so much magic
Berkhamsted is a little commuter town just outside the M25 in Hertfordshire. It might as well have been in Neverland. For one thing, it is just like Gaborone, albeit with white people, and hilly topography instead of desert. But the nightlife is identical - 3 venues; once cinema cum bar, one wetherspoons pub and one club with the world's tiniest dance floor (according to my flatmate and weekend host). We ran into (my hosts') friends and acquaintances everywhere, everyone knew who was shagging whom out of rehab, and hair was straightened and nails polished for a random pub crawl. Very small town, very Gaborone.
The Gatsby - cinema upstairs, double height ceiling bar downstairs. Impressive bit of mixed use, with due attention to the presence of an old tree outside the building - an architect was certainly involved.
Neverland dominated, however, over the enchanted forest we drove to this morning. Bluebells grew at the feet of young evergreen trees over gentle slopes that rose away in all directions. People meandering on sylvan paths seemed to rise out of the purple haze underfoot. I felt like being silent. Nature had excelled herself, and it called for reverence. Sheep in the neighbouring meadow disagreed though, and bleated mournfully for their mothers, or perhaps lamented Boris Johnson's election win, as all self respecting living things should.
The Bluebell Forest in Ashridge; 5 acres of nature and old buildings, protected by English Heritage.
We then had the best Sunday roast ever. I can't describe it. It was the nectar of the gods, but like meat. Our kind hosts agreed to drive us to Chesham station to catch the tube, as national rail was being completely arsy, it being bank holiday weekend - we'd had enough trouble getting out into the country anyhow. Imagine a leafy green hillside with ravines and tree tunnels. Now put a little platform with a big London Underground sign in it. That's Chesham, the end of the end of the Metropolitan line. Every half an hour, a bulky 5 coach train trundles up to it, and carries a straggly few to Chalfont and Latimer (no, i hadn't heard of it either!), through more forest, where they wait about a bit and then hopefully catch a fast line back to civilisation. This was magic thing number two for today, a seriously surreal experience for us two zone 1-2 girls to be on the 'Underground' going through green hills and meadows.
Chesham Station; trees beyond turnstiles
When I got back to Baker Street and my travel companion left me to go have dinner with her parents (hats off to her for even considering it after our Sunday roast lunch), i felt very full of beans. Strange, because only a few hours ago both she and I were lolling around in our hostess's bed, feeling like death. Too much amaretto had clashed with too much vanilla vodka out on the (small) town last night, and the political arguments until 4 a.m. (and more booze) with the grown ups when we came home, had clearly not helped our case. I sent off text messages to various potential party parties and got into the tube once more, to emerge at Euston Square - my feet felt like a WC1 wander somehow. Perhaps it was the disorientation of being in a place so different from my London, even for a day, that made me want to lose myself with confidence in my most familiar back alleys again. A pee at the LSE library, and a long soulful moment with the river from the middle of Waterloo Bridge would have completed the magicalness of my day, but life's bounty had more to offer. All my party-feeler texting had resulted in several game plans, and i picked the one involving a friend coming up to South Bank from South London for a coffee and a wander. (Coffee because I seriously think I may need a stomach pump if I drink more alcohol this year.. or in the next five years). We analysed her love problems, just as ridiculous as anyones', she asked me about her flatmate and i successfully put him away in the annals of unimportance, we felt loads better, and then walked along the riverside going east. The weather was perfect until London bridge when London's particular spitty rain set on us. The peace continued though, and we made it all the way to Tower Bridge and crossed it, under the patchy purple skies.
Home now, with the window open in the face of muggy summer air, I sit and wonder if everyone thinks that life is beautiful.
Neverland dominated, however, over the enchanted forest we drove to this morning. Bluebells grew at the feet of young evergreen trees over gentle slopes that rose away in all directions. People meandering on sylvan paths seemed to rise out of the purple haze underfoot. I felt like being silent. Nature had excelled herself, and it called for reverence. Sheep in the neighbouring meadow disagreed though, and bleated mournfully for their mothers, or perhaps lamented Boris Johnson's election win, as all self respecting living things should.
The Bluebell Forest in Ashridge; 5 acres of nature and old buildings, protected by English Heritage.
We then had the best Sunday roast ever. I can't describe it. It was the nectar of the gods, but like meat. Our kind hosts agreed to drive us to Chesham station to catch the tube, as national rail was being completely arsy, it being bank holiday weekend - we'd had enough trouble getting out into the country anyhow. Imagine a leafy green hillside with ravines and tree tunnels. Now put a little platform with a big London Underground sign in it. That's Chesham, the end of the end of the Metropolitan line. Every half an hour, a bulky 5 coach train trundles up to it, and carries a straggly few to Chalfont and Latimer (no, i hadn't heard of it either!), through more forest, where they wait about a bit and then hopefully catch a fast line back to civilisation. This was magic thing number two for today, a seriously surreal experience for us two zone 1-2 girls to be on the 'Underground' going through green hills and meadows.
Chesham Station; trees beyond turnstiles
When I got back to Baker Street and my travel companion left me to go have dinner with her parents (hats off to her for even considering it after our Sunday roast lunch), i felt very full of beans. Strange, because only a few hours ago both she and I were lolling around in our hostess's bed, feeling like death. Too much amaretto had clashed with too much vanilla vodka out on the (small) town last night, and the political arguments until 4 a.m. (and more booze) with the grown ups when we came home, had clearly not helped our case. I sent off text messages to various potential party parties and got into the tube once more, to emerge at Euston Square - my feet felt like a WC1 wander somehow. Perhaps it was the disorientation of being in a place so different from my London, even for a day, that made me want to lose myself with confidence in my most familiar back alleys again. A pee at the LSE library, and a long soulful moment with the river from the middle of Waterloo Bridge would have completed the magicalness of my day, but life's bounty had more to offer. All my party-feeler texting had resulted in several game plans, and i picked the one involving a friend coming up to South Bank from South London for a coffee and a wander. (Coffee because I seriously think I may need a stomach pump if I drink more alcohol this year.. or in the next five years). We analysed her love problems, just as ridiculous as anyones', she asked me about her flatmate and i successfully put him away in the annals of unimportance, we felt loads better, and then walked along the riverside going east. The weather was perfect until London bridge when London's particular spitty rain set on us. The peace continued though, and we made it all the way to Tower Bridge and crossed it, under the patchy purple skies.
Home now, with the window open in the face of muggy summer air, I sit and wonder if everyone thinks that life is beautiful.
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