21October1995

London: 21st October 1995
My dear folks,

There are in Britain in any given year half a dozen days of such perfection as the Venus de Milo or a Botticelli virgin. They are all spring or autumn days which dawn crisp, still & clear. The light is soft, the sun warm & welcome, yet forgiving enough to spare those like me the necessity of covering up. Today was such a day, delicate & gift-wrapped, an offering from the gods. If you head for the countryside - as Londoners do in droves - you eventually leave the hum of the motorway for the hush of the meadows. Stolid cows & sheep chew the cud, oblivious to the traffic. The dew glistens in the morning grass. Under the trees at Waterperry Gardens - Jones’s favourite destination - one takes coffee & cake with sparrows anxious for their share of good things. On such special days, one may be forgiven for believing the world is at peace with itself.

Jones never needs an excuse to go to Waterperry but today was Apple Day, & she had booked the outing well ahead - for the first of several days I have off after a heavy spell at the oars. There were apple displays, apple lectures, apple pies, apple scones, apple tarts, apple flans and just apples. English apples are under enormous pressure from a flood of imports and apple orchards have shrunk alarmingly in recent years. So I guess this was part of an effort to promote ye goode olde English apple.

As usual, we went for a walk across the meadows and through the picture-book village of Waterstock. There is a house there, called The Old Post Office, where a brook runs through a garden of breathtaking perfection. We stop each time we pass the spot and marvel at what the owners have achieved. Today they were hard at work & we took the opportunity to compliment them. They were pleased & invited us in to see more. Eden has nothing on it. The stone house, dating back at least a century, is entwined with autumn-hued creepers & vines. Tall trees peer down on the garden whose paths wind around 3 levels of lawns, rockeries & private nooks. It is, as they confided, the product of a 47 year labour of love. They had no idea how much pleasure it brought passers by.

We generally turn back at the end of the village. This time, we continued on in the hope of drawing a circle & arriving back at Waterperry. In theory, the bridle paths & rights of way, whose access points are clearly marked, should enable one to hike across the countryside from one end of the land to the other. In practice, they generally give on to large anonymous fields where moon-faced heifers (we hope they’re heifers) stare curiously at intruders. Unless you know the route, you’re soon sunk.

We proceeded slowly, now along the road, now across the fields, stopping frequently to ask directions. Jones paused every few minutes to scoop a handful of blackberries off a bramble. They were ripening in abundance in every hedgerow. Jones can’t resist nature’s bounty. An hour passed; two hours. We started to wonder. The breakthrough came when an old fellow, out with his dogs, guided us across a series of fields & then pointed us in the direction of Waterperry. The hamlet loomed up 15 minutes later, a 3-hour round trip. Very satisfying! We are resolved to do it again soon - before we forget the route.

This evening Jones prepared dinner for our guests, a former colleague, Harry - now in retirement in the US - and his wife. Jones called it a peasant dinner. I can tell you only that the peasants never had it so good. Afterwards, I sat down to complete this page - grateful for my blessings and wishing I could share them with you. Much love to you, Mum, and to you, Calgarians, tonight. Our thoughts are with you.