what follows as it is my own Marginalised Ancestors talk, so I guess I’d better be there. The talk is written but is a bit too long, so I will need to decide what to leave out. It is going to be a fun talk to do going forward, as I can swap the case studies in and out for variety. Just a heads up. I will be mentioning my Marginalised Ancestors book, which is due to be published on 29 February. At the moment, you can pre-order this at a reduced price from Pen and Sword here. I am not sure if this offer will still be available by 1 March, when I am giving the talk, so if you think you might want the book of the talk, now is the time.

On Saturday I am going for Finding your Common Name Ancestor, with Shaunese Luthy – those Smiths again. Then, with my interest in the history of medicine in mind, Diseases our Ancestors Faced and How those Illnesses Changed our World with Gregory C Gardner. I am going to finish my smorgasbord of in real time talks with Nick Barratt’s Researching English Industrial Labourers.

But there’s more – literally hundreds of recorded talks that I can pick and choose from over the coming weeks. I’ll be back to tell you about my choices from these another time.

Oooh and I’ve just spotted that these delivered live talks will also be available after the event. I’ll definitely be reviewing the schedule and adding more from those that clashed with my choices, or were at less favourable times.

Tales of sorting the garage/sheds and garden will resume shortly – P.S. 190 boxes.

Battling Storms and Other News

Having barely moved from my chair for three weeks, whilst desperately search for my energy and motivation, which have both gone awol post Covid, Sunday was a day to venture out. We’d booked to see a Fisherman’s Friends concert in Torquay, about 70 miles from home. Although driving back after the concert was an option, plan a was to take the caravan down overnight. Site duly booked, all was well until the prospect of Storm Isha loomed. ‘Keep clear of the coast’, they said. The theatre is right on the sea front. ‘Don’t drive unless you have to’, they said. Hmm. Having braved both Storm Agnes and Storm Gerrit with the caravan this season, the decision was made to think of a plan b. Driving back along country roads in the dark at the height of the storm wasn’t it. Because it was a last minute booking, we managed to secure a budget motel room at little more than the cost of the caravan site. This seemed like a win so far.

With wind freshening, we set off on Sunday afternoon. We even avoided the learning curve of struggling with the accommodation’s parking app, as there was a space in the road, which had the added advantage of being free. Next, a drive down to the seafront car park that is fairly close to the theatre and not too far from where we’d booked to eat. ‘Not too far’ when there’s a 70mph wind and rain is actually quite a long way. I know from my handy not actually very fit watch that it is 1100 steps, about half a mile. Still, getting as far as the restaurant wasn’t too bad, considering my step count had averaged under 300 a day for the last three weeks. The only casualty so far was my feet. I’d gone for comfortable shoes, which, it seems, have holes in the soles as I was now squelching along nicely.

Meal eaten, it was time for the return walk paddle to the theatre. We waited for a heavy hail shower to pass and set off in what was a light drizzle. As a bonus, the wind was behind us to begin with. Optimistically, I was heard to mutter, ‘I don’t want to speak too soon but this isn’t too bad.’ Dear reader, I spoke to soon. About half way along the sea front, with wind crashing in the masts of the moored yachts and Torquay’s palm trees struggling to stay upright, we turned a corner just as driving hail hit us straight in the face. We could see the theatre up ahead, we knew we were walking towards it but somehow it didn’t seem to get any nearer. By the time we reached it, everything from neck up and knees down was as if I’d been plunged in a bucket of water. I was also really noticing how I so hadn’t recovered from Covid. I went to ineffectively attempt to dry my hair under the hand dryer. Not helped by the fact that it cut out automatically after about five seconds. What was really weird was that people who arrived moments before and after us seemed to be completely dry. Women with beautifully coiffured hair surrounded my drowned rat look at every turn as we crowded into the foyer. The rain hadn’t stopped, how had they kept so dry? I’ll admit, the wait to be let in to the auditorium and thus gain access to the ability to sit down, was a struggle. Upright is not a position I’ve encountered much lately, especially not after fighting against wind and rain.

We gradually got our breath back and steamed our way through an excellent concert. Then it was back out into the elements to the car park. I sat dripping in the car whilst my brave companion queued in the rain to pay. We were very thankful to have a few minutes’ drive to the hotel, rather than best part of two hours to home.

