Slug and Lettuce Pub You’re a nut-case.” I turned toward the woman who uttered this appraisal and was surprised to see she was staring at me. Then she continued, “I’m not saying your legs aren’t sexy it’s just that in this freezing rain and cold air you’re wearing shorts.” Pointing her index finger at my legs, she repeated, “You’re a nut-case.” Her smile broadened, exposing her slightly crooked teeth and a devilish glint in her eye. With that British woman’s assessment, I began the one hundred fifty-mile walk up the Thames River from Putney Bridge on the West End of London to the river’s source, slightly beyond Lachlade. A walker’s pace is slow enough to absorb the sights, talk to the locals, grab a sense of a new country, while touching emotions to the casually changing terrain. England, I learned, is a land for walkers. It is a country where trekkers have the right-of-way over property owners. Paths go through pastures, across lawns, into barnyards, along driveways, through fields of barley, flocks of sheep; all without a landholder protesting the hiker’s passage. The Thames River track follows the old towpath wherever possible, taking some diversions around flooded areas or through small villages. Casting my own toothy grin back at the Londoner who had dubbed me a ‘nut-case’ I shouldered a small, green daypack and headed outside to cross the Putney Bridge. My wife, Myra and our friends Don and Pamela followed close behind. They wore long pants, ponchos and carried a daypack of their own. The air had a bracing nip to it and light drizzle veiled the far side of the bridge. As I turned off the bridge onto a hard-packed dirt track along the south side of the river the rain stopped and the haze began to disperse. A mile further upriver, by the Kew Railroad Bridge, Myra and Pamela spotted a ferry and decided to ride the riverboat to Richmond where we planned to meet for lunch. Don and I continued our walk past the Royal Botanic Gardens where we caught glimpses of the delightful flora, Kew Palace, and the Arboretum. Across the river the Syon House came into view. Don informed me that near Syon gate is the Coach and Horses Inn, the very one mentioned in Oliver Twist, as Sikes and Oliver journeyed to Chertsey. Then he bombarded me with the literary history of Syon; “Shelly went to school here, and it is known the world over for its associations with Walpole, Swift, and Fielding.” Here we got a good view of Isleworth Village and its 15th century tower of All Saints Church. Don said, “This is the village where Vincent Van Gogh taught and used views of the Thames for his first attempts at painting.” “Don,” I suddenly asked, “how do you know all these details?” “Easy,” he responded in his quiet gentle way, “I read the guidebook you sent and assumed you wanted me to be prepared to share the info. By the way,” he continued, “all the interesting pubs have been on the opposite bank, including that one.” He pointed with his gray-streaked, whisker-dotted chin towards the Isleworth side saying, “That one is the 500 year old Apprentice Pub, a favorite of highwaymen.” “Well,” I said, “Richmond is just around this bend and I know we will find the pub there, hopefully without the robbers.” As we followed the towpath’s last mile into picturesque Richmond, Don first asked a question that we often repeated to local townsfolk we met on the balance of our trip. He sprung the question on me, asking, “Who was the first Prime Minister?” I had no idea and quickly responded, “George Washington was the first president of the United States of America.” It was a dumb answer and I knew that even before the words left my mouth. To avoid facing a smirking Don, I turned to a couple walking near by and asked them Don’s question. The man scratched his balding head and said, “That’s an interesting question.” While the woman, pushing back her wispy hair thought it might be ‘Disraeli’. Since we didn’t learn the correct answer until two weeks later we just spoke about England, the river and our seventeen day walk. They seemed pleased that Americans were walking in their country. They recommended that we read Jerome Jerome's book, Three Men in a Boat to catch the flavor of the river. We bid one another a warm cheerio and continued up-river. Flowering red beech trees towered over us as we approached Richmond. Wherever the trees and bushes parted, there appeared the loveliest misty-green meadows in the world. We were silent; taking in the views on both sides of the river, the river’s voice mixed with bird-sounds and speech of people talking. The perfect balance of sound-sights tranquilized us into a state of contentment as we approached the Slug and Lettuce Pub. The word ‘charm’ may have been created with some one’s first view of Richmond. Old English residences, two and three stories high, crowded alongside the sprawling pub; all set back from the water’s edge. Red-and-orange tiled roofs float above these structures as other buildings rose up behind them. Flowers punctured the composition with a bright array of nature’s colors, each expressing a joy that the planter shared with all who passed by. Standing in front of the Slug and Lettuce Pub, each with a glass of ale in their hand were Myra and Pamela, waiting for us to join them for our first trail lunch. A prominent sign posted at the pub’s entrance proclaimed in bold blue print: A door is a symbol that fulfills the Mind with a blood rush of Thoughts. Don’t think just enter. Enter we did, catching the odor of nutmeg, ale and tobacco smoke as we made our way into the crowded space. Walking gave us an appetite but the smells of food cooking magnified our need for nourishment tenfold. I ordered the leek-potato soup and two portions of fish and chips with mush peas. Don wanted the Stilton cheese soup and a couple of foot-long sausages. I felt silly and said to my companions, “Romans introduced leek to Britain. In fact Emperor Nero ate leek to improve his singing voice and I was doing the same for my voice.” They all laughed and asked, “What will the potato do for you?” I quickly shot back, “It is a well-known fact that potato was considered an aphrodisiac.” Several local Richmond couples at the adjoining table overhead us and added a few dubious facts to those already stated such as; ‘Nero ate so many leeks that he was nicknamed Porrophagus (leek eater)’. The madness continued with a few remarks about the mush-peas and bitter ale. I laughed with the others although I didn’t fully understand what they said. The fact that they used a Latin name for Nero gave their statements an authority of truth. Then a thin fellow tried to top everyone by stating a few more known facts, “Richmond is where Philip of Spain honeymooned with Mary. Leonard and Virginia Woolf began the Hogarth Press in this town, and the actor Edmund Kean is buried here.” Not wanting to be out done Don quietly asked, “Who was the fist Prime Minister of England?” After a short silence one stout-fellow with a loud bark of a voice replied, “Pit the Younger.” “No!” shouted a curly headed woman, “It had to be Pit the Elder.” They were wrong, although we didn’t know it at the time. With that we left the young Brits arguing about who was right and headed off to reach Kingston-upon-Thames before dusk. This is part one of a nine-part series.