7. Settling in; New Friends

During our first few weeks, we count almost twenty children on Westfields.  We could not be happier with the location of our new home.  We're not even far from the local doctor, as we discover when Thomas comes down with a sore throat.  (We are covered by the National Health Service and are sent our cards.)  The days' activities are numerous and varied.  Among other things, Jeffrey concludes the purchase, for twenty pounds, of a bike (something we did not bring over) from Peter, a friend of Chris'.  In hindsight Peter (I think because we are Americans and/or we live in Westfields House) thinks he can get a better price and attempts to renegotiate the deal.  Much to Jeffrey's dismay, I make him give the bike back in return for his money.

Brian calls shortly after we arrive to tell us our money is in the bank.  For the first time since we left Las Vegas, we realize we can afford the year away, though we do not budget for the year -- a failing that will come back to haunt us in the spring of 1992.

We settle in and explore Saffron Walden and the surrounding countryside.  We register with the police and, as requested, give them our passports.  We go to Cambridge and meet Mr. Harvey, the estate agent, who provides us with extra keys and necessary information.  Antique, used furniture and furniture reproduction stores are everywhere and we visit a few, buying a few extra pieces of bedroom furniture and a desk for Robert at TEXAS, a DIY (do-it-yourself) store, one of the few stores open on Sunday.  The other thing we buy at TEXAS is a barbecue.  Our first few weeks we eat our Sunday lunch (between noon and two) at nearby pub restaurants.  The food is good, but nothing great, yet it takes away the pressure of having to plan ahead and grocery shop on Saturday for Sunday and Monday meals.  On discovering Waitrose, however, grocery shopping becomes less of a burden and we soon become accustomed to the Sunday closing. 

We register at the small Catholic church in town, Our Lady of Compassion, and enroll Jeffrey in the first communion class.  Almost immediately we hear back from the kindly pastor, Father Dobson, who says he's sure he can get all the children into St. Thomas, the free Catholic school right around the corner from Westfields House.  It is tempting, but we are all now sold on St. John's. 

In what will become a habit during the year, I attend a weekday mass.  Our Lady of Compassion Catholic Church is an old barn, standing in the shadow below the magnificent Parish Church of St. Mary's.  Since the time of Henry VIII, the parish church has belonged to the Church of England.  This beautiful building is situated on the highest spot in town, standing above all other buildings and surrounded by a lovely graveyard and large, horse chestnut trees. 

My sister has told us about a California family, the Sickings, who have lived in Cambridge since March.  Jan and Paul have three children, Carey (a year older than Robert), Danny (a year younger than Robert) and Alison (six).  Paul is running a computer company in Cambridge for six months, and we are happy to hear from Americans experienced at living in England.  The best remark is Jan's: nothing in England is easy.  We visit each other's homes and have each other's children for the night.

 I do a little gardening, adding another hydrangea and a couple of small lavender shrubs to those already planted in the Westfields garden.  We have no sprinklers, and it is a chore to keep the flower baskets watered.  I buy a hose-pipe (hose), but learn shortly afterward that we live in an area (East Anglia) in its sixth year of drought (though it is hard to tell from the scenery).  There is a hose-pipe ban in effect; all watering must be by hand with a watering can.  On the first of August we have a pretty good thunderstorm, the only one of the summer.  A blackbird is a constant visitor on our front lawn.

We sleep with our windows open.  In the evenings the swifts fly about making their short cries.  At night the house creaks and groans.  In the mornings we are awakened by one of two sounds: the sound of the mail dropping through the mail slot at 7:30 or the loud cooing of the doves.

One afternoon in our second week (6th of August) we visit Robert Sayles in Cambridge and spend a fortune on the children's uniforms.  Robert's is the worst; his blazer is almost £100 ($170).  Not to be outdone, I buy a notebook computer, Wordperfect and a laser printer and order a desk and chair.  Later in the week, on Thursday, we visit the Science Museum in London, going the way Jan Sicking suggested: driving to Epping, about twenty five minutes in the car, where we catch the London Underground at a remarkably good price.  As we stand on the platform this morning, the announcement comes over the public address system that the hostage Jackie Mann has been released in Beruit.  Many, many people are smiling.

The Science Museum is spectacular.  I have never seen so many wonderful models, mostly of ships.  Our big mistake is buying lunch rather than bringing our own.  The restaurant lines are large and the seating merely passable; the picnic area, on the contrary, is lovely.  After a long visit, we go next door for a quick look at the Natural History Museum and finish off our day in London with afternoon tea at Harrod's.

The Sickings and Buckleys at Maldon

1000th Anniversary of the Battle of Maldon

Danny, Jeffrey and Mara

On Saturday the 10th, the Sickings and the Buckleys drive out to see a reenactment of the Battle of Maldon on the coast, commemorating the 1000th anniversary of this event.  There is an accompanying fair and, in between events on this warm day, the children watch the Punch and Judy show, the four of us drink beer and all of us go for a walk on an island in the nearby estuary.