Next up, breakfast. We’d opted not to pay £9.95 each for an all you can eat breakfast that we didn’t actually want. I am though really bad at missing some kind of breakfast. Not to worry, we had brought the ingredients with us. Granola, formerly frozen berries and yoghurt awaited. What, in our hurried change of plans, we’d neglected to do, is remember that a bowl and spoon would have been a good idea. We managed to improvise by using one of the ingredients’ containers as a bowl and appropriating the room’s tea spoon. Then it was time to return home, in conditions that were much calmer than the night before. Now we await storm Jocelyn.

In other news, box emptying is awaiting more energy and slightly warmer weather, as I am on to the rooms in the garage and the sheds now. Current total of emptied boxes is 189 and we are not quite done yet. I was also challenged to count my books. Despite several serious culls, 1145 remain, with the children’s books still to be counted. The next challenge is trying to fix heavy shelves to a cavity wall. This is not going to be easy folks.

Some fruits of research that I did last year can now be revealed. Back in the summer, I was contacted by a BBC researcher, in conjunction with Lucy Worsley’s Lady Killers podcast, which was due to feature a local murder. Could I identify the property involved in the story? With help from a friend, I located the ruins of said property and was able to report back to the production team, along with providing other information to help with the local background. I am not sure this quite came across in the finished episode but I did get an honourable mention. You can listen to Sarah Bird’s story here.

Flatpack Furniture, House-moving Hazards and Plague

I’ve now been moved in for two and a half weeks but six days of that was spent visiting family. Office and books sorted – tick. Kitchen cupboards sorted – tick. Sideboard purchased – tick. The grand box unpacking total stands at 159. The low hanging fruit has definitely been picked in this regard and I am left with a couple of boxes of total randomness and the garage. Let’s just draw a veil over the garage. There is also quite a bit of ‘stuff’ that is still off site. It has also been ****ing down with rain every day I’ve been here, so not conducive to trying to sort out the garage, which will probably need a total excavation in order to work out what’s what. I still don’t know what my home looks like in the dry.

I have investigated the welcome box left my the estate agents. It contained an eclectic assortment including, his and hers deodorant, a face mask, a tin of cider, a washing pod, a tumble drier sheet (I don’t have a tumble drier), Margerita soda, some in wash scent booster and alcohol free beer. I guess it was whatever they could get free samples of.

It seems that moving house comes with unforeseen hazards. You’ve missed the bit where I was sporting two black eyes, thanks to being head butted by my assistant when loading boxes of geraniums into the summer house. This added to the falling valance pole related injury and the head meets TV ariel encounter in the loft. Then there is the flat pack furniture. If I was married this would be grounds for divorce and I have had to promise never to order flatpack furniture again, not, based on recent experience, that that would be likely. Construction of said flatpack furniture has not been aided by the fact that one of my holiday gifts from my family was Covid. I guess I’ve been lucky to escape it for four years but now I ache everywhere it is possible to ache and then some but I digress. I left behind built-in bedroom furniture so my clothes are currently in bags and boxes and I had ordered replacements. The bedside tables arrived before we went away. They did have the advantage of being small but the ‘ten minutes to assemble’ bore no relation to the actual time taken. The assumption is that no one assembling flatpack furniture can read, so there are no written instructions, just rather vague illustrations and pieces that are supposed to be numbered but in some cases aren’t so you have to guess which piece 14 actually is.

After the efforts with the bedside tables I was having serious qualms about the wardrobe, not least because the rooms are quite small and I wasn’t sure where there was space for it to be built. We began, not without a certain, understandable, amount of grumbling, to assemble it on the bed. This was not without incident as we tried to work out which way was up. By this time, I was regretting my decision to go for flatpack almost as much as my companion, who, I must record, has been an absolute hero. Then came the point where we had to transfer construction to the floor, with the wardrobe lying face down, filling every available bit of floor space. The completed wardrobe weighs over 80kg. Even without its top, doors and back that is still a considerable weight for my valiant assistant of a certain age and a plague ridden me to raise from lying on the floor to upright. If you’ve ever seen World’s Strongest Man and Fingal’s Fingers (if not Google it) that was pretty much how it went. I do now have an upright wardrobe awaiting top, back and doors. I am just wondering when would be a good time to mention the errr flatpack chest of drawers and two bathroom cupboards that are due to arrive today.

