12 May Stroud to Bournemouth

It’s not that I don’t like work, but it did strike me that today was cause for sadness, as it was the end of my holiday and the start of being responsible again. My friend Althea would say I am always responsible but then it’s a comparative thing isn’t it. So I said goodbye to the grubby hotel, my grubby host, the grubby waiter, and the grubby room, and popped this morning’s boiled eggs in my handbag in case I got hungry later. I didn’t.

I caught a train to Bournemouth, when I would really have rather been catching a train to Salisbury or Exeter, but I caught it anyway. I couldn’t imagine anything interesting to look at in Bournemouth except the sea, and we have sea at home. The train journey was pleasant and expensive, and as these two are generally mutually exclusive, I went with pleasant, and tried not to play with my BlackBerry to find a more generous currency converter. I arrived in Bournemouth early enough to find nice lodgings (as directed by the Polish tourist information person) and wander around the town; I went all along the foreshore and all the way back again. Bournemouth is very English – deckchairs for hire, signs warning about potential safety hazards, and a very long pier with fences all around it to stop you from falling into the sea heaven forbid. This is nice, isn’t it, I thought to myself, but where is the promised four star Cavendish Hotel with a view of the ocean? I went to a different tourist office and asked another Polish information officer the same question as I had asked the first time – where is the four star Cavendish Hotel? I was given the same answer as before, which once again, led me to a rather pink looking hotel, admittedly Cavendish Hotel, but not a four star job. Perhaps tourist information offices should consider employing information officers who know the area. I went to my room and looked up the address of the Cavendish hotel. It had moved to Eastbourne when I wasn’t looking.

I decided to go to Eastbourne as soon as I could, as that’s where the rest of the conference people would be. So I went to my room and on the free internet kindly provided by my landlady, found the time of the first train to Eastbourne, booked a taxi to the station, drank some red wine, and washed my hair in a very deep bath. The room was clean and it cost £25 – the same as the grubby one in Stroud. Sometimes I can’t figure out if I have been ripped off or not.

I probably would have been better to check my emails and maps before I bought the train ticket, and travel directly to Eastbourne. Perhaps this was the nagging worry I had in Paris about making a mistake somewhere. After all, there are a lot of changes between Titirangi and Eastbourne, and any small timing error could result in a missed connection. Fortunately I have a clever backup system, which is always to go to an Important Place early, so I go the my airport gate as soon as I can, in case it turns out to be in another airport, and I go to the conference hotel a day early to make sure they are expecting me. Just like I went to the rendezvous place for Deb and I early – oh never mind, you had to be there.

Anyway, the room was clean and the landlady was lovely. I can recommend her place - a Victorian guest house – the Newbury Hotel. Tell her I sent you.

11 May - Gloucester

I heard the sparrows farting when I got up, as Stroud is a quiet little spot. The Indian gentleman was watching Indian tv when I came down for my breakfast, but he boiled me some nice eggs (eventually - I had to send them back for extra time) and let me tuck in to a hearty breakfast. I had in mind before I left home this would be a good time to drop a kilo or two, but I needed my energy for the walking, so took advantage of the large breakfast. He and his off-sider wore dirty tee shirts but they smiled a lot and were quite helpful. He told me I was his only house guest. I wasn't surprised. I explained to him that it might be a good idea to get someone in to do some cleaning some time.

I found the train (it wasn’t hard, as the railway line was next to the hotel) and settled in for the half hour ride to Gloucester. I was tres excited. This was the day I would find my ancestors in the Gloucester Archives. I had a map, and followed it carefully to the archives office, which was only 5 minutes’ walk from Gloucester station. I photographed the sign outside, as I had plenty of time to spare in Gloucester as it turned out, the archives being closed on Mondays. I took it quite well really. After half an hour of rattling every window in the building and peering suspiciously inside to see if anyone was furtively getting a private reading of the archives, I beat my retreat and went off to find the family research office instead. Nasty old archives office. They probably didn’t have anything interesting in there anyway.

The family research people were very nice and even let me take photos of the computer screen with all the Poulstons on it, providing I didn’t show you. So I won’t. I learned, as I suspected, that my ancestor Edwin Poulston was in fact born of a Celia or perhaps Sarah Poulson (the name was hard to read), at the Stroud Union Workhouse. We couldn’t find her father or mother, but perhaps next time I am in Gloucester I will pop in to the archives office (not on a Monday) and see what they have.

While I was there I checked out Harry Potter’s church as well (Gloucester Cathedral) but missed the Beatrix Potter museum, not being a rabbit. When I got back to Stroud I went to the council offices and found that they had cemetery records for Hannah and Thomas Poulston, but I was quite circumspect looking for them, as the lady in the council office explained that someone had been bitten by an adder in the cemetery a couple of years back, and to take care. She also suggested I keep an eye out for badger holes. Fancy Mista Badger having rellies in Stroud as well. No wonder we got on so well together. It is indeed a small world.

