Three Men On Tour: 17

Burford, Google tells me, is a “picturesque market town, featuring a row of weavers’ cottages, and a trout farm“. George had already expressed an interest in the trout farm. Harry and I had not. Instead we would be heading to the local pub for lunch, and then trotting unsteadily over to the weavers’ cottages, to explore history, take in a bit of local culture and hopefully walk off our lunchtime excesses.

Google had also told me that the journey would take about an hour, the plan being to get as far out as possible early on, then work our way back to Bristol for 5 o’clock, allowing us plenty of time to check in before dinner. In fact, we arrived at Burford in 59 minutes, suggesting that Google was spookily aware of both the tractor we encountered part way, and Harry’s perilous driving speed in order to “make up time“ once we got past it. When we pulled into the village, the mid-morning sun had turned vibrant through the rear window, and I lay recumbent in the heat. Stone walled and thatched cottages drifted past the window as Harry crept through the village looking for a parking space. A tree by a church clearly met his stringent criteria, and the car swung into its leafy shade. Harry and George disembarked first, started walking, then remembering as one, turned to unearth me from my tomb of luggage. Emerging into blinking sunlight I got my first proper look at Burford. The church we had parked beside was almost the platonic ideal of a church: stone walls, stained glass, as we watched a bell began to toll sonorously in the single spire. Blossom from our shady tree lay delicately around our feet and the smell of both that, and garden thyme poking over the church wall made London seemed very far away. I breathed deeply and felt my troubles melting away. “It’ll do,“ I said, “It’ll do.“

A useful sign led us down an overgrown path through the dappled churchyard and we were in high spirits as we entered the village proper.

“Where to first?“ asked Harry with a cheery grin. From the tolling of the church bell we knew it was around 11am. Probably too early for lunch, although the first smells of roasted meat and potatoes were beginning to tickle at our taste buds.

“We could always visit the trout farm,“ suggested George hopefully. Harry and I shared a glance.

“We should probably take in some of the village first,“ I said carefully. “After all, I am supposed to be researching.“

“Yes,“ said Harry, “and we should work out where the weavers’ cottages are. Definitely top of my agenda. For a start, I’m hoping to work out what a weaver’s cottage actually is.“

“And then I supposed we should probably head to the pub,“ I added. “After we’ve taken in a few of the sights.“

“Yes,“ said Harry. “Culture first, drinking later. Very important that.“

“Well, of course,“ said George, looking slightly confused as to why we had even brought it up. “I mean, it’s far too early to start drinking.“