Action-man, 6 June, Central England

Stratford-upon-Avon lies 20 miles south of Birmingham. We found ourselves on Shakespeare's old stomping grounds at about 2 o'clock this afternoon. Aunt Julie had prepared a picnic of sandwiches, fruit, chips, and chocolates for us by the river, as punters punted by. She says that she and Uncle Al would rather see old Will's environs than his house, which apparently is loaded with tour-phernalia. In either case, we didn't see the house, but enjoyed the town. Not far from the romance and charm of the riverside, though, punk youths and bums hang out, littering the street with thousands of cigarettes, beer cans, and trashy beatbox music.

South again of Stratford, we wandered through old Cotswald villages in the countryside--Weston Subedge, Buckland, Snowshill (the film site of "Bridget Jones' Diary"). Uncle Al and Aunt Julie like to "feel their way" about the countryside, and we enjoy the feeling, leaning our heads out the windows of their little Ford and feeling the wanderlust hit us smack in the face.

Passing through fields of lavender (which seems much more fun to detasel than corn) and shorn sheep (it's a warm summer here, you know), we made our way to Oxford. In the city centre (which you must say as it's spelled to be proper around here), there are many colleges--Magdalen, Oxford, Christchurch, more. Traipsing the streets were black-robed students with red roses that seemed to have just emerged from Platform 9 and 3/4. ("Once Harry and Hermione had donned their Yule-tide cloaks of red and black and silver and gold and mauve...")

We admired the precision of the university greens and stood awed by the tight design of chapels, bell towers, libraries and all. Their stone spires prick the blue sky. We wanted to see Christchurch's green courtyard, but as Sam stepped through the archway, a bobby chastised him, saying that unless we were "attending the service," the grounds were closed.

So we went to Evensong. The service was a reviving wind, choirboys' voices cutting through the still air, chanting the Psalms to us. It was an hour of pure Scripture, and it's hard to go wrong that way.

Later in the evening, we were winging it with Uncle Albert ("hands across the water") through the countryside and back to the Solihull flat. We passed by Bishops Itchington as the sun drained. Aunt Julie said that he (the bishop) must have been a rather unfortunate man.

Drew