Three Men On Tour: 19

After lunch, we headed over to explore the weavers’ cottages. Harry and I were still full of adrenaline from our ‘editorial discussion’ and George was still trying to work out who had proposed to who and if he had time to get his suit dry cleaned before the wedding, so conversation was muted on the way over. When we arrived, I wasn’t sure if I was disappointed or not. The street looked ordinary, although the cottages were all made of Cotswold stone and pretty as a chocolate box. At the end of the day, though, it was just a street. I wasn’t sure I would have defined it as a tourist attraction.

“We could have eaten here,“ commented George, pointing at the pub that graced the end of the road. Harry and I grunted our assent.

“Well, come on then,“ said Harry. “Let’s get a closer look.“

“At what?“ I asked grumpily. “It’s a load of houses.“

“It’s historical,“ replied Harry. “Don’t you want to be educated?“

Without waiting for a response, he walked up to one of the cottages and began peering in at one of the windows.

“Look,“ he called. “They’ve even done it up inside to show what a traditional weaver’s home would have been like.“

I began to get a hollow sensation in my stomach.

“I wonder if you can get in,“ said Harry trying the front door. It rattled slightly but didn’t open. “Maybe you have to go round the back,“ he mused.

Meanwhile, George had wondered up to the window and was also peering in. “Oh,“ he commented. “It’s not very historically accurate, is it?“

“What do you mean?“ called Harry from where he was trying to reach over and unbolt the latch on the gate to the rear passage, “Clothes drying by the fire. Half eaten Cornish pasty on an ancient plate. A wicker basket full of roughly chopped logs. It’s straight out of the History Channel.“

“I’m not sure about the Radio Times though,“ noted George, still peering short-sightedly through the window, “and the pasty comes from Ginsters.“

“Oy!“ Harry’s hand froze half arched over the gate, the bolt beneath his fingers.

“Oy. What do you think you’re doing?“

From the pub at the far end of the street a figure had emerged. He was heavy set, with a florid complexion and his bulk was added to by the thick cable-knit sweater he was wearing. He didn’t seem happy to see us.

“What are you doing?“ the fellow repeated, and he began to stumble towards us in lumbering strides that became more rapid with every step. “That’s my house.“

I looked at George who looked at Harry who looked at me.

“Leg it,“ yelled Harry. Without worrying about leaving the fallen behind, each one of us took to our heels and began tearing down the street. I took an early lead, although Harry was gaining on me fast. Behind him, George gallantly struggled to keep up, making yip yip noises and clutching his glasses to his face with one hand, while behind him the angry bull-like bellows echoed down the road before beginning to subside. We ran for several streets before we were certain that pursuit had been evaded. As soon as we were sure we were safe, the adrenaline faded and we sank to our knees as our lungs caught fire and our legs turned to jelly. Harry was the first to recover.

“Right,“ he said, hopping to his feet brightly. “What shall we do now?“