I am a firm believer in just going and having a poke about in things; it really is amazing what you can uncover with a bit of curiosity and a good old rummage.

This week, finding myself back in Devon I went for a nosy in one of those village shops that veer somewhere between the League of Gentlemen and a Dickens novel. In the village where my parents now live right at the bottom of the hill, next to the Co-Op and before the village hall, lies a book shop run by a lady who, without being unkind, must be at least 4000 years old. The front window of the shop is entirely obscured by yellowing local adverts for piano lessons, a cat that I imagine is still lost and Millennium eve karaoke. Walking through the door you have to squeeze yourself past piles of books and magazines although knock some over, as you are bound to, and you'll probably find they're issues of Parade or Life from around 1927.

The best bit however is that the shop goes on. And on. And on. Row upon row of old books on chinese cooking, sea creatures, Brownie annuals, alchemy and panto until eventually you end up in the garden. Yes, the garden. Outside. Where there are more books. Clambering over an engineless car I found a garage of books which I'm guessing have been there for some time judging by the amount of ivy growing over them. Braving stinging nettles, miscellaneous moulds and whatever was scuttling about under the Dick Francis I was rewarded with some 1930s' guides to Somerset, a 1950s' Bourneville visitor's guide and a 1970s' Cadbury's cookbook.

Come the day that I ever fancy a chocolate porcupine or 'creme' made with cornflower all my hard work will have been amply rewarded. I do love research sometimes.