Bottle-bottom Windows It rained all day on our walk to Shiplake. With my umbrella above me, I guided Pamela, Don, and Myra through back streets of Marlow, under the bridge, onto the soggy towpath alongside the river that linked us to bygone days. The rich velvety quality of light bestowed a characteristic to the descending rain, making it appear not in vertical lines, but more like a multitude of tiny goblets of water pouring down a moist atmosphere. Watery air carried an oaty tang of fresh cut grass. Blazing white dogwoods and azaleas of every hue were bursting out in springtime celebration. Dangling wisteria in rich purples crowded the path as we crossed the river on Temple Lock footbridge. I felt as if this mornings’ walk had taken me onto the exotic landscape of a Rousseau painting. A short distance from the bridge, in Hurley, we stopped at the 11th century, Olde Bell Inn for a dry-out break of tea, beer and biscuits. At the Olde Bell Inn I made contact with England. I breathed in the smell of warm ale and thatched roof, two olfactory poles, between which stretches the whole aromatic range of English experience. We sat at an oak table, in a room whose low ceiling was held up by thick-bowed beams. My bare legs quickly dried as the others attempted to de-mud their trouser-legs and catch the heat from the fireplace. A slight, elderly man, wearing a black vest over a white shirt with gartered long-sleeves, took our order as he darted to and fro like a bird in a berry-bush. The windows were small, with thick bottle-bottom glass panes. When our spry waiter returned he placed our drinks and nibbles in neat sets on the veined oak top. He had a cigarette behind one ear that was almost invisible against his white hair. As he was about to bounce away, Pamela asked him about the thick bottle-bottom glass windows? “Oh,” he said with a serious tone of voice, “they are a danger. Last week one of the upholstered chairs caught fire. It happened because the sun concentrated its rays through the bottle-bottom and ignited the cloth. If Ms. Parkinson hadn’t alerted us, I have no doubt the whole place would’ve been done for.” “Yes,” agreed Pamela, “but why do they have them instead of regular glass?” “If the truth be told,” he said, “in early times a tax was put upon the number of windows a building had. But bottle-bottom ones were not counted towards the tax. Why that was so I do not know. Now they are kept for the look of them.” His matter-of-fact tone was transparent as breath. I could tell he was proud to be part of this almost thousand-year old Inn, even with the real risk of a fire. Don assumed the role of official group map-reader and informed us, with quiet authority, that there wasn’t another pub or village until we got to Henley-on-Thames which was our stop for the night. He suggested we purchase some cheese and fruit at the Olde Bell for a lunch on the trail later in the day. Myra decided she had had enough rain and mud for one day and took a cab to Mrs. Bower B & B on Cold Water Close in Henley-on-Thames. As Myra’s cab left, we three headed off along a straight section of river, leaving behind village life with its houses, paved streets, and commerce. Into the Thames River Valley, I lead the three of us upstream to where farm life dominated the river views, with meadows, trees, and the ever-changing waters. Entering a wooded area, I noticed that many trees were drastically cut back to their thick main trunk with new growth sprouting out, looking like an Einstein haircut. I asked Don if he knew what was going on. After all, I had begun to think of him as the man with all the answers, like Mister Information at the library. He hunched his shoulders while raising his hands, palms opened, and gave me a look that said I don’t know. At first I thought he was kidding, but then it dawned on me that he really didn’t know the answer. I guess he saw my disappointment because he quickly gave a patronizing smile, saying he would find an answer. Before I could respond he walked ahead to catch up with Pamela who was feeding bread to a few swans blocking the towpath. Hanging back, I slowly followed, fascinated by the strangely cut trees and Don’s splayed footprints advancing before me. While walking, time flows past, washing new ways of seeing into ones conscientiousness, just as the river itself is never the same, always changing to accommodate nature's currents. I began to wonder if it was just a coincident that so many accomplished artists had lived within sight of the Thames? Or did the river itself with all its wonderful views, water life, and quiet ambience, burst the creative bounds and free the viewer to spells of artistic excellence? Did Shelly, Dickens, Woolfe, Turner, Whistler, and all the others find their inspiration to greatness because they were here? Before I could explore these thoughts I came to a stile with Pamela and Don near by sitting on a log, eating lunch. Climbing over the stile, I sat on the wet log and joined them in consuming the groceries bought at the Olde Belle Inn. I shared my thoughts about the river with them and, before they could respond, two men approached from the direction we were