First Prime Minister of England Next morning we slept late, ate breakfast, and taxied to Radcot Bridge to start an easy walk to the New Inn at Lechlade; our last stop along the Thames River. Our cab driver was anxious to express his opinion about life in Britain and I asked him, “Who was the first Prime Minister of England?” “Let me see now.” I could see his brain grind its gears until a light went on in his memory, “Robert Campbell I believe, in the late seventeen hundred’s or early eighteen hundred’s.” “That’s a new one.” Pamela said as she went on to explain all the different responses we had heard to date. “Yes.” Agreed Don, and it may be the correct one. Stopping at the Radcot Bridge, I thanked him for the lift as we left the cab, starting the final leg of our Thames River adventure. We were hunters and gatherers of English culture, history and art; walking the river of time to capture past images of whom-ever once touched the path, left their mark, and moved on. Crossing the bridge I followed a faint track of light-green grass around a sharp oxbow. Then, clambering over a stile by a pillbox, I could see the chimneys of William Morris’s Kelmscot Manor. After a double river bend the grass towpath became a narrow dirt track which led us into Kelmscot Village and directly in front of Morris’s stone manor house. The entire village was encased in a vile odor of rotting cheese; perhaps Roquefort, or possibly a pungent fertilizer was the source of that repulsive aroma. Never-the-less, we took our time and listened to Don’s presentation as he said, “William Morris lived here from1871 until his death in 1896 at Hammersmith, which we passed earlier on our first walk day. Morris once described this house as ‘heaven on earth’, and walked the riverbank collecting reeds, grasses and flowers for dyes and textile patterns. His utopian story, News from Nowhere, ends with travelers arriving at Kelmscot. Morris is buried in the churchyard of the local Norman Church which he helped preserve rather than restore.” Don delivered the Morris information as I imagined Lincoln delivered the Gettysburg address; we were awed by his eloquence. He concluded by suggesting we walk the grounds around the manor, and then checkout the village before returning to the river. The foul aroma propelled us at a quickened pace through the village of stone houses, picturesque pub and winding lanes, back to the twisting river track. Our olfactory nerve endings began functioning normally once we reached Eaton Footbridge, half-mile beyond the village limits. On past Buscot Lock, our band of four treaded the faint track through fields of thick grass, on towards Lechlade. Don pointed out a stone Mansion in Buscot Park as containing a Rembrandt painting, although he didn’t know its name. Lechlade church steeple was visible from the towpath and acted as a magnet, drawing us closer and closer to our destination. I slowed my pace to postpone ending the walk. It was too soon to leave the track connecting me to bygone times where everything is hidden and nothing is concealed. St. John’s Lock is the last lock on Thames River, and is home to Old Father Thames statue, which once marked the river source. Don located a map he had overlooked and spent some time studying it. Myra and Pamela sat at the foot of Father Thames sunbathing while verbalizing a list of the different foods they had experienced these past two weeks. And I rummaged my own memories of towpath moments, caressing them like smooth stones deep in a pocket; waterfowl, locks, Oxford, royalty, artists, Dodgson, Prime Minister, Runnymead, graveyards, gardens, umbrella, and more. I thought of all my towpath images over and over like a mantra. Three meandering oxbows further up river we stepped across the single-arched Lechlade Bridge, and walked up to the two-hundred-seventy-five year old New Inn. I thought the name was an oxymoron until Myra reminded me that in England, with its catalog of century old structures, an oxymoron designation wouldn’t work. Next morning we walked the last navigable river section to Inglesham, the site of a lost village, where only a 13th century church and a farm remained. Beyond this village the river twiddled and trickled up to its ultimate, official beginning in a marsh field, marked by a concrete post, one we never visited but could easily imagine. We reluctantly returned to the New Inn for lunch in their pub, before taking the train back to Heathrow Airport. Each of us nursed a mug of ale while waiting for our food. And spoke about who actually was the first Prime Minister of England. Two men standing at the bar near-by joined the conversation, and all the familiar towpath names were repeated as proposed first Prime Ministers. One fellow with his hair parted down the center suggested a PM pool, like a soccer bet. His buddy added that we could wager pints of ale to the winner. Two couples from the adjoining table asked if they could be part of the bet. We agreed although none of us was certain how the winner would handle all the ale. Someone asked, “How we were going to determine the correct response?” At that moment the bartender spoke authoritatively, “I will.” He was pretty in the face, except for his nose; surpassingly flat like a prizefighter’s. “Each of you marks your answer on this paper with your own name next to it and I will show you who the first PM was.” He lifted a worn, thick volume from under the bar, turned to a tattered page in the back of the book and said, “See here? That’s a list of all our Prime Ministers.” The blank sheet of paper passed around the room and slowly became filled with possible Prime Minister names; Pit the Elder, Pit the Younger, Disraeli, Palmer, Cromwell, Hawker, Pope, Wren, and Myra wrote NONE NAMED HERE. There were fourteen people who entered the pool with many repeating names selected by others. “Okay,” said the fellow with his hair parted in the middle. “We’re ready.” “No, not yet,” shouted a tall lady wearing a straw hat with live red and blue flowers on top. "I wish to place a side bet of two pounds sterling, that Pope is our man.” “I’ll take that,” called a stout, bald-headed fellow, and cover any others who wish to place a wager.” A festive mood descended over the pub with all eyes turned on the handsome bartender. He was caught up in the party spirit and said, “First pint is on the house. We shall toast the winner with this one.” After distributing the drinks he raises his well worn book and with the air of a Quiz Show host said, “And the first Prime Minister was, Robert Walpole in 1721.” Cheers rang across the pub everyone was ready to toast a winner although there was none. Then Pamela shouted, “Here’s to Myra, she had the best answer.” All joined in chanting Myra, Myra, Myra, she’s the best.” We had the definitive answer, the one that eluded us during the past weeks. I felt that this walk had changed me. I was different. I tried to picture my own face through the mask of travel just completed, but I could not see the difference; yet I was certain there was a transformation. Once again I felt like a hunter and gatherer, on a voyage of self-discovery. I found myself looking at Don, at Pamela, at Myra, searching to glimpse my new image through their eyes. This is the last stretch of a 150 mile walk along the Thames River starting in West London and ending at the river’s source. My wife Myra, our friends, Don and Pamela, and I completed the self-guided trek over a 17 day vacation.