Cotswolds

Rick Steves, the popular American travel writer, describes The Cotswolds as "the inventors of quaint", so I suppose I knew what I was getting into when I got into Maurice and Maggie's Volvo Estate late this morning. After my second sleep in a real bed, my second breakfast in a real kitchen, my second bath in a real bath, I woke up this morning with the intention of taking on these adorable English villages with vim and vigor. Unfortunately, when I awoke, many of my cold symptoms had seemed to return for an encore appearance in my nose and throat. Thoroughly annoyed I promptly ate several oranges and headed out for the infamous Atkinson Cotswolds tour. I am not sure if it was my determination or the sheer sweetness of the English cottages with their stone walls and exposed heritage beams and twinkling white lights, but I forgot all about my stupid cold. At least for awhile.

I had forgotten about England in my excitment of Italy, France, Scotland and Ireland...but this country is lovely. It is the feminine extreme of the masculine Scotland and Ireland. Gentle and soft and always appropriate. In every shop I feel like a bull amongst china and am so much more aware of my aggresive, North American style. Being here also makes me miss my Jax. But of course it would...I am staying in his house, looking at his childhood pictures and hanging out with his family. Every few minutes I come across something that convinces me that we are either desperately different from each other OR so much alike that it is inconsequential that we were raised in different continents. I find that this is a wonderful way to end the trip, especially for me. The stress of having to wake up and solve a million different obstacles just to function is gone. I am even typing this on Maurice's PowerBook and we all know just how much I have missed being around my beloved Mac.

Yesterday was filled with seeing Gloucester and Cheltenham and in the evening eating at this traditional English pub. Leanne got fish and chips and was served this jumbo cod that was the size of an actual fish caught straight out of the lake. There was a house outside of the pub made entirely of thatch and shrubbery and the sound of a babbling brook and the smell of wood smoke in the air and the night sky was filled with a million stars. If you shut your eyes and tried to imagine the quintessential English countryside picture, you would not get a tableau near as perfect as last night. Or today. I overuse the word, I know, but it is all so LOVELY.

Tomorrow I spend more time with the extended Atkinson clan including baby Lily. Currently, Leanne is downstairs cooking dinner for us all - her famous risotto - as I hide away in the room I feel most comfortable, the computer room. I am ready ready ready to come home. My script has been emailed, Denise has joined Andre at 206 and my tap shoes are calling me.

Oh, and the next time I return for a full-on European trip, I intend to be abundantly wealthy.