April 9. Packed most everything, then strolled over to the Bell for eggs Benedict and smashed avocado on bagel. Stopped at Lloyd’s Bank to exchange three obsolete pound coins for the same number of new ones. Stepped to the Post Office to convert a few dollars into even fewer pounds. Returned to Room 16 to finish gathering our effects. Bade good-bye to the courteous staff (“Come to Texas!”), and set off.
Should-a gone north, but sat in a queue on A303 for a good half-hour just to behold Stonehenge one more time. Despite the wet, many people were encircling the monument. Northwest on A360 to Devises, northeast on A361 got us to Avebury, where we turned the vehicle off in the car park, bundled up against the cold rain, bought an interpretive book, and paid our admission fee.
Hiked round the Barn Museum to enjoy tea and scones, procured postcards, and met Mike, our tour guide. He led us into the circle, explaining ditch and bank and how odd it was that the high side sits on the outside, the reverse of the defensive arrangement at Old Sarum. Were the builders seeking to hold someone in instead of out? The stones, unwrought relative to those at Stonehenge, are native to this place and were set upright about the time of the pyramids. Other nearby earthworks are much older. We gazed agape at these 60-tonne sarsens and tried to grok their medieval felling and appreciated their more recent re-erecting. Donovan would have sung histories of ages past, much-enlightened shadows cast, but none appeared that dreary, damp day. I was never cold, but Lina had a tough time of it, losing sensation in her extremities.
We soldiered on till the tour’s conclusion, then ducked into the adjacent Red Lion to see the village well, the final resting place of “at least one unfortunate townsperson.”
Back in the motorcar, we steered east to park at the trailhead to West Kennet Long Barrow, where I would have hiked solo but for the extreme wet, which overwhelmed my high-top Clarks. Gave it up, returned to the vehicle, changed to dry shoes and socks, and pressed on.
And on and on. All the roads here began to look the same: narrow, winding, busy, ill-marked with many names. Another village ahead, another roundabout or two. Occasional traffic signal. Small cars, big lorries. Stay left.
Turned right onto B4035, which led through Shipston and to our beloved Brailes. Pulled up to Old Park Cottage, where a beaming Louisa hugged us home.
Unloaded, then let our hostess drive us to the Gate for a pint and a smooth swig of local Cotswold whisky. There also was Jonathan and the one called Roger. Spoke to the proprietors and their young son, who was reading J B Priestley, but enjoyed doing math better. He and I traded formulas, laws, and sequences. Again at the house, we sat down to stuffed baked herring (not red) with new potatoes, green beans, and more ale. Everyone else went to bed, but I pushed buttons for a couple hours more, inspired by Jon’s book about New York City’s underworld to recall Guys and Dolls, Damon Runyon, and Stubby Kaye.
Next: Wedding