Just about noon, we shot across a bridge and promptly left Goring-on-Thames, our destination. Sheepishly we turned back, gently recrossed the river, and parked near a post office. We were welcomed by a church and few houses, but not much else. At least it was not flat. Just across the bridge, we could now see the land suddenly hiccuping into a small forested gorge, providing a delightful, verdant backdrop to the slow-flowing river.
Oscar Wilde had spent a family holiday in Goring, but I could not think why. We never saw anyone, even the ubiquitous Swan Hotel on the opposite bank looked deserted. Perhaps the heat of the day had scared everyone inside. Safe to say, we were the only tourists strolling across the bridge that afternoon. The river was flowing quite well and part of the greenish water was filled with mud, like a seam of fast-flowing milk chocolate.
Losing the Ties that Bind Us
5 weeks ago