While I was in the West, I thought I’d do a bit of family stuff. Firstly, my nephew and his wife lived twenty minutes from Charlton Park, where I’d been for WOMAD. He’s an IT expert, and a gifted photographer, but doesn’t want the fuss of freelancing. After a nice lunch in the village they now call home, I went to Bath, with the intention of visiting the Public Records Office. Family history has thrown up a particular problem; while records take me back to GGGrandfather Isaac, born in Batheaston, records show the family moved there from Bristol, and originated in the village of Bitton. His father was Robert; why did he move, what was his occupation?

Riverside Farm is a certificated site in Bathford, a couple or so miles from the city; a huge field with a few hard standings. Loos and showers were in a converted shipping container on a trailer, quite nicely done but quirky. Behind a hedge runs the River Avon, which was popular with standup paddle boarders. The no.3 bus goes into Bath bus station; chatting to local lad, who talked me through the bus route, and where the best stop was. On one of the journeys I managed to leave my old gaffer’s bus pass on it. I am developing a serious skill at losing ID cards.

I discovered to get a reader’s ticket for the PRO takes 48 hours, so booked for the Wed morning session, leaving me a day to wander in the old ancestral homeland. Thought I’d look in at the Bath Rugby shop, but very little stock in sizes that would fit me or family. The centre of the city was very busy with overseas parties of tourists; all the major sites were charging, and queues to get in; even Bath Abbey. It does annoy me when places of worship charge for entry (for guide tours it’s different) though I understand why they do; I often wonder what Jesus would say, or whether he’d go off on one like he did with the moneychangers at the Temple.

I did spend a very pleasant hour or so in the Central Library, conveniently placed on the first floor above Waitrose next to their café and loos. That’s lunch sorted then. Interesting shelf or two on local history; I can lose myself for ages in a good library, and did. In my memory, I’m having trouble distinguishing between Bath and Salisbury, a similar vibe, though the photos help.

The second trip in, I chatted to a couple of German tourists, from Cologne, who had parked their camper nearby. I asked where else they’d been in UK – in Cornwall, at Buda, they said. “Oh, Bude!” I’m sure my errors in Germany will be much worse. They reassured me that my trip was going to be fine, most young people spoke English, and the trains were good, though erratic, as football fans found out during the Euros.

The Record Office were brilliant; they warned me by email there wasn’t much to help the search, but they greeted me with a stack of directories from the early C19th for me to wade through. This being the family history section, the two women on duty were both knowledgeable and helpful, and suggested a line of enquiry through apprentice records, as known though the tax returns of the masters. The visit, think, did manage to rule out the Robert who was a maltster, brewer, and pub landlord; even in those days, 15 was a bit young to be a publican. Time for a pasty from Bakehouse, and bus to pick Willma up from the campsite.