Thursday August 15
Well it’s goodbye to Wales, as we cross the very, very long Prince of Wales Bridge. Next stop will be 3 nights in Oxford. The home of The university, Inspector Morse, and his protege Inspector Lewis.
This is a good central base to see things like the Cotswolds, Cambridge University, and Althorp Estate, childhood home of the late Princy Di.
The plan was to see a couple of Cotswolds villages on the way to Oxford tonight. Then one of the next days would be to look around Oxford, and the other day to see a few more villages, and knock off the odd stately home.
Sarah is one of those unfortunates who get all slippery at the sight of a thatched roof on an ancient cottage. We’ve all seen them. Remember those colourful biscuit tins the family would get every Christmas from great aunt Agnes? The one who always smelt a little too much like a blend of Port Royal tobacco and stale pee. The aunty, that is, not the biscuit tin. Stupid Boy!
So do you remember those tins? They seem to have had a resurgence in latter years, turning up just before Christmas at supermarkets, Farmers or The Warehouse. I actually think the tins are quite cool. Maybe it’s just nostalgia, but I like the fact that the tin will last longer than the contents. Unless, of course, the biscuits are imported from China, and depending on their melamine content, may have a half-life of many years more than me.
Who knows, the tin may live again as the secret vault to store the treasures that can only be found in the unconstrained imaginations of the very young.
Or perhaps as a vessel for faded memories and lost opportunities to someone like great aunt Agnes.
Anyway, the tins are cool, and they have lots of shapes and themes these days. With luck, you’ll find some of the more traditional varieties, with scenes of Dutch windmills, tranquil riverboats, or thatched cottages in the Cotswolds.
So, on our way to Oxford, we decide to detour into the Cotswolds area, to hunt out the odd thatchery. They are not as easy to find as you might think. These villages are tiny, and dotted everywhere. Long ago the passing traffic has been relocated to the multi-lanes highways. Even if you venture onto lesser traveled roads in hopes of finding one, the ever present tall hedges crushing the usefulness out of the occasional single lane stretch will ensure that you have no idea what is just ten feet to your left or right.
As a result, these villages have become a little like Brigadoon, giving the illusion of being trapped in a previous time, impossible to find unless a local gives out the secret, and endowing a touch of magic to those lucky few who happen upon them.
We decided to let the GPS take us to Stratford-upon-Avon. It is the home of some bloke who has allegedly been given the credit for Chrstopher Marlowe’s best work. It was a nice scenic route to get there, and we even spotted a couple of random thatches.
Found a lovely pub in the middle of town called The Old Thatch Tavern. There was no holding her back. She just had to have lunch in a thatched pub. Luckily the local authorities had the forethought to build a parking building in town. I think it would be fair to say that EVERY village we have been to would have benefited from a parking building somewhere around the corner.
After lunch we go for a wander around town. I’m intrigued at the irregularities in the building shapes. It’s amazing what time and Mother Nature can do to a building. I love this shit.
While lunching in the aforementioned pub, while surrounded by some tour bus inmates from the Antipodes, I found a wee lane in a nearby village, where a row of thatched cottages have been restored to their former glory. For those interested in visiting, it is a village called Great Tew.
Before long, Sarah was oo-ing and aah-ing left and right. There’s a cafe called Bakergirl, and a pub called the Falkland Arms. I imagine the pub has rooms for those who want to drown in nostalgia. We moved on to our hotel on the outskirts of Oxford.
Well it’s goodbye to Wales, as we cross the very, very long Prince of Wales Bridge. Next stop will be 3 nights in Oxford. The home of The university, Inspector Morse, and his protege Inspector Lewis.
This is a good central base to see things like the Cotswolds, Cambridge University, and Althorp Estate, childhood home of the late Princy Di.
The plan was to see a couple of Cotswolds villages on the way to Oxford tonight. Then one of the next days would be to look around Oxford, and the other day to see a few more villages, and knock off the odd stately home.
Sarah is one of those unfortunates who get all slippery at the sight of a thatched roof on an ancient cottage. We’ve all seen them. Remember those colourful biscuit tins the family would get every Christmas from great aunt Agnes? The one who always smelt a little too much like a blend of Port Royal tobacco and stale pee. The aunty, that is, not the biscuit tin. Stupid Boy!
So do you remember those tins? They seem to have had a resurgence in latter years, turning up just before Christmas at supermarkets, Farmers or The Warehouse. I actually think the tins are quite cool. Maybe it’s just nostalgia, but I like the fact that the tin will last longer than the contents. Unless, of course, the biscuits are imported from China, and depending on their melamine content, may have a half-life of many years more than me.
Who knows, the tin may live again as the secret vault to store the treasures that can only be found in the unconstrained imaginations of the very young.
Or perhaps as a vessel for faded memories and lost opportunities to someone like great aunt Agnes.
Anyway, the tins are cool, and they have lots of shapes and themes these days. With luck, you’ll find some of the more traditional varieties, with scenes of Dutch windmills, tranquil riverboats, or thatched cottages in the Cotswolds.
So, on our way to Oxford, we decide to detour into the Cotswolds area, to hunt out the odd thatchery. They are not as easy to find as you might think. These villages are tiny, and dotted everywhere. Long ago the passing traffic has been relocated to the multi-lanes highways. Even if you venture onto lesser traveled roads in hopes of finding one, the ever present tall hedges crushing the usefulness out of the occasional single lane stretch will ensure that you have no idea what is just ten feet to your left or right.
As a result, these villages have become a little like Brigadoon, giving the illusion of being trapped in a previous time, impossible to find unless a local gives out the secret, and endowing a touch of magic to those lucky few who happen upon them.
We decided to let the GPS take us to Stratford-upon-Avon. It is the home of some bloke who has allegedly been given the credit for Chrstopher Marlowe’s best work. It was a nice scenic route to get there, and we even spotted a couple of random thatches.
Found a lovely pub in the middle of town called The Old Thatch Tavern. There was no holding her back. She just had to have lunch in a thatched pub. Luckily the local authorities had the forethought to build a parking building in town. I think it would be fair to say that EVERY village we have been to would have benefited from a parking building somewhere around the corner.
After lunch we go for a wander around town. I’m intrigued at the irregularities in the building shapes. It’s amazing what time and Mother Nature can do to a building. I love this shit.
While lunching in the aforementioned pub, while surrounded by some tour bus inmates from the Antipodes, I found a wee lane in a nearby village, where a row of thatched cottages have been restored to their former glory. For those interested in visiting, it is a village called Great Tew.
Before long, Sarah was oo-ing and aah-ing left and right. There’s a cafe called Bakergirl, and a pub called the Falkland Arms. I imagine the pub has rooms for those who want to drown in nostalgia. We moved on to our hotel on the outskirts of Oxford.
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