During the week of August 11, the antique armoire which Cathy ordered in Tetbury arrives at the house, followed the next day or two by our boxes from the US, the contents of which we somehow manage to stuff into our modest abode.  We are at last settled.  School does not start, however, until the 16th of September.  At rest, we begin to plan again. 

With all of our roaming around and sightseeing over the past two months, the one thing we really miss is the beach, and we begin to plan, through our local travel agent in Saffron Walden, John Hillary, a week in France at the beach during the end of August.  In preparation for our visit to the continent I note the exchange rates: £1 = $1.65, £1 = 10 French Francs (FF). 

7. Our New Home

The Sitting Room

Our Kitchen

27 July, Saturday - 21 August, Wednesday. Westfields House, Saffron Walden. Trips to Cambridge, Maldon, Londonand countryside surrounding Saffron Walden.

Westfields House is deceptive. It is a simple rectangle with its short side facing "Westfields," a one lane, partially paved road, rising steeply, from West Road at its bottom, about 500 feet to the Mt. Pleasant Road above. (It is hard to tell from the sign whether our street name is one or two words; we settle on one, the way the Smythson's stationery will read.) The house, its narrowness enhanced by its charcoal color, sits to the left of a one-car detached garage and behind a small front lawn surrounded by a relatively new hedge. The location of Westfields House as close as possible to the downhill and rear property lines allows not only for the front yard, but also for a garden and long narrow lawn. We are separated from our neighbors, the Eastons uphill and a vacant lot downhill, by six foot wooden fences. Our short driveway, the portion of the front yard not covered with lawn and the path along the side of the house to our front door (which is actually on the side) are gravel, a not uncommon sight. In the mornings and afternoons the postman's feet on the ground announce his coming.

Inside, an L-shaped hallway divides the house roughly in half, with rooms on each side of the long leg. At the back a drawing room runs the breadth of the house, next to the shorter hallway, which leads to the "front" door. At the intersection of the long and short legs of the L a circular iron stairway pokes through the upstairs floor ten feet above to four bedrooms and a bathroom. Looking down the hallway toward the drawing room are, on the right, a guest toilet, the master bedroom (which includes its own bathroom) and dining room. These rooms look out onto the lawn. On the left are the kitchen, with views toward Westfields Lane and the town of Saffron Walden, a family room (with television) and the stairs. The drawing room is really two rooms, one half with a comfortable sofa, love seat and chair, and the other half, where I will put my desk and work area, basically empty. Each room, including the halls, has its own radiator.

One of the many attractive aspects of the house is its many windows, including a bay window, next to where I will work. Upstairs, Jeffrey's room, on the north (downhill) side of the house has magnificent views of Saffron Walden down the hill from us, including St.Mary's, the large parish (Church of England) church. The varnished wood floors throughout the house look new. The master bedroom is good sized. There are closets in every room, as well as a storage room upstairs. The garage is tiny and not tall enough for the van. Even with all the closet space, storage room is at a premium with just our hand carried belongings. I wonder where we will put the things coming over in the four large boxes and trunk (as well as what is inside that was so important!).

If my favorite feature of the house is the drawing room, Cathy's is the AGA in the kitchen. The AGAis the Rolls Royce of British household appliances, functioning as a combination heater/stove/oven. Although we don't immediately appreciate its utility, especially on the warm days, as the year progresses the AGA will become an indispensable part of our daily lives, cooking our meals, keeping our coffee and tea pots warm and adding a warmth to the kitchen which the radiators alone do not give to any other room. The secret of the AGA is that it is on all the time. It has two ovens, warming and roasting, and two burners, simmering and boiling. The remaining kitchen appliances, all located under the countertop, are in stark contrast to the impressive AGA: on one side of the sink are the fridge (refrigerator) and a small freezer; on the other side of the sink are the dishwasher and the washing machine. We are, however, fortunate; outside in the garage are an almost American sized fridge/freezer and an equally large dryer.

Across the lane from Westfields house is a short row of small duplexes, many of which are owned by the FriendsSchool located at the top of Westfields Lane, across Mt. Pleasant Road. In contrast to the duplexes, Westfields House, Emmaus and a third house at the top of the hill are nice sized, upper middle income homes.

Below us, Blthye and Pawsey tractor company, with its main office across West Street at the bottom of Westfields, has a big, empty, dirt parking lot with trees and blackberry hedges next to our house and a commercial building on the corner. During the year, Blythe and Pawsey will lock up this old shop and the parking lot, and the parking lot will become a hang out for the kids, including the teenagers who pass through on their way to theFriends School up Westfields or the lane behind us.

