'A strange feeling all day that I am part of all history, all philosophy, all knowledge - a sort of heart of everything. I have a glimpse of, and feeling for, what the Catholics hold to, what Presbyterians, Puritans, Calvinists, Royalists, Parliamentarians, 'see'. I stand at the centre and 'see' it all. I cannot belong to any party. I support the King, I fight for the Commonwealth. It all comes from the love of my God, and I am in, and with Him, at the heart of it all - neither humanly knowing, or understanding, anything, but spiritually at one with it all.'

Site research can be many things to many people. To me, even after twenty years, it remains absorbing, stimulating, occasionally frustrating - but never boring.

However, the modern trend to rush around like a coach party of trippers ... this morning we're doing the walls and fortifications of Exeter, and after lunch the Bovcy Tracey battlefield ... will achieve little of lasting value.

Instead, adopt a slower, more rewarding approach. Reject the convenience of a car, slip into a comfortable pair of shoes, and be prepared to walk. But be warned! Research on foot is not recommended to those of a faint-hearted disposition, ready to give up at the first sign of adversity. Problems will arise, often when least expected.

Unless mileage is accurately measured Ordnance Survey maps can prove deceptive. Having miscalculated the distance between two market towns I asked, when arriving at the first, if any Public Transport was available. A look of consternation crossed the old woman's face. "No bus goes over the hill. We keep to our side; they keep to theirs." Our conversation obviously at an end, and to avoid reviving some ancient feud, I thought it prudent to leave by the way I had come until an alternative route could be found.

Another, more important, site had been equally elusive, but for an entirely different reason. The day after I arrived in York all the bus drivers went out on strike. Not to be denied my visit I walked out from Poppleton, reaching Marston Moor midmorning. After spending nearly two hours studying the western side of the battlefield I moved to the area around White Sike Close.

As I raised my camera to take a photograph of the hedgerow I became increasingly aware that my right leg was slowly sinking into the ground. I struggled to get free. At last I managed to release my leg from the grip of the bog; the shoe, however, remained firmly embedded. Pushing up my sleeve I delved down into the mud, found the shoe, and brought it to the surface. After tipping out the accumulated 'gunge' I forced it back on, and, with clothing on my left side comparatively clean; on the right streaked with quickly drying white clay, I resumed my tour of the moor. Intense hunger finally drove me from the battlefield. As I plodded back along the lane a school bus pulled up alongside me. Although embarrassed by my disreputable appearance I accepted the kind offer of a lift and, much to the amusement of the children clambered aboard for the return journey. Clutching a bag of assorted sandwiches and pies I sneaked into the Guest House, and tip- toed to my room.

So you want food? Don't always expect to find it! The object of the walk was to follow the route of Essex's relief force along the stretch of road between Chipping Norton and Stow- in-the-Wold, and to locate the two positions held by the Royalists in their attempt to prevent the Parliamentarians from reaching Gloucester.

I was nearing Oddington where, earlier in the same year, a foraging party had skirmished with Royalists quartering in the village. Here I had planned to break for lunch. But it was a plan about to go drastically wrong, for on reaching the pub the message in the window informed me - WE ARE CLOSED FOR REDECORATION.

Being deprived of a much needed lunch is bad enough; worse is to find the inn open yet still denied food.

I had left Tewkesbury early and set out, as Sir William Waller's small force had done in 1643, along the old Roman road to Ripple village. After spending the morning walking the whole area from Uckinghall to Ripple Field itself, I decided to take a rest and eat. The greeting I received on entering the inn was forthright and emphatic. "No food today. We clean the kitchen on Mondays."

I suggested hopefully, since I was the only customer, "A little bread and cheese?" She remained adamant. "No food whatsoever. The kitchen is closed for cleaning." I tried to gain sympathy, explaining I had a long walk ahead to Tewkesbury. "You can have a drink from the bar, or a cup of coffee," then added before I could reply, "nothing else." I settled for a coffee, took it to one of the tables and began to write a few notes. After watching me writing for a few minutes she told me again, in a more pleasant tone, how essential it was to keep the kitchen clean. I hurriedly finished my coffee and returned to, the now peaceful, Ripple Field.

