A Volunteer's Journal: Week One

Welcome back to the History Nook.

This week I'd like to take you on a journey, through cabinets and shelves, and give you a glimpse of what it's like to volunteer with a museum from the comfort of our cosy little spot, here by the window.

So grab your favourite mug, find a soft blanket to curl up in, and let's dive into the pages of my journal and see what we find.

MONDAY The museum is closed to the public on Mondays, but that doesn’t mean no work is getting done. I get off the bus at 09:50 and take a short stroll to the archive. I greet the curators gathered in the kitchen for their morning coffee as I pass through to the office.

I slip my lanyard around my neck and settle into my usual spot: headphones on, dark academia playlist humming softly in my ears, bottle of lemonade to my side, and my trusty notebook open to a list of objects.

Today’s task? Editing photos for the museum’s catalogue. We’re digitising the archive, and that means every single object needs a clean, clear image. It’s not a difficult job—open the photo, adjust the white balance and brightness until the background is crisp white, crop out any unnecessary blank space, save, and move on to the next.

It’s calm, rhythmic work. I lose myself in it.

We break for lunch at 13:00, and as always, the conversation inevitably turns to cats. We swap stories about our fluffy companions and their latest antics—mischief, mayhem, and mysterious disappearances.

Afterward, we meander back to our workspaces. That gentle post-lunch hush settles over the archive, like a blanket. It’s comfortable. It’s cosy.

At 16:00, my day ends. I log off the PC, pack my backpack, hand over my lanyard, and wave a friendly farewell to the curators.

Until next week.

TUESDAY Once a month on a Tuesday, I would assist at a Memory Café hosted at one of the museums. Tea and biscuits were always on hand—comfort served with a side of nostalgia.

On this particular Tuesday, I took my usual seat beside a lovely couple named Pat and Nigel. They’d come in to chat and share memories—stories from their life together, and from the lives they lived before they found each other.

Pat and I had bonded over a shared love of textiles and the colour blue. On the Tuesday in question, as we sat side by side, happily chatting away, Pat suddenly stopped mid-sentence, eyes alight.

“We’re wearing the same colour!” she exclaimed with delight.

She was so pleased by this small coincidence that she insisted on telling everyone who passed by. And each time, it brought her just as much joy as the first.

I won’t deny I had a soft spot for Pat and Nigel. Years later, I still find myself thinking of them now and then. Their love and devotion was something to behold—quiet, constant, and beautiful in its simplicity.

WEDNESDAY One of the perks of being a museum volunteer is the opportunities that come your way. Today’s adventure? A field trip to another city for a talk and a tour of their local museum.

I greet my friend, Linda as we board the coach and settle in for the hour-long journey. She’s brought her husband along, and the three of us quickly fall into easy conversation—stories, laughter, and museum gossip.

Our first stop is an art gallery. Now, this may surprise you, dear reader, but I’m not the biggest fan of art. Still, I enjoyed the slow stroll through the exhibits. Hearing my friends and colleagues enthuse about their favourite pieces brought me a quiet kind of joy, even if the subject didn’t quite catch my own heart.

After a quick lunch break, we made our way to the main event: a private talk about a collection of human remains, complete with time to speak with the curator of the exhibition, followed by a guided tour of the museum itself.

The coach ride home was full of eager chatter—everyone sharing their highlights, little facts they'd learned, or things they hadn’t noticed before.

It wasn’t a day where anything particularly extraordinary happened. And yet, for someone who visits museums regularly, it still felt special. There’s something quietly magical about spending time with people who love what you love, who look at old bones and ancient pots and feel something. That shared spark? I cherish it deeply.

THURSDAY I arrive at the museum, notebook in hand, ready for a slow stroll and some thoughtful scribbling. This isn’t my usual haunt—in fact, it’s only my second day working at this particular museum. My objective is clear: take a walk around and note down anything of interest for a top secret project.

(Yes, top secret. No, I can’t tell you. Yet.)

I take the time to introduce myself to some of the staff, to get a feel for the rhythm of the place. I wander the galleries slowly, letting the collection unfold around me. With each exhibit, I jot things down: elements I like, things I think could be improved, gaps that feel like they’re waiting to be filled.

It’s not a dramatic day. No crowds, no special events—just me, my notebook, and the quiet hum of the museum. But those pages of hurried notes? They’ll be the seeds of something wonderful.

FRIDAY I arrive at the museum in costume—my handmade 10th-century garb. On Saturdays, I’m allowed to dress up, and I take full advantage. As I walk through the main corridor in my green and orange hangerok, it's less an outfit and more a warning sign: chaos is incoming.

I slip into one of the back rooms and return moments later, arms laden with a treasure trove of objects. Saturday is object handling day.

There's something for everyone: Stone Age hand axes, Roman dice, a grim little chamber pot that never fails to get a laugh or a squeal. But my favourites—the ones I set proudly on the table top—are the replica Anglo-Saxon sword, a felt version of the Benty Grange helmet for children to try on, a Roman floor tile with a cat’s paw print pressed into it, and a cannonball from 1648 that’s seen better days (and probably worse battles).

By mid-morning, I’ve acquired a trail of children like metaphorical ducklings, all eager to touch, to ask, to know. Some are familiar faces, regulars I’ve grown fond of. Some are new. A few even know me by name.

But this Saturday is special.

As I’m plying my trade, surrounded by curious hands and curious minds, a young girl and her father wait patiently for a chance to approach. I recognise them—they visit often—but the girl seems unusually shy today.

That’s when her dad steps in, crouching down beside her and gently nudging her forward. “She made you something,” he says.

And from her small hands, I’m handed a gift: a tiny loom band bracelet, threaded with a green charm to match my green hair. A gift for me—me, the random Viking lady who shows up every Saturday.

I still have that little bracelet.

Reflection When people think about volunteering in a museum, they often picture the objects: the ancient tools, the weathered manuscripts, the curiosities tucked behind glass. And yes, the objects are wonderful. They’re the storytellers of our past, tangible echoes of the people who came before us.

But I hope this week has showed you that the heart of a museum doesn’t beat in its artefacts alone—it beats in its people.

It’s in the curators sharing coffee and cat stories on a quiet Monday morning. In the memories passed between strangers over tea and biscuits. It’s in the laughter echoing through the gallery as a child tries on a felt helmet and declares herself Queen of the Saxons. It’s in a loom band bracelet with a green charm, offered by a child who felt seen.

Volunteering in a museum isn’t just about preserving history. It’s about becoming part of it. It’s a quiet, mutual exchange—between colleagues, between visitor and volunteer, and between friends who haven’t met yet. You give your time, your curiosity, your presence—and in return, you’re given something far more lasting: connection, purpose, and the kind of magic that lingers long after the gallery lights dim.

So if you’ve ever thought about getting involved at your local museum—do. You don’t need a degree or a deep knowledge of history. Just a love for stories, a warm smile, and maybe a pocket for small bracelets.

Thank you for reading. Over the years, I’ve accrued more than 2,000 hours of experience volunteering at different museums. The stories I’ve shared above all truly happened—though not in the same week, and not even in the same museum. Each one is a thread in the tapestry of my time in these wonderful spaces.

I hope you enjoyed your time in The History Nook today.

Until next time, stay curious, and keep warm.