headed. The elder was tall with a double chin and ample proportions. He walked clumsily, but quite steadily, with that bobbing gait of an Indian who never straightens his knees. A short, young fellow with a round face that gathered around a pudgy nose strode alongside him and called a friendly greeting to us as they reached the log we were perched upon. Each of us tossed out a welcoming remark with a warm smile thrown in for extra measure. Following an exchange of a few remarks about the wet English weather, Don, unexpectedly asked them if they knew why the trees, we saw, so cut back, weren’t just chopped down? The young fellow with a round face turned towards the older-one while keeping his eyes on my mud splattered bare legs and said, “Yes, you recall there are quite a few coppices over by Frogmill Farm and about Culham Court near Aston.” “But of course, you are asking about a way of harvesting wood without destroying the tree. That process is known as coppice or coppicing.” He turned about looking each of us in the eye as he spoke and his bottom chin followed his head in a slightly delayed movement vibrating against his chest as if it had a life of its own. “You are bound to see trees that have been coppiced many times over the years. You can tell one by the thickness of the truck and bulges where the cuts have been made.” Don then asked if they knew who the first Prime Minister of England was. The young fellow with the round face shrugged his shoulders while cocking an eyebrow as if to say, ‘Is this some sort of American trick question?’ The tall man with the double chin fixed his eyes on Don, his face became as intent as that of a stork eyeing a fish and said, “That may possibly have been Cornwall; he ran about making bloody changes all over England in his time.” With that they abruptly ambled over the stile leaving behind the smell of damp wool clothes. It was then that Pamela noticed their Wellington boots, and, looking down at her mud caked pants legs, she wished out loud for a pair of her own. The sky was full of heavy clouds; the sun kept to itself out of sight and we continued along the towpath past Aston to Hambleden Lock below Henley Bridge. I liked the lock; we all did. They are picturesque little spots, each with well kept gardens, quaint lockkeeper cottages, and cheerful old lockkeepers, willing to chat with passers by. The lockkeeper here was dressed in the normal way; black wool trousers, white shirt, dark tie, and a black wool chain-knit sweater with epaulets and leather elbow patches. He informed us that it was his responsibility to maintain the garden, determine the weir’s settings, keep the locks in good order, and operate the gates as needed. Pamela asked if we could purchase a sweater like his. “Well, you can’t have mine.” he said, as he hugged his sweater with both arms as if to prevent Pamela from taking it off him. Then dropping his arms to his side he said, “I’ll give you the name of a merchant who will, gladly sell you one.” Then he asked, “Will you be about the first week of July?” When we responded in the negative he told us of the annual Royal Regatta that has been held here since the early 1800’s. “It is a spectacle well worth waiting for,” he assured us. “And it will be performed during the first week of July. It is the epitome of an English summer, when the sun shines, that is. You will see some of the preparations as you reach Henley Bridge.” Leaving the lock we walked a medium oxbow onto a straight run of the river, ending at the Henley Bridge. This was the stretch where the Royal Regatta would be held. As we approached the bridge there were groups of folks erecting grandstands and huge tents. It was somewhat of a surprise to see the amount of work being done for an event scheduled one month off. I felt some excitement being in the area during the preparation for a Royal happening. Don told us to look for the center arch keystones when crossing the bridge. They were sculpted by a local woman, one is a mask of Isis and the other is of Father Thames. I leaned over the railing on the up-river side and looked at the goddess Isis, while Don and Pamela checked out Father Thames facing the other way. Pamela told me that Isis was the sister and wife of Osiris, ruler of the underground. Isis mask was unimaginative, with only its Egyptian horn-like hat to connect her to the ancient gods. However the river god’s beard was decorated with small fish, and bulrushes adorned his hair, he was a ruler to reckon with. “It was here,” Don told us, “that the Romans crossed in pursuit of the British, or so I’ve read,” he concluded with a tone of doubt in his voice. We were scheduled to continue two miles up stream, then taxi back to Henley. I was ready to move on but Pamela and Don wanted to go directly to Mrs. Bower’s and dry out. I was glad they called it an early day and happily joined them on the long walk from the bridge to the B & B, on top of a steep hill. Myra answered the door when we rang and the ‘River Walkers’ were together once again. This is another stretch 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, Myra and I completed the self-guided trek over a 17 day vacation.