Arrival

I could see a little of the west Irish coast before a cloud covered just about everything else below. As the plane was a bit ahead of schedule, we circled around a few times before our much-anticipated descent. Touchdown was at Heathrow Four into a cool, overcast day. A long line of immigrants cued up at what’s called the UK Border for another bout of injections, inspections, detections, infections, neglections and selections.

Linda writes: The airport is huge and we had been warned, but security went quickly, perhaps 30 minutes, and not a customs agent in sight. We were on our way to find a bus in no time. After riding one bus to another Heathrow terminal,  a very nice driver, Steve, gave us the senior rate (not sure how I feel about that) on his express to Oxford. I’m sure he didn’t mean to be, but he was very funny as he warned our small population of riders to be sure to push the button for their stop. Otherwise, a person would be very sad to do the extra walking. Not to worry, though—he assured us he’d repeat the stops several times. It could have been a Monty Python sketch.

The only thing more unnerving than driving on the “wrong” side of the road is all these cars barrelling down the motorway with no one in the driver’s seat. The projected travel time was 80 minutes, but a good third of that was spent crawling through Oxford itself. Seeing that medieval architecture was my first clue that I’d arrived in a place much different from Texas. The final bus stop was Glouchester Green, where we awaited Louisa at a lovely coffee shop enjoying eggs, toast, and jam. She greeted us with many hugs, then whisked us away in her manual-transmission (shifted with the left hand) Peugeot 306.

Skies were still overcast when we stopped in Woodstock. Here our hostess delivered some of her printing to a client and we picked up some sausages from a family butcher. I strolled round a corner and discovered the Woodstock Arms.

Another brief cruise got us to Shipston-on-Stour, where I got to experience my first taste of English ale in a genuine English pub. I don’t remember the beer’s name, but ‘twas light, flavorful, and cool. Like many that we would visit, the pub was cozy in size with a low, beamed ceiling, and a bar side and lounge side with the taps in between.

A mere four miles east is Brailes, where stands Louisa’s dwelling and our home base. Places here don’t use street numbers for addresses, but names. Thus, Louisa lives in Old Park Cottage on Winderton Road, Lower Brailes. Attached to Park House, her space consists of two former workers’ apartments and a garage which Louisa reconfigured into kitchen-dining, living, and press rooms downstairs and two bedrooms, a dressing room, bath, and workshop up.

Linda, who last visited Louisa nine years ago, says: Lou’s new home is lovely! Plastered daub and wattle, thick walls, window seats, slate floors. Wonderful remodel job, enchanting garden.

Indeed, few English folk bother with a yard, but almost everyone plants a garden, be it flower, vegetable, or both. Louisa’s deep lot contains several herb and produce plots plus half a dozen sheds for tools, laundry, studio, books, and napping.

After showing us our rooms, Lou led us along a footpath behind other houses to the town church. Every community of any size is built around a house of worship, and public trails connect hamlets, historical sites, and natural features all over. Add a town hall and pub or two, and you know you’re in an English village.

The St. George Church here originates from 12th century foundations and several additions since. Like most other such structures, this had been Catholic until Henry VIII founded the Church of England. Graves surround the chuchyard, further connecting these people with their deep past. Directly across the street is the 16th century George Hotel and pub, the latter of which wasn’t open in the mid-afternoon.

On the way back to Old Park Cottage, we stopped at the village ironworker, Birdy Blacksmith, who was in the process of fashioning a gypsy wagon. After a grocery store run, we climbed Brailes’s Castle Hill, an earthwork that had been a fortification in post-Norman times, and which offers a fine view of the village’s upper and lower sections.

The first of many home-cooked Lou meals that evening was lamb and barley stew with strawberries for dessert. Shots of whisky topped off our repast, and we ascended the steep steps to bed ourselves this initial day in Merrie Olde England.