It's Sunday. The temperamental weather of London convinces us to be free of its smokey cage. (London isn't that smoggy anymore since it went eco friendly, let me be dramatic!). Luckily, we still had our beautiful Volvo XC70 station wagon at our use. Being 25, I was the driver and Mum was the planner of our day trip. Lars got to sit and soak all the history in. And when he was bored of that, press every button in the car to see what it does. Helpful.
The first one and a half hours if our trip were a blur of silver machinery and exhaust pipes. Ankles hurting from the inconsistent starting and stopping. Like Moses and the Red Sea, the traffic parted and exposed the stretch of the M1 in front of us. We were flying, the landscape couldn't decide whether it was green or yellow, so I focused on the road.
We arrived in due course, and followed the 'Lavenham Farmers Market' sign because... Why not. The hall smelt like Grandma and Poppa's pork pies. A comforting smell. We purchase the usual, jams, curd, and mushroom pate then decanted the idea to buy the cute flowers for our new window sill. With our purchases in the car, our hands were free for snapping. This village was an arrangement of wonky houses and Tea Rooms. There were buildings still in its original form, some had been spruced up with a splash of paint or chicken wire to hold in the thatched roofing. Each building was just crying out to tell me their stories, if I only had wooden ears to hear them all.
I can't say that the walk to the other end of the town was a marathon, but one does not need much encouragement to glide through the door of the Crooked House and ask for Tea and scones. And the rest if you're hungry. Sandwiches, crisps, scones and Bakewell cake. Like baked cheesecake soaked in alcohol. Upstairs were the old dining room and a bedroom. All on a 35degree lean, enough to make your legs confused.
With bellies sufficiently full, we left our adorable village and started our way to an even smaller village. Kersey. In England, there are A roads, normal sized, main roads, and B roads, smaller back roads. Based on this scale, the road to Kersey was a W road. Thank gollies that we didn't meet anyone else on our way.
Kersey is so small, but has more character than most. A curved Main Street, I use the term main lightly because there is only one, that leads to the church and the school. A ford, intercepts where the road dips. Small houses that are older than our country line the road as if trying to keep its sweetness a secret. We go on the search to find the home that Margaret lived in. There were not many to choose from. Turns out that our car had been parked outside it the whole time. We ventured to the church yard. The sun was hitting it on the perfect angle, making the clock face glimmer. We passed the River House in our way back, built in 1496.
We visit the pub to only, shockingly, use the loos. On the way out, Lars pointed out the door knocker. Queen Elizabeth- The first. It's going to take a while before I can get my head around the age of this country.
Labels: UK 2016
