Regatta Fever, part 2

Henley was filled with an air of tepid expectancy. The whole town was in the grips of discrete pre-regatta fever, and we saw lots of activity. People with clipboards were gadding about, looking for things to supervise. Boats and bleachers were being quietly hauled out of trucks. A bandstand was getting a fresh lick of paint. Large marquee tents were going up with silent ease. Guy rope tightened. Unopened, dark green ticket booths were getting a cleaning and etched gold letters were being retouched.
We had scones and tea in a small restaurant with a view of the bridge at Henley and its endless stream of heavy traffic which, like the river below, seemed to flow in one direction. Away from Henley. The locals, it seemed, had somewhere better to go. And so did we. Suddenly we both missed Windsor and realized how much we enjoyed it. We checked the map. Happily, Windsor was, as the tarmac flowed, less than half an hour away. Forty minutes later, we were happily strolling around the old castle town again.

Regatta Fever, part 1

The Royal Henley Regatta was starting the following week and, in preparation, Henley-on-Thames had thoughtfully banned street parking, created no entry streets, and cordoned off vehicular access to the river except for the main bridge in and out of town. This was, no doubt, to punish anyone not traveling in an amphibious craft of some description.
We parked miles away, near a supermarket on the outskirts of town, and walked back through a throng of tourists, would-be royal watchers, and assorted gawkers. Like lemmings, we followed the crowd towards the river. At the side of the bridge with its constant flow of noisy, smelly traffic, we glimpsed lawns that led to the river’s edge, perfectly run-down looking boathouses, and creamy white riverside mansions that looked like slightly wilted wedding cakes waiting to be cut.