English Ghost Oxford was a fun stop; one I regretted leaving, but the pull of the river’s source drew us back to the towpath and on to a 16th century, Rectory Farm in Northmoor for our evenings destination. Walking with my umbrella shielding me from a drizzling, overcast sky, I followed the river through pastures with black cows, off-white sheep, and crowds of swans. Pamela, seeing the swans, removed feathers from her daypack and ran into flock, waving her hands full of white feathers as if to signal the birds, “I’m one of you.” When the remainder of the River Walkers went past the swans they were rejected with hissing and spitting in a threatening way. At the Godstow Lock, Don led us on a short diversion to the ruins of a huge Abbey and nunnery. There he gathered us around him and told of a romantic legend connected to this twelfth century structure. Don closed his umbrella, opened a gray pocketbook, and read. “The nunnery was a holy place and a school for high-born young ladies. Henry II met Rosamund de Clifford here and took her as his mistress. Legend has it that Queen Eleanor, learning of this liaison, copied the Greek tale of Theseus and the Minotour. She tied a silken thread to Rosamund’s dress, and as Rosamund walked to her secret labyrinth to meet the king, the thread unwound showing Queen Eleanor the way. The Queen offered Rosamund death by dagger or poison. Rosamund chose poison.” As if to top that tale, Pamela said, “See that Trout Inn on the opposite side of the river? Well that was the Abby’s hospice back in the days of the nunnery, and it’s where Rosamund died.” The rain stopped and the air turned cold as we entered Kings Lock, the rivers most northerly point. A well-dressed lockkeeper, with a Groucho Marks mustache and a smile that exposed a missing incisor, greeted us with a wave of his hand and a cheery “Hi mates.” He offered to snap our picture as we posed closing the Lock’s gate. He said, “This is one of the last lock’s to operate by hand. See, I swing this beam to close one half the gates, and then use this long hooked pole to pull the other half shut.” After shooting a few more photos, we continued on past Wytham Great Wood, stopping by Pinkhill Lock for a short break before crossing the river and heading inland towards Northmore. While exploring the lock with my eyes, I said, “I wonder if we got the answer to Don’s question about England’s first PM? So far we’ve been told; Disraeli, Palmer, Pit the Elder, Pit the Younger, and Cromwell. Which, if any, do you think it is? “Disraeli.” Pamela said. “I doubt if it was Cromwell.” Don said. “I don’t think it was any of them.” Myra firmly declared. “Maybe we will find the right answer at the Rectory Farm. It has been in operation over five hundred years and someone should remember who the first Prime Minister was.” I cleverly said. The sounds changed as we left the river; from swan wings slapping water, and water spilling over weirs, and duck plops onto water, and mud sucking on boots, to; foot steps on gravel, and coins clunking in a pants pocket, and pants legs rubbing, and silence of the trees, and thoughts of sleeping at an ancient farm. In less than two miles we entered the remote village of Northmore, past a Red Lion Pub, a few houses, a church, and Rectory Farm. We walked through the thirteenth century churchyard, through a throng of gravestones. Suddenly, from one grave marked by a man-high worn stone, a ghost flew up into my face and screamed “Boo”. I screamed “Ahhh, Ahhh, Ahhh,” while running back to the street and was twenty yards from the ghost-grave when Pamela’s face registered as the spirit possessed. She achieved one of her life’s ambitions: frightening the life out me. After calming down, with help from Myra, I continued through the burial grounds toward a gateway entrance to Rectory Farms. Before leaving the graveyard, Pamela stretched her body onto a grave mound, folded her arms across her chest and whispered, “Don, take my picture.” The Rectory Farm’s main stone-manor house contains two guests’ rooms and we occupied both of them. Theh rooms were on the second floor of this huge, U-shaped, three-story mansion. The farmer raised sheep, cows, vegetables, and grains. It was the most unusual and oldest Inn of our walk. Breakfasts were plentiful with a wide selection of dishes including, eggs, cereals,baked tomato’s, fish, fruits, meat, juices, and history of the farm. The owner, Robert, is the descendant of the original farm founders as evidenced by many grave markers in the old churchyard bearing his family name. 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, my wife Myra and I completed the self-guided trek over a 17 day vacation.