So when you arrive on site will you be regarded by the locals as a harmless visitor - or spy? A solitary stranger entering the area is often looked upon with suspicion; when a camera and notebook are produced investigation becomes necessary.

I had picked an unfortunate time to stroll down the Devon lane. Arguments were raging over the route for the new bypass. As I photographed the ancient trench and earthworks, used as a cover by the Royalists during the battle, a woman emerged from her back door.

Watching my every move she loudly deposited her rubbish in the bin. Unable to control her anger any longer she yelled, "They're not coming through here." I reflected perhaps a similar remark had been passed three centuries ago. She banged down the dustbin lid. "We're not having the road through this way, and that's all there is to it."

To put her mind at rest I went over. My only interest was in the Civil War, I explained, not the modern road system. We called a truce and after a chat went our separate ways.

It was not the first time my motives had been misconstrued.

I had successfully found, and followed, the old track from Hanborough to Hailey, the route taken by Charles, and his army, when he moved out of Oxford in June, 1644. The day had gone well - too well. I had a sneaking idea something was about to go wrong (only because it generally did), forcing a radical change of plan. To complete my sequence of photographs I needed just one or two more to show the valley and the positions of Holly Court and Bridewell Farms.

I found a good vantage point on the New Yatt - North Leigh road. Out came the camera. To a man building a bungalow this meant only one thing - trouble! He descended the ladder at an alarming rate, and ran across the adjoining field, signalling furiously for me to wait. "They haven't sold this piece of land for development?" His expression suggested he feared the worst. Agreeable conversation followed when he realized it was a case of mistaken identity. Leaving him to get back to work, I hurried on still hopeful of reaching Witney by late afternoon.

Witney

Nor was it to be the last time my presence upset a local inhabitant.

A friendlier town you couldn't find. The church steward closed the north doors to enable me to photograph the damage inflicted during the combat; the hotel manager the bullet-scarred dining room wall. In sharp contrast, the reception I was to receive in the Southern area of the town was far from hospitable. A visitor capturing on film the beauty of a Gloucestershire park on a summer's day all perfectly normal you might imagine.

But to one local inhabitant it warranted immediate investigation. The vet, checking supplies in the back of a van, sauntered over to ask, "What are you taking a photograph of?" I told him, "the park", which I thought was fairly obvious. He went back to restack some cans. But he was not a happy man. Soon he was back at my elbow to continue the interrogation. "Why are you taking a picture of the park?"

Since he was pressing for an answer I would give one - but in my own good time. I began a lengthy, purposely drawnout, account of the whole action. The vet glanced at his watch, but stood firm. So I delayed him further by pointing out various streets where the bitterest fighting had taken place. Not until I had run out of verbal ammunition did I casually mention the Royalist dash across the park to prevent the Parliamentarians escaping down the Gloucester road. He muttered something about an appointment and wandered off. Not until he had driven away did the cause of his concern become apparent. Like a child eager to be included, a cow (friendly not mad) had wandered into shot and was standing wellpositioned in the centre of the frame.

So why, at my time of life, don't I stop clambering over padlocked gates, slithering down river banks, treking along Bridle Paths that disappear in a sea of corn, defying death walking the verges of busy 'A' roads to see an isolated bridge, and then only by dangling over the parapet.

But what can compare with the buzz of anticipation, the mounting excitement, when, after a long arduous walk and the last corner turned, the battlefield, house or church, is seen for the first time. At that moment all the written words, so carefully studied, are transformed into an unforgettable, often emotional experience.

Besides, how many people can say they have held a debate on Oliver Cromwell with a B.R. employee in the middle of two main-line tracks while 125 trains hurtle by in each direction!

Maybe one day I will give up. But not yet. Next month I want to get to...

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