So, will this fog be gone by mid-day? No, I wouldn’t think so. Won’t the sun burn the fog off? Not really. No.
Off we go.
Cows, pastures, more cows, and a few sheep later. I’ve enjoyed yet another day of rainy-day walking in the local area. My guests apologize again for the bad weather but I point out that no weather is bad weather when you’re from Boston, and it’s January. Actually I’m from north of Boston. North enough of Boston to think that fog, rain and temperatures above freezing are considered nice weather. I am talking REALLY enjoyable. There’s no ice underfoot and I can feel my face. To me that’s nice weather for January.
My first day in Stroud began with a familiar trip, straight up hill to Stroud cemetery, with my furry friend, Hector. I’d been there before of course, but I left the directions up to Hector. Which way Hector, left or right? Hector was giving me definitive answers until I asked him how old the church was. About that he was more unclear, so we both just stood there and stared for a minute. I was rather pleased because Hector seemed to really see that church for the first time, you know. We headed back in through the arch, to find a plaque. Left, no right, left, back out again. Where is the damn plaque? I sensed annoyance from Hector. You Americans! Make up your mind for goodness sake. I need to head home and check my pee mail before the fam gets back.
No plaque. Seriously Stroud, you need plaques. I know you have just loads of old stuff. But add a plaque for us new-worlders. Please. In America we add plaques to everything that makes it over 100 years. We’re just so excited when that happens.
Day two. Out to dinner and then a nice walk home. In the dark. The long way around. Wow, those views are just so fantastic at night, and so little fog! A few roads are “murder-her-and-throw-the-body-in-the-woods” dark but that makes the walk more fun. I’m not going to tell anyone how cute Stroud is until I’ve bought myself a little cottage overlooking those twinkling lights of downtown. Then we can post this review and increase house values.
When I wake up my quads are a tiny bit stiff. Last time I felt that was walking the streets of San Francisco. Maybe it was all the walking in heels? I have a suitcase full of shoes but none of them appropriate for Stroud.
Day three, headed to Cirencester to buy sensible shoes. And a shoebrush for the mud.
Waiting For A Steed
There aren’t many Americans who can claim they have been to four, yes four events at Chavenage House. I am talking EVENTS – ball gowns, cocktail hour, formal photographs, champagne-swigging events. The whole 9-yards. I have the distinction of being the only American to have that honour. (Write-Ins entries will be accepted.) I keep waiting in the courtyard for the handsome titled Englishman to ride in, but when I wander outside I usually just get asked to have a smoke with the 20-something crowd.
Whenever I go to Chavenage I have the same experience I do when visiting a beautiful old church that has been converted into a restaurant. I wonder if somehow that old structure groans to find itself in this embarrassing position. Like an 80-year-old former high school beauty queen finding herself in the food pantry line, or foodbanks, as you call them in the UK. She had such an auspicious start in life and never pictured ending up in this sorry spot. She just figured her life would stay grand based on her looks alone. But time marches on and sadly enough, keeping up your good looks takes time and money. A facelift only takes you so far. More foundational work must be done. The modern look changes you somehow and it’s never quite the same. Your value becomes only a link to the past. Stay cheerful, updated, and make money or no one will want you anymore.
Gentle readers may ask why I have been to four events at Chavenage, but just ask around town and someone will point out the traditional 16th century cottage where Hector lives. He has an ordinary family life, other than the blow-out party every five years. Someone’s always getting married or having a birthday worthy of dusting off the formal wear and dance shoes. Our cabby says he takes someone to Chavenage every week, and yet in his confusion we get dropped off at the stables and mistaken for the help.
Time To Go Home
I’m sorry. HOW much is a rail ticket to Paddington from Stroud? I blink, staring at the register. It says 101, but surely it must cost more than a pound and a pence. But it wasn’t; it was one hundred and one. I blink again. I’m sorry, don’t you have socialized, subsidized railways? What the hell? I can get into Boston for 15 bucks on the train. It’s how much? Seriously? (Looks like someone’s let the Tories back in.)
I’m sure gentle readers will remember that Monday. You know, the Monday of the tube strike, mud slide, heavy fog at Heathrow, motorcycle accident on the highway? That is how the day of Trains Planes and Automobiles started and before it ended I had a four hour journey to the airport that involved to die version buses, two full pat downs, two, take everything out, luggage searches, and one confiscated cosmetic bag. Headed for 3 days of New York business meetings without anti-perspirant or make-up. That always impresses the NY business crowd. 20 hours later I land in New York, in eye-tearing cold with only a raincoat. At least I have sensible shoes now.
Has it been 5-years yet?
Many thanks to Mel for penning this – btw, I think Chalford is about 100 miles from Paddington by rail. Mel’s one way ticket would cost her about a £ a mile …