Chasing Steeples

 As we were watching a DVD of Inspector Morse last night (alas, we've run through all the Foyle's War episodes,) I found myself thinking of our last trip to England -- a walking tour in the Cotswolds in 2006.  We made our way along well-marked public paths through fields and woods and almost always, as we approached the next village, we would sight the steeple of the largest and oldest church.

 We managed to visit a few stately homes and even statelier gardens but my favorite parts were less grand ... the pastures (humming 'Sheep May Safely Graze') . . .

 

and the tidy vegetable gardens.

 The houses set me dreaming . . . how charming to live in a cottage with a thatched roof!

Or, in this house below, which I saw only at a distance. It was perhaps my favorite, isolated as few others were.

 But a quick perusal of the ads offering houses for sale let us know that not in this lifetime could we ever afford property in the Cotswolds.

Not even a fixer-upper.

Elite Motors in Tooting -Sepia Saturday

It's Martin's (Square Sunshine) fault.  Back on May 1, he posted a picture of a motorcycle for Sepia Saturday and I responded by telling him of my Great Adventure that began at Elite Motors in Tooting (near London.) And he sent me a link to the first picture -- that's Elite Motors as I remember it. Not exactly sepia but about forty years ago.

It was mid-May and my husband  and I flew to London via Icelandic Air (the cheapest way to get there) and made our way to Tooting where we took delivery of out brand new BSA 650 Thunderbolt, purchased through an export scheme which meant we didn't have to pay the tax if we took it out of the country in a certain amount of time.

Imagine the bike below with side carrier boxes over the rear wheels, a knapack on the handle bars, a duffle bag containing all our camping gear, and two people in scruffy, low tech garments. (We were so envious of the leathers the 'real' bikers wore.)

As we made our cautious way through London traffic, a rowdy bunch shouted at us "Where's your 'arley Daividson?" and asked if we were on our way to the Isle of Man.

The following three months were heavenly. We  headed south toward Devon and learned about caravan camps, clotted cream, pasties, shandy, baked beans on toast, and the innumerable differences in our common language.

We walked through Stonehenge in the early morning, before the tour buses arrived; we camped at a farm where the apple blossoms fell on our tent; we stood in a bluebell wood one night while bats flittered about our heads . . .

I'd already been an Anglophile, thanks to P.G.Wodehouse, P.L. Travers, C.S.Lewis, Kenneth Graham, J.R.R. Tolkien. T.H. White, Elizabeth Goudge, and many, many other authors whose England I'd absorbed. And it  would have suited me fine to spend the whole three months we'd allotted in touring my spiritual home. 


But we had determined to see as much of Europe as time and budget allowed. (Yes, we had a copy of Europe on Five Dollars a Day. And by camping and eating in restaurants only rarely, we came close.) 

In three months time, we managed to visit quite a few places --

Spain  where the sparkling wine at an amazing 25 cents a bottle in one camp was a joy contrasted with the eerie sight of the a lone Guardia Civil with his machine gun in the middle of nowhere. And France, where I fell in love with Marie Antoinette's Petite Hameau and we lingered for days in the charming town of Loche -- home of Agnes Sorel (and her wardrobe malfunction.) Oh, the fresh baguettes! And the excellent butter and cheese! Who needed restaurants?

It was the trip of a life time -- on to Italy (Venice Rome and Florence), Austria (Salzburg and the salt mine at Hallein but not Vienna, alas, Merisi), Switzerland, Germany (Munich and the Black Forest,)Belgium (probably the friendliest of the countries we visited.) Holland (and how amazed we were at the diversity of the people there and the food from exotic lands) and so back to England.

We returned to Tooting where the nice folks at Elite (we loved the fact that the mechanics wore ties and long white coats like doctors) took the bike and arranged for it to be shipped to us in the States.  Where, a few years later, we sold it for more than we'd paid for it -- the trip and the deal of a lifetime.

Where are my pictures of this odyssey? On slides . . . somewhere. But in my head they're clearer than any slide could ever be. Thanks, Martin, for reminding me of the Great Adventure!

(For more Sepia Saturday posts from all over, go HERE.