Travelling Hopefully

The last of my British holiday is behind me now.  A whirlwind visit to Hampshire in the company of my ex-father in law was the last little item on my plate.  Naturally Herry lives in a ridiculously charming home, part of a converted coach house which is comfortably older than many countries.  He lives in the little village of Stockbridge on (and in some places over) the River Test.  Stockbridge is one of those places which seem to have been designed solely because they look good on postcards of rural England.  Ancient buildings, charming countryside, a well stocked river (best trout fishing in England Herry informs me) plus a marsh (which probably helped to limit urban expansion) and almost as many pubs as there are houses.

Herry lives in part of the old coachhouse.  Stockbridge started as a way point for herdsmen driving their herds (if they were driving flocks they'd be flocksmen wouldn't they?) to market.  The coachhouse made for a handy stopover.  It is more centuries old than I care to consider and according to Ayako has only one relatively easy going ghost.  Which is good because I am so tired of those attention seeking ghosts who toss stuff at you and make the walls bleed.  You're dead, get over it.

Herry was a more than charming host although it was amusing watching him attempt to explain the presence of a blond forty year old male with nail polish to his neighbours.  England has countryside, quite a lot of it.  In fact if you look in certain areas you could make a good case for claiming the island is deserted.  Trees, rolling fields of something (do I look like a farmer?) meandering rivers and very little in the way of actual dwellings.  Herry tells me much of the population lives in trees but I'm not sure I believe him.  I rather suspect that England is actually one massive housing development that is kept back from the roads in order to fool visitors.

In keeping with the accidental wildlife motif I seem to be following I can proudly claim I have seen trout in their natural habitat (water).  Wacking big trout they were too.  There were ducks swimming on the surface and I feared for their life.  Down in the marsh people were walking their dogs and grazing horses.  A cheerful sign warned people that if their dogs got in amongst the livestock they would be shot.  I asked Herry if horses counted as livestock but got an ambivalent answer.  Still there were no gunshots disturbing the crisp morning air so I'm assuming any irate farmers held their hand.

Later that day Herry drove me to Winchester (where my monstrously expensive train was leaving for London) and gave me a quick tour.  We visited his old school (somehow it doesn't surprise me to learn that Herry went to the same school as Sir Humphrey Appleby) and checked out the house occupied by the Bishop of Winchester.  As flats above the shop go its pretty good.

Tomorrow I leave on the Eurostar for Brussels.  In a rare fit of commonsense I have booked into a hostel across the road from the station and in the shadow of St Pancras hotel which I can only assume was built because the owner felt there weren't enough mock castles in England.  I can't imagine that it makes a profit but it certainly looms magnificently over the tube station and early morning rush hour.

Now all I have to do is wake up in time for my train.  If not I might be swimming to Brussels.