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.

A riverside discovery, part 2

Eventually the sky opened up, the brush and trees disappeared, and we came upon the river Thames and the tiny village of Moulseford. We pulled up at what we thought was a pub but, on closer inspection, it seemed we had found the Beetle and Wedge, a fancy riverside restaurant with a small adjoining hotel. Cars were already in the parking lot. A good sign. As we headed to the entrance, we saw someone piling lumps of coal on a semi-outdoor grill. I had not seen coal on a fire since I was a boy.

A riverside discovery, part 1

We saw, by luck, a tiny bracken-covered sign leading to the tiny, riverside hamlet of Moulseford. The road seemed narrow, with tall grasses brushing the side windows as we turned. Then the road became narrower still, shrinking to the size of a bike path. This teeny roadway was thoughtfully dotted with tarmac flanges placed, presumably, to minimize head-on collisions and murder-suicides. In such a tight spot we finally ‘killed our speed,’ but no one else did. A stout man in a Jag, the actor who played Inspector Strange on Morse, one of my favorite shows, mimed swear words at us as we dithered onto a nearby flange to let him pass. I had no idea who had the right-of-way, but I had a young family and a desire to live.

Still wending our way around the Thames Valley

We were still eager to discover the picturesque Thames Valley, still desperate for a stroll at the water’s edge. But the more we zigzagged the ancient waterway, zooming along at sixty miles an hour despite the ‘kill your speed’ signs, the more we seemed cut off by the very thing that had attracted us to the area in the first place – the river. Quite often, we approached a town, drove over a span of bridge, and found the town gone. Most, it seemed, had been built on one side of the Thames and had sprawled along that one bank. Crossing the river at a promising spot, we’d find nothing except boring bits of pasture and a few trees. We actually double-backed several times to see what we might have missed. And sometimes we overlooked the teeny-tiny directional arrows and missed a village completely, resulting in more zigzagging and even more backtracking.

We later realized, the best way to see the Thames Valley was on a boat, floating around the soft curves of the river, traveling at the water’s pace, discovering tiny bank-side hamlets, and generally enjoying the slowness and tranquility of the journey, rather like Mole and Ratty.

A literary journey (not), part 1

We headed first for Pangbourne, home of Kenneth Graham and his Wind in the Willows. We could not really gain access to the river at Pangbourne, there was no walkway. And why should there be? The old market town had grown into a bedroom suburb of London, with lots of houses, lots of shops, and not much in the way of charm. Not that I expected to see Mister Toad sauntering about or stealing motor cars but I had expected a much smaller place, more tranquil, even pastoral. But it was not to be.

Planning over breakfast

Over breakfast, Frances and I discussed the day’s itinerary. Our plan was to zigzag the Thames Valley, crossing the river at various leafy intersections and immersing ourselves in literary landmarks and points of interest that dotted this area. For once, the itinerary had been my idea, but Frances was agreeable and, with the weather still sunny, the views would at least be pretty.
Frances looked up suddenly and realized Kate was gone. The French doors were open, we thought of the pond. Of Kate’s attraction to goldfish. But she had simply sat down at another table, adopted a family in another part of the dining room. When we came up to her, our toddler was happily sucking on her bottle in the company of her two new ‘brothers.’ Oddly, the father just carried on reading his newspaper as if nothing untoward had happened, and the mother didn’t seem to mind either.