I couldn’t find the graves, but I photographed the site where they were, and made a sound file of the graveyard, as the birds were chirping happily and making a lovely din. I walked up to the Workhouse and took some photos. It's a trendy set of apartments now but it must have been pretty dire when the Poulstons were living there. We're a noisy lot.

Towards the end of the day I noticed that this was my last not at work day, as I would have to head towards the south coast next for my conference. I really wanted to go to Glastonbury to see what I could see there, or even to Stonehenge, which fascinates me. Fancy putting all those big stones up there just so you could see where the sun lands and mid-summer. Amazing. I don’t think people could have done it, so I wonder who it was. So I had all this in mind when I washed my knickers and socks out, made a few pathetic attempts to get my dongle to work, and then had a glass or two of wine and shuffled off to bed.

I made a recording of the birds preparing to go to bed, but I can't work out how to post it. I was told many years ago by Glenn, that the reason the birds chirp in the morning is that they are pleased it is a good day, and they have several hours of worm eating to look forward to, and the reason they chirp at the end of the day, is that they have finished their work.

10 May - Bristol to Stroud

Roger and Doreen have two sons who have bought a house together and live locally, but only one was able to come and visit. Actually it wasn’t me he came to see – he came with his mate Ben to put a light in the loft, which was very entertaining. It took a while longer than expected (these things always take time!) so Roger kindly offered to drive me to Stroud instead of just to the local railway station. I had found what I thought was a salubrious hotel in Stroud at the same price as my bed and breakfast in Dublin, so I was confident of having a comfortable stay. The countryside is quite gorgeous, with lots of green grass (like home) and English trees (also like home). I was in the Cotswolds, which as we know, are very beautiful, and renowned for their private guest houses. I hoped I would be in one, and imagined sinking into deep abysses of goose down duvets, cosseted in Egyptian linen clad European pillows, and placated with a continual stream of tea and scones. Good.

It wasn’t really like that. The London Hotel, down by the railway line near the supermarket, was run by a nice Indian gentleman who couldn’t operate the credit card thingummy and gave an overall impression of incompetence at a level I never imagined existed. He was awful, but engaging in a funny kind of way, because he was friendly and tried to be helpful. I checked the room and despatched my kind hosts, not wishing to worry them, and also, because I hadn't really noticec how dirty the place was. Some time early in the afternoon my new host managed to get the credit card thingy to work, and I was able to go to my room. It was a bit dirty, but the good news was that I had my own bathroom, complete with the usual array of soaps and shampoos. The old body wash container from the last guest was on the shower base, but I managed to push it away with my feet during my first shower and not focus on it. The carpet hadn’t been vacuumed in several months at a guess, but I kept my shoes on and was careful not to drop any food on the floor. I think the bed was clean, but I didn’t take any risks and slept in my Cotton on Body pyjamas. I washed my knickers and socks (I bet you’re glad of the detail) and headed off to Stroud main street to see what trace I could find of my ancestors.

My father, Edwin Poulston, was born in 1919. His father, Edwin Poulston, was born in 1885, and his father (I bet you can’t guess his name...) Edwin Poulston, was born in 1853, and his father, Edwin Poulston (yawn – not many names in our family) was born in 1826. In Stroud. Well all I could find was an Edwin Poulson born in 1826 in Stroud but his mother was called something like Celia Poulson, and she lived in the Stroud Union Poorhouse. So I wandered around Stroud pulling the weeds off the graces in the cemeteries and looking for evidence of my family, until finally I found the town cemetery (after taking several wrong turns as usual, thereby circumnavigating the village), just below the old Poorhouse (now a set of apartments). I pulled weeds off and rummaged through the undergrowth, but found no sign of my rellies, so concluded that I would have to go to Gloucester the next day to check the county archives and see what they could tell me.

I finished the day happily with a new bottle of red wine, and a new salad, both of which were substantially cheaper than the same things in Dublin. The main thing wrong with Stroud though, was that my dongle would not pick up a connection, even though I tried it out at various points in the hotel, and tested the Vodafone reception around Stroud on my phone- Stroud was a phone-free village. Nice for those who don’t like mobile waves whistling through the air, but no so good if you wanted to talk to someone. Stroud is quite hilly, being in the Cotswolds, and has a lot of little steep streets (steep little streets?). I was very taken with a spot called the Shambles (reminded me of home), as the word 'shambles' apparently derives from 'slaughterhouse'. You see, it was worth reading to the end of the blog just to learn that!