Tit Willow This is part 3 of a 9 part series of a 150 mile walk along the Thames River starting in West London and ending at the river’s source. Our friends Don and Pamela, my wife Myra, and I completed the self-guided trek over a 17 vacation. Our walk was arranged by Instep Walking Holidays of England. They booked the lodgings, arranged for our luggage to be transported from one stop to the next, supplied the guidebook, maps and taxi transfers. Most of the places booked for our overnight stays were at charming Bed and Breakfast or historic inns, which added significantly to the pleasure of our walking holiday. I had requested two night stays at Windsor, Oxford and in Lechlade to explore the local area. We enjoyed walking in the footsteps of Cardinal Wolseley, Henry VIII, Elizabeth I, and other ancestral British dignitaries. One day the path led directly through a wood sweet with bird-song and the drone of bees. We walked in single file and shortly passed a kissing gate or so the sign proclaimed. Wishing to obey the local custom we dutifully kissed one another as we walked through. Once out of the trees I snapped a picture of Pamela feeding bread scraps to a flock of ducks as we kept on walking over the uneven ground. Pamela inherited an eye-catching feminine form, which she worked continually at maintaining by being in constant motion. She reminded me of a puppy-dog examining everything that came into her view with enthusiasm and unbridled energy. She contrasted against Don’s quiet, controlled nature. Both of them were a delight to travel with. Nothing seemed to upset them and I was thrilled when they agreed to join Myra and me on this venture. At the edge of Weybridge was a small sign nailed to a tree which had a ships bell tied to a low branch. The sign simply proclaimed Shepperton Ferry. Pamela insisted on ringing the bell enthusiastically to signal the ferry to come get us off the grass landing for the ride over to Shepperton. A boat, not much larger than a rowboat, with an outboard motor, responded to her insistent ringing. The ferryman, John, aided us aboard and immediately asked if we had time for a small diversion. Always open to adventure, we responded ‘yes’, and John pointed his craft down-river, the direction opposite to our destination. John was a short man with a broad face, pockmarked from an earlier illness. He admired swans, informing us that they mated for life. He took us a couple of miles down stream to a small cottage on the north riverbank. A tremendous nest sat directly in front of the cottage entrance with a swan sitting in it. “She is hatching her eggs. I know her since she was born.” John said, using a soft, affectionate tone of voice. “Who owns them?” Pamela asked with a look on her face that said ‘I want one’. “All the swans on this river are the property, by royal decree, of a London livery company. They tag the newborn ones, maintain records of their numbers and location. Only the queen is allowed to eat swan flesh. It is a crime to abduct or harm any swan. The folks who live in this cottage must not disturb the nesting swan or they could face a severe fine.” The serious look on his face told us that he would be checking on that one often. But before we could ask what the punishment would be, he turned sharply, heading back up-river toward D’oyly Carte Island, also known as Silly Eyot. “Over here,” he stated, as we approached several large homes surrounded by immaculate lawns, “is where Gilbert and Sullivan maintained summer homes. They would often perform their operettas outdoors to entertain their neighbors.” Pamela said softly to no one in particular, “I would love to live here and watch all the actors performing for me.” With that said we each, sitting on our wooden plank seats, drifted into what may have been a communal reverie of a performance of The Mikado, complete with orchestra and costumed actors. At the Shepperton landing, John told us, “These big willow trees inspired the Mikado Song, Tit-willow.” He smiled a crooked grin and waved us a goodbye as we walked away singing “Willow, Tit-willow, Oh Tit-will-oww…” Myra took the lead, wanting to be the first to find houses along the riverbank that the four of us could fantasize about renting for a summer. She wore plum-colored knee-length shorts, white sneakers, a white long-sleeved, moisture wicking shirt, and a tan rain hat that covered her streaked-gray hair. She walked with her toes pointed dead ahead, with a spring to each step that made her forest-green daypack bounce in time to her gait. Not five minutes off the bridge she stopped in front of a two-story, redbrick home that had at least twenty rooms and a magnificent garden. The house fronted onto the towpath, and had a low brick wall covered with cascading tiny yellow flowers, spilling over like waterfalls. "This," she said, "is my kind of a place. But I will only take it if the gardener and maid stay on. ‘Sure, I thought, who wouldn't?’ Then Pamela chimed in with, "Myra, dear, please don't forget to keep the cook as well." There must have been three dozen houses selected by the four of us for the dreamed-about return some day in the future. They ranged from small cottages to gabled mansions. All of them had elaborate flower gardens, manicured lawns, and unobstructed views of the Thames River. Under an overcast sky we walked the dirt towpath continuing our fantasy when a thin man approached leading a cocker spaniel straining on the leash. There was London in his clothes; tweed jacket with leather elbow patches, pressed trousers, a long gray knitted scarf wrapped twice around his neck, his hair parted in the middle. Pamela stopped to fuss over the cocker spaniel and we all gathered about discussing the wet weather. At that moment we noticed several boats racing on the river, and I asked the man, “Is there a difference was between rowing and sculling?” "Oh yes," he replied, "a rowing scull is when the boat is powered by more than a single oarsman and each fellow uses just one oar. A sculling boat is when each rower works two oars. Simple, see!" Yes, we did see, and enjoyed learning the boating terms. Then Don popped his question, “Who was the first Prime Minister?” on the thin fellow. "Good Heavens man! That's a tough one. But I'd say Pit the Elder." He quickly added, "I'm a distant relation to 'Pit the Younger', a cousin removed a few times, but still connected by blood." I could see the pride he felt, as if he was of royalty. After a short pause he continued to speak, "Well everyone, I suppose, in England is connected in one way or another to royalty or an historical figure." I imagined he wanted us to see that he was a regular fellow and not some upper-class snob, although I thought he lived in one of the large homes on this stretch of the river. Light drizzle joined us on the walk until we came to Penton Hook Lock. It was here that the Thames River bowed for a half-mile to advance only one-hundred-twenty yards. The lock cut straight across the narrow part of the bow and saved boaters and walkers the full river width. Myra noticed a flyer posted on a bulletin board that reminded us of Speakers Corner in London, where everyone spoke his or her mind. The flyer was a notice to dog owners and went like this: "People who let their dogs foul the pavements are inconsiderate, bad mannered, unhygienic, and under Bylaw 15 can be prosecuted." I wondered how many inconsiderate, bad mannered and unhygienic dog owners were prosecuted under Bylaw 15. As the four of us made our way along the river, a little black capped chickadee capered in the air above us, and as we approached a row of tall sycamore trees covered with starlings; speckled, black and raucous. Myra and Pamela cackled back and ran forward, as if to take flight and join the flock. At the Stains railway bridge, we crossed to the south bank and quickly left the river towpath to walk a soggy grass track towards Runnymede. Runnymede is a large park-like area with a Tablet marking the spot on which King John agreed to the Magna Carta in the year 1215. On a Knoll overlooking the green field holding the Tablet, is the Kennedy Memorial, built on an acre of land given to the American people. The drizzle increased in intensity but did not dampen our spirits. Walking the mile or so past the park I couldn't take my eyes off this historic area that must have been the birthplace of Democracy. I could picture the gathering of lords, knights and their king, to sign into existence, the cornerstone of the Common Law of England. On the western end of Runnymede we stopped for a spot of tea and crumpets before joining the river path, and then on to Windsor.