Return to the Shire

Wiltshire that is, home to ancient piles of rock, large chalk horses and my mother when she were but a childer. Summoned in mid-build, I swept off to this most beautiful of counties with three oldies in tow and one cousin. My Canadian Uncle had been given this trip back to his homeland by his daughter as a happy 80th birthday present. The fact that he'd only turned 79 was neither here nor there, she'd already booked the tickets so he was coming no matter what. To crown off this prodigal return, I was to deliver them all to the doorstep of the cottage where they grew up; the National Heritage postcard you see above in the village of Cherhill. Cherhill is also home to one of four chalk horses scattered about Wiltshire, and Mater was going to walk up and see it, even if it killed my Aunt. Uncle was having none of it, having already OD'd on nostalgia and russet apples back at the cottage, so we left him snoring in the car and trudged through icy winds to see yon horsey. Feeling we hadn't sufficiently had our fill of old things, we also did Avebury and Stonehenge, both of which are deeply underwhelming in every respect. I recommend stopping by the horse and taking a turn around this very dinky village tho, apparently the cottage was first noted in the Doomsday book so it's been around awhile. If you happen to stop by the pub however, don't eat the duck breast in orange and passion fruit sauce. Quite bitter it was, like the person who had to consume it.

B