And Breathe

Well, it is day five in the new home and the unpacked box total stands at 109.

The final packing up was not without incident. Firstly, I was cleaning like I was about to enter that TV show where B & B owners visit each other’s properties and examine every surface for signs of grime. I don’t think I was up to their standards but I did my best. You know what it is like when you move large, heavy pieces of furniture that haven’t been moved for years, all sorts of interesting debris emerges. Having recovered from the inhalation of cleaning product fumes, I realised that I had packed the gadget that gets grease off oven shelf bars and I was leaving the oven. Chris did a mean job nonetheless. Then there was the wisteria tree that forms an attractive arch over the gateway. For some mysterious reason instead of being its usual six foot high, it had dropped about six inches. One of the removal men, who arrived the day prior to moving to collect some furniture for auction, was six foot four. Cue a hurried removal of a side branch of the tree to allow it to resume a more convenient height.

M day dawned. It dawned very early and like a kid at Christmas, I had barely slept; M day had seemed a very long time coming. The removal team arrived and were very efficient. Our cars were loaded with rather a lot of last minute random stuff that was too tricky to pack. It seems we were supposed to bubble wrap the TVs. The men aren’t allowed to take them. I don’t have bubble wrap left. The two TVs have to be squeezed in the cars too. Then there was a brief moment of panic when the ignition key to the removal van was temporarily mislaid. The final item to upload was the spare bed. Knowing it had been built in the room and there was no way it was coming out assembled, we helpfully took the head and footboard off in advance, leaving just the flat base. I watched the removal men try every which way to get the bed base down the stairs, to no avail. The call goes out for the man with the screwdriver (Chris) to unscrew about two dozen slats and take the frame apart. He clearly doesn’t relish the prospect and with a bit of a shove and the application of brute force, miraculously the frame fits round the ‘impossible’ corner and down the stairs.

We head off to collect new house keys and deposit old ones. Unloading was super fast and by 2.15pm boxes and furniture are in, mostly even in the right rooms and what isn’t is because I’ve forgotten what my plan was. We supplied the removal men with pasty but not being a fan, I didn’t have one. I realise that I haven’t eaten for more than six hours and that I am trying to function on a couple of hour’s sleep to boot. I manage to find some crackers. There’s no sign of any knives with which to apply butter. I debate the practicalities of using the handle of a spoon. Eventually, I find a steak knife, not ideal but functional. Plenty of unpacking ensued and by evening it was time to sample the local fish and chips; time to play hunt for the salt.

The technique for now is to get things in cupboards and books on shelves, as quickly as possible. These will not of course be the right cupboards or the right shelves but it does enable us to get rid of many boxes. Those who supplied answers to the ‘guess the box’ question, it will be a while before I have the final total, as quite a bit of stuff, including the contents of the loft and sheds, was shipped out prior to M day and will only be brought back gradually. There’s still a long way to go.

Purchasing a fridge was a priority as my old one was built in. This was easily accomplished but more of a problem was the fact that I wanted the door altered so it hinged on the other side. This, dear readers, is not as simple as it sounds, as one person has to brace themselves with a tipped fridge balanced on their knees, whilst their accomplice lies on the floor and fiddles with some tricksy screws on the underside.

The delayed Christmas decorating was also a priority and having been prepared by buying the tree on Friday, Tuesday was earmarked as decorations day. Everyone puts up Christmas decorations the day after moving house right? The Christmas decorations, having been loft dwellers, were some of the boxes that had been sent on ahead and should have been in Chris’ house. Other early departing boxes had ended up in three different garages but the instructions were that these should be in the house. Six boxes of decorations were retrieved. Where though were the tree lights and the all important historic decorations, some dating back to the 1940s? Yes, these would be the precious decorations I had mislaid once before. I was pretty sure they were in a plastic box with a blue lid. Frantic searching in all possible locations and no box with a blue lid. To cut a long and sorry story short, the decorations were found where they should be but disguised in a cardboard box.

Hanging the Christmas cards necessitates finding the drawing pins. I can’t find the drawing pins and have to purchase new ones. My whole life is a giant game of Tetris at the moment. Today I was  in the half garage (it has been converted into two rooms) looking for the box with the laminator in. At one point I thought I’d irretrievably blocked myself in but I escaped. I’ve still not found the laminator. I don’t actually need to laminate anything, I just knew I was an ‘office’ box missing.

