Our First Royalist Awareness of reality greeted the start of a new day; the sun shone, the sky was blue, shadows returned to the surface. This was another stage in our journey, for after breakfast; a taxi came to deliver the ‘River Walkers’ to a bridge in Sonning where we began a full measure of new miles. Here the towpath hugged the river for a mile or so and then we took a dirt path up the middle of a meadow, and for a little while moved slowly uphill. As we reached the crest, a fine view opened before us. The meadow swept down into the shallow river valley, in the pit of which sat an imposing stone chateau. The sun was rising behind it, and even from this distance, I could see the building was exuding faded charm, evoking the slow decline of some dreamy, land-owning family. Upon seeing this, Myra remarked, I feel as though I’m on a Lewis and Clark expedition, discovering new lands at every turn.” Before long we could see the railway arching in from the south to cut its way across the industrial city of Reading, directly in front of us. As our path rounded King’s Meadow, we witnessed the city sprawl across the horizon like a dense fog, choking off a field of wild flowers. Not far from the footpath, we could view the prison where Oscar Wilde was confined because of his life style. Near there was the Abbey School where Jane Austin studied in 1785. Once again, the river linked us to by gone days. We were surprised to find well-kept chalets, tidy gardens, and inviting parks along the riverbanks. The river was crowded with water crafts and swans. The towpath hosted foot traffic in large numbers, going in both directions. The sound of two vehicles tooting their horns, as if quarreling, assaulted us as we approached the western end of Reading. Don and Pamela reacted as if it were their awaited signal and announced that they would move ahead and meet us again at half-past four, by the bridge in Goring. We quickly agreed having the same thought. This was our first sunny day so why not join the world in celebrating spring by romantically wandering about, hand in hand. So we parted for the first time; each to explore at own pace, cater to our own whims. Myra and I reconnoitered a few off-river streets but quickly returned to the beauty of the waterfront, rejoining the towpath by the Three Men in a Boat Pub. Large flocks of swans crowded the water surface as water spiders skated and dragonflies hovered about. We stopped in the pub for a half-pint. Myra tried to learn if this pub had any connection to Jerome Jerome’s characters. First she perused the book to check for any reference to Reading. Failing that, we asked a longhaired waiter if he knew of any connection, and all we got from him was a blank stare. Somehow, without that connection the half-pint lost its flavor, going flat before we finished a fraction of the glass. I checked our river map for what lay ahead, and saw several diversions that appeared to lack any romantic interest. I suggested to Myra that we take a cab to Whitchurch and walk on to Goreing. With a bit of pretended reluctance she agreed. The taxi driver wore a tuxedo with white shirt, black tie, black cap, and patent leather shoes. Upon questioning, he told us that the local hotels only used taxis that hired well-dressed drivers; their clientele expected it. Myra asked him what he thought about England maintaining a Royal family. “Well,” he began, “I’m a Royalist and can’t understand those that wish to abolish the crown.” He kept turning in his seat and finally pulled the cab over so he could give us his full attention. “For my part they distinguish England, gaving us a rich, long, ancestry. Without Royalty I believe England would sink to a third rate nation.” This was stated in a serious tone and he stared at us as if to say. 'There can be no other way to preserve the British way of life'. “And what might you think of the way Princess Di was treated?” He took off his cap, scratched his head with a finger and replaced the hat saying, “With all due respect to you Americans, I think she was a bit of a spoiled brat. Too young, I say, to understand her role and the need for a proper royal image.” With that said he turned and continued the drive through Pangbourne and left us at the Whitchurch Bridge. This cast iron white-balustrade bridge still requires cars to pay a three-penny toll but foot traffic passes for free. We walked across the bridge and stopped at the Ferryboat Inn for a ploughmans’ lunch of three different cheeses, apple, pear, and crusty bread served on an oversized white plate and a half-pint. The Bosc pear; elegant neck, sweet and nutty, slightly fibrous, crisp breaking texture, went best with the soft Stilton cheese, spread liberally on chunks of newly baked bread. Slices of Cox apple with their solidly acid flavor, balanced by sweetness, tasted spicy eaten with a wedge of cheddar. The waitperson told us that cheddar is probably the most widespread cheese in the world, and takes its name from the village of Cheddar, by Cheddar Gorge in the English County of Somerset. With that bit of information I remarked to Myra, ‘See we can learn about a place without Don.’ She just smiled and said nothing. The third cheese was greenish-brown with large curds molded into a ball. I regret that I smudged the name in my notes and cannot pass it on to you, but I will say it had a flowery aroma, with a strong, rich flavor and odd texture. One of the wonders of walking is the intensified pleasure one gets from the simplest of meals and this was no exception. Even the presentation of various colored, textured foods on the oversized white dish set upon a bare, well-worn wood table reminded me of an impressionist painting, all adding to the romantic delight of the experience. Our remaining four miles to Goring encompassed the longest diversion away from the river of the entire walk. It undulated up steep hills, then down into valleys and back up past masses of silver bells, small woods, and meadows, bursting with blooms of numerous shades and colors. These miles went slowly and were full of heavy breathing, long stops and satisfying views. In spite of the natural obstacles of these few miles, we arrived at the Goring Bridge by four o’clock, one half-hour earlier than scheduled. Don and Pamela turned up a short time later, saying that they dawdled too long and had to take the train to get here on time. A taxi delivered us to the White House in Moulsford where we were greeted by Mrs. Watsham, our hostess. Our rooms were in a two-room cottage with bath and adjoining private patio. The walls were papered with images of delicate bird figures; Chenille spreads covered the beds, windows opened onto gardens bursting in colorful sweet fragrance, and our dinning room connected to the cottage. Then the little things came into focus as we settled in; a tray of juices, small tapestries on the wall, slippers, a clock radio, all the touches that makes one feel cared for. The place even had a friendly black cat that accepted our presence on the property. When our bags arrived, Pamela set-up a mini bar on the patio with gin and tonic, a few chips, and one apple sliced, and announced that her pub was opened. Mrs. Watsham came by and offered us her washer and dryer, a luxury rarely found on a walk. We stripped, put on clean loose clothes and settled in as the machines did our wash. Then we were further surprised when our hostess asked what we planned for dinner and quickly suggested we order some Chinese food from a local take-out and that she would drive down to pick the order up. Pamela massaged Myra’s feet while I sat about sipping the gin. Don went with Mrs. Watsham to bring back our evenings meal. Life seemed perfect. Life was perfect. 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.