George Orwell Unexpectedly, breakfast was an elaborate affair. The table was set with blue and white china, silver utensils, including a fish knife; several home made jams, all arranged on a white-on-white linen cloth. That was an elegant breakfast and marked the White House in Moulsford as one of-a-kind into our memory of walking highlights. To avoid hiking along the main road it had been arranged to take a taxi to Wallingford and proceed from there to Abingdon for the evening stop. A Dickens character picked us up in her BMW taxi for the seven-mile drive to Shillingford Bridge. Her fading yellow hair was stylishly set with bangs and cut short below her ears curling up onto her jaw. Small diamond earrings glittered as she moved her head to glance back at us. Pale red lipstick adorned her full but small mouth. Long lashes, darkened with mascara, framed her see-through green eyes. She wore an classy tailored black jacket with matching skirt, white blouse and black cravat. As we drove she proudly told of her rise from rags to riches. Raised in an orphanage, she educated herself for a life of self-employment. Today she owns three BMW cabs, has several income properties, volunteers at three different charities and employs only female drivers. She stopped to show us a very modern house built in Moulsford’s traditional British village. Our White House hostess spoke of this building as one that didn’t fit, but it was a beautiful example of colorful Egyptian Modern architecture; very different I thought and yet fitting. Ms. Murdock, our driver, was so intent on telling her story that she passed our Wallingford drop point and instead left us on the other side of the town by the extremely handsome, triple-arched Shillingford Bridge. Before saying our farewells, I asked Ms. Murdock who the first Prime Minister of England was. With a short wave of her hand, as if to say “go on with ya” she said “don’t bother my head about such things. I let the Queen take care of politics.” We all laughed and waved good bye, heading off under a partly cloudy sky with small patches of blue overhead. Our path led through flooded fields, with diversions onto farms, tiny villages with graceful thatched roofs and back to the towpath. Something new began appearing along the river World War II pillboxes. Low concrete one-room structures with small rectangular openings to see out of and to shoot through, existed here and further along the river. Pamela hid in some waiting for the rest of us to pass so that she could jump out and shout ‘you’re dead’ when we least expected it. Later in the walk we met a man who insisted that the British should make these pillboxes a national monument or at least to protect them is some manner. One of our detours brought us to a pasture that had a sign posted, ‘Beware of Bull and avoid cows with calves’. None of the bulls we past bothered with us, nor did the cows with calves but we were cautious and stayed near a fence or wall we could hop over just in case. Past the Roman town of Dorchester, Little Wittenham Wood, Clifton Hampton and six miles into the day’s walk, we came upon The Barley Mow Chef and Brewer where we stopped for lunch. In Jerome’s Three Men in a Boat The Barley Mow is described as ‘the quaintest, most old-world inn up river’. Built in 1352 it retains a story book look about it with a perfectly thatched roof that curves like a swan’s wings spread for flight. The thatch is held in place by what looks like chicken wire closely packed onto the thatch making it all but invisible. Myra thought that the wire held the thatch from blowing away in a strong wind or prevented birds from plucking parts for their nests. It sounded so reasonable that I agreed and Don nodded in the affirmative while Pamela went inside to get a menu. It was here that I found the sign posted at the entrance that read; Open Every Day, Eight Days a Week. Pamela led us into the oldest part of the building where low ceilings forced Don and me to bend over in order to reach our table without cracking our skulls on the exposed ceiling beams. I enjoy ordering regional foods even though I don’t always finish eating them. I suppose it is my desire to be local in as many respects as possible that drives me to it. But, whatever the reason, I now ordered steak and kidney pie, five-bean chile, and sticky toffee pudding for desert. The others played it safe with fish and chips, mushy peas, and a pint of dark ale. I like tastes that know their own mind and ate every morsel, wiping my plate spotless. The others admired my courage but refused to taste any of it. During lunch Don filled us in on the Wittenham Clumps that we had passed a short distance down river, when we walked separated by our own thoughts. He said in a serious tone of voice, “Little Whittenham Church has a 15th-century tower, was once a daughter church of Abingdon Abbey. Opposite it, a path that we walked leads to Wittenham Clumps, which the locals call ‘Mother Daunch’s Buttocks’ after Oliver Cromwell’s aunt who lived at the Manor house next to the church. The bridge to the hamlet is the scene of the annual World Pooh Stick’s Championships, which has been held at noon on the first Sunday in January since 1984.” Myra thought that Don’s information helped her to appreciate the British sense of value. “After all,” she said, “Winnie the Pooh is a major world character and Buttocks are part of everyone’s essence.” Pamela whole heartily agreed saying, “I thought I recognized Mother Daunch’s Buttocks when we went up that trail.” Well fed and rested, we returned to the river with its slowly narrowing channel. Affably, we followed the towpath through water logged fields of grass, past more pill boxes, farms, swans, ducks and lonely thatched houses, until we entered Sutton Courtney, a village especially historic and picturesque. A group of people was standing on the sidewalk near the wall of a churchyard. The church was Norman with ornamental arcs and borders of red pebbles worked into the masonry. Don led us into the dormitory of the dead, past worn grave markers towards the rear of the church, stopping by one stone that read, ‘Here Lies Eric Arthur Blair’, followed by his birth and death dates. He stood there with one hand on the headstone and waited for some recognition on our part of the name, but the name meant little to any of us. Finally, I asked Don to reveal the secret he obviously harbored about this particular gravesite. He stretched himself to his full height of over six-foot three-inches, directed his rich-penetrating, blue eyes into mine, drew in his breath, and with an actors voice, projected a memorized comment as follows: “We are standing by the last resting-place of an English novelist, essayist, and critic. He was born in India, where his dad served as a bureaucrat. He wrote ‘Down and Out in Paris and London ’, ‘The Road to Wigan Pier ’, ‘Animal Farm and ‘1984’. Needless to say his pen name was George Orwell.” With that he bowed and we applauded. Don turned and walked slowly away from us with a curiously long, tiptoeing stride of someone greatly satisfied with his lot in life. The afternoon sun was brawny, coloring the river with silver sparkles of light looking as though a field of diamonds was let loose upon the water. A couple of miles further, we’d reach Abingdon, our evening stop. At one wet stile crossing I constructed a small wooden bridge to avoid swimming a massive puddle covering the path. So much water was on the walkway that eight yellow-breasted ducklings swam by in a tight line behind mother duck. On a dry section of the towpath a field mouse crossed practically under my foot, gave me a fast look, as if to say this was his trail. Circling Iron Hill we approached Abingdon through a lovely green riverside park, crossed the bridge and entered 7th century Abingdon, the oldest continuously inhabited town in Britain. Our charming B & B was located directly on the river, with lovely, well-arranged gardens planted on multi-levels down to the river wall. 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, and Myra and I completed the self-guided trek over a 17 day vacation.