Achievements so far: Spare bedroom is sorted, including the fiction books in the right order. Office coming on well, although non-fiction books are a total jumble. Bedroom is awaiting the arrival of new furniture. Kitchen needs some work. We will draw a veil over the garage. Next on the agenda is assembling bedside tables, which are the vanguard of the new bedroom furniture delivery.

Christmas is Coming

What does the average person do three days before moving house? Buy a live Christmas tree of course. I am determined to have Christmas decorations, despite moving at a ridiculous time of year and wanted to get in before the weekend rush. Said tree is now stashed in a friend’s garden waiting to be moved in asap. Christmas decorations will indeed come before unpacking boxes.

Creating long blog posts probably isn’t on the agenda at the moment, though but I have posted about Christmas Memories and my vintage Christmas decorations on my Granny’s Tales website. I have also posted about my Christmas decorations, some of which are more than seventy years old, on this site before.

Now back to packing all those awkward last minute bits – you know the sort that never quite fit in to the boxes you have left. This is definitely the most disorganised pack I’ve ever done for a move and I can’t quite work out why. Still unpacking will be a voyage of discovery, with random mixtures in every box. I may not be here until I am on the other side and will need to wait for the wifi to be connected, hopefully that won’t be too long. See you when I have swapped the rural seventeenth century idyll for a home that is once more by the sea.

Almost on the Move (Fingers Crossed)

Well, after much anguish and many ups and downs, it looks like I am into the final week of being the proud custodian of my current home. I am still worried that there will be some last minute hitch but contracts have been exchanged and all being well, I am heading a few miles north, so that I am once again within short walking distance of the sea and useful things like bus stops. I am not really liking this preparing to be old lark but I know it makes sense.

Let’s just hope that I’ve been dealt my share of dramas associated with this move already. You couldn’t make it up. There was I surrounded by boxes, hoping to move within a week or two, when a cyber attack caused havoc for solicitors (not mine but others in my very short chain) and resulted in a whole lot of paperwork disappearing in a puff of ether, cue a two week delay. I have also discovered that books are very heavy. To keep boxes under the prescribed weight of 20kg you need to mix hard backed books with something random and light, so the box isn’t half empty and won’t squish when stacked. I started off well with the decluttering and packing logically but the ‘don’t fill boxes with books, top them up with something light’ is an issue as I have long since run out of light things and the boxes are full of seriously random mixtures. I am pretty much left with just my underwear in the ‘something light’ category. I am sure that was never a problem before, when removal men lifted heavier things. I am working on the principle that if I can lift it a fit, young removal man should be able to. I should point out that I am using the word ‘fit’ to mean healthy, rather than attractive. I’ve not seen them yet so the latter’s an unknown quantity,

My greatest sadness is that all this delay means my precious Christmas decorations are firmly in their boxes. Any other month of the year and a week or two either way wouldn’t have so much impact. The current plan is move in one day, decorations up the next and then I shall be following the tradition of leaving them up until Candlemas (February 2^nd).

Insuring the new house, which you have to do from exchange, was tricky as you are asked all kinds of questions about types of locks and I officially have no idea. Weirdly, it seems the patio doors count against me, understandable if they were external but these just lead to the conservatory, which has a conventional door to the outside. I have arranged for wifi to be transferred with trepidation, as I really need this to be reliable. For some reason my existing company can’t supply me with a landline (although they do currently and I am going to a less remote area) and the twelve year old I spoke to couldn’t really explain why. Possibly something to do with the switch to digital phone lines. I don’t actually use the phone much, except to put the phone down on cold callers, so am going to try to manage with just a mobile. I am a relatively new convert to mobile phones. This means I am a) going to have to try to remember what my number is, b) learn how to put it on speaker phone as I’ve never made more than a 1 minute call on a mobile and don’t fancy longer calls with it stuck to my ear and c) I am going to have to remember to turn the darned thing on. At the moment I only turn it on when I want to use it.

Acquiring boxes has become an art form. It seems supermarkets don’t have piles of them to give away as they did pre COVID. Banana boxes work best as they are sturdy but only seem to come as half boxes, which then need pairing up if possible. I currently have a stack of half boxes, hoping a future haul will produce other halves that fit. I just hope all my neighbours are binge eating bananas. My secret shopper has built up a network of friendly supermarket assistants and does a daily sweep of the local shops but often to no avail.

In a version of ‘How Many Sweets in a Jar’, I thought it might be fun to have a sweepstake on how many boxes I have. It may take a few months for the result as I shan’t count them until they are either emptied or stashed away. No entry fees and no prizes, just a bit of fun. To help you decide, I have 3 bedrooms (2 are very small) but 13 full height book cases, what was a large and full loft (now emptied and stashed wherever I can find room), quite a few boxes of copies of books I have written and what seems to be a ridiculous amount of stuff for someone who has already downsized.

Is it Time to get the Kilt Out?

In a few months’ time I will be embarking on my 48^th year of serious family history research. In all that time, all but one of my lines can be taken back into the eighteenth century, several into the seventeenth century and a few to the sixteenth century. My direct ancestors are spread across nine English counties, from Northumberland to Cornwall, with an additional three counties if I count where I am pretty certain brick wall lines came from. Every single one of all those direct ancestors and there are well over two hundred of them, that I have identified, was born or baptised in England. Until perhaps now. I have been whiling my waiting to move time away by revisiting my Northumbrian ancestry. Part of the story has already found its way on to my Granny’s Tales website. Incidentally, I decided to splash out and convert Granny’s Tales to a paid website so it now has a new URL, although the old one will still work.

Northumbrian ancestors then. This is an eighth of my ancestry, so there’s a lot to tell, even though great great grandad is a brick wall. I sorted the Hoggs and the Pearsons to the best of my ability, so it was time to turn to the Eadingtons. The Eadingtons are tricky; partly because there are so many spelling variations and partly because every last one of them, well almost, is called Patrick, David or James. Except of course when some of the Patricks decide to call themselves Peter just to add to the fun.

My earliest Eadington ancestor is 5x great grandfather David Eadington who married in Embleton in 1756, had some of his children baptised about ten miles from Embleton in Warenford Presbyterian Chapel and had some more children who he didn’t baptise at all, or whose baptism records don’t survive, then ended his days in Alnwick. His gravestone gives his age at death, which suggests that he was born in 1731 or January 1732. Of course, ages at burial are notoriously inaccurate but that’s all I have to go on. Conveniently though, David left a will and this includes mention of several nieces and nephews, children of his late, unnamed, brother. Following up these nephews and nieces, one of whom was also David’s daughter-in-law, at least some of whom have baptism records, revealed that the brother was called James. James married on Holy Island in 1768. James too has a convenient gravestone that leads to a birth between October 1729 and October 1730; so I was now looking for two brothers. There the research sat for several years.

If you believe the ‘wisdom’ of online trees (I don’t), David was baptised in Earlston, Berwickshire, Scotland in 1738, the son of Robert. Not only does these mean he was probably only eighteen when he married but there isn’t a single Robert in my Eadington family, nor was there a brother James. Although this was possible, I remained to be convinced. Investigating the Eadingtons of Holy Island, I discovered an Alice, or Alison Eadington who had an illegitimate son Patrick in 1763. It is almost certain that this Alison was the daughter of Patrick and Alison Eadington née Allen, who moved from Coldingham, in Berwickshire, to Bamburgh, Northumberland. Better still, this Alison had a brother James baptised in 1730. There is no David in the family but the family are on the move between 1729 and 1740 and there is a ten year gap in the children’s baptisms after James. The naming patterns of James and David’s children are a good match for this family; Alison Allen’s father is called David. Even supposing I adopted Patrick and Alison as my 6x great grandparents and I really feel I need more than this, there is another unanswered question. My ancestor is David’s son Patrick (when he isn’t calling himself Peter). He is mentioned in David’s will and on his gravestone as ‘son’ but there is no baptism. He was born c.1762/3. Alison’s son Patrick has no future as Eadington, Chirnside (his father’s name) or Anderson (his step-father’s name). Did David bring his sister’s illegitimate son up as his own child?

Scottish research is not my area of expertise. If anyone has any idea how I might find more evidence that would support or refute this theory I’d be very grateful. I really would like to be able to confirm my Scottish ancestry and get my kilt out.