We meet our neighbors immediately.

Ken and Allison live in the duplex directly across from us with their son Ian. Just turning four, Ian is almost a year older than Thomas, though the two of them will become friends on and off during the year. Kenis from Scotlandand works at the FriendsSchool. Although he is very friendly, I find it very hard to understand him at first. Ken and Alisonspend their family vacations in Portugal, but they do not own a car.

Jackie and Bob and their three children live next to us, up the hill at Emmaus. There is Greg(a year younger than Robert), Jemma (two years younger than Mara) and Jake(a year younger than Thomas, but twice as big). Bobis some kind of financial advisor. Jackie is home most days, but quite busy, dividing her time, as we first meet her, among activities at the Leisure Center, VBS (vacation Bible school), tending to the family allotment (a vegetable garden just outside of town on community owned land), and supervising children activities. Later in the year she will take on a part time job with the local town council.  Robert

and Jeffrey also meet Chris and Robert, roughly the same age as our two boys.  Chris and Robert, their parents, Paul and Theresa, and baby brother share the other half of Ken and Allison's duplex.  Paul also works at the Friends school.  In the autumn, Cathy will join Jackie and Theresa at a cooking class sponsored by a local education facility in a nearby town. 

Westfields House

6. Touring the Cotswolds

18 July, Thursday, 4:30 pm, Folly Cottage.  The boys are playing Scrabble, Thomas watching Popeye.  It rained last night, I thought the window creaking was a burglar, a child, then a ghost -- what else?  The breeze has been strong everyday, almost windy.  It seems most places here get a good breeze.

Thinking about the importance of direction.  We drove east across the U.S. and north from Florida to New York.  Then an airline pilot took us over the ocean.  Finally, we found ourselves a new car and have been navigating our way around southwestern England.  Throughout all of this, direction and location is key to our mental health: to know that we are somewhere in relation to somewhere else, the latter being our base, the important somewhere.

I  felt an enormous depression after I finished The Killer Angels about the battle of Gettysburg.  Our trip was fine and on target, according to plans, etc, but the last part of the book reminded me that we are never really that far from death and stupidity of war, human folly, etc.

21 July, Sunday, 8:15 am, Folly Cottage.  It is a beautiful morning at Folly Farm!  Lovely blue sky with a bunch of clouds off to the south, past our back yard.  The air is warm, like yesterday, and, since about 8:30 or so last night, the wind has gone.  There is barely the slightest hint of breeze.

To our statement that we were going to the Cotswolds, the usual English response was, "Oh, how lovely. I hope you have good weather!"  Everyone seemed to recognize the beauty of the area, but it was hard to figure out what all the fuss was about.

 Now that we are here, we know.  Such lovely stone work, so many hills.  The land will surprise you at times, as you come through a dark, tree lined portion of the road to a flat land with farms or sheep, or perhaps the top of a hill with marvelous views.  The towns are often built on the slopes of a hillside, so that the streets are steep.  Sometimes towns are on top of the hills.  Tetbury, for example, has a steep hill up to the town, which suddenly becomes a flat marketplace.  Bibury is reached from a downward sloping road and seems to be built up against the hill.  Minchinhampton seems to be in the middle of the hill, with the side streets all angling up the hill from the through road.

Folly Farm Cottage

Evening Entertainment

We saw a marvelous field of blue flowers yesterday on the way to Berekely Castle.  In the midst of the small blue flowers were scattered three red poppies.

Butterfly Garden

Stonehenge

Nothing is static here, everything seems to change from different angles, and there is green, green, green, right down to ferns and other small plants growing out of the walls and roofs.  There are plenty of flowers and, in the towns especially, one notices the cultivated gardens with their roses and other garden plants.

Stonehenge Lunch

11:30 pm.  First sense tonight of what Jeffrey explains as: "Hold it! I'm in England."

The Cotswolds

The van

Bibury

23 July, Tuesday, 8:30 am, Folly Cottage.  One thing we mustn't forget is our close connection with my mother and father, because of what we are doing.  I'm not sure Cathy realizes this, but it's true and Bob positively has tears in his eyes when he thinks of our trip. 

Bath

I honestly do not know what I will write, other than my commitment to write.  I do not know, however, where I fit in.

            *  *  *  *  *

27 July, Saturday.  Tetbury, Gloucs., to Saffron Walden, Essex. 

Calcot Manor

We have two lovely meals in Tetbury.  The first is at The Close Hotel, just Cathy and me.  The Close, in the middle of town in Tetbury, is a deluxe inn, the kind you think of running away to for long weekends in the country.  Cathy is shown a room.  The hotel oozes country elegance.  The gardens are beautiful.  We experience for the first time the custom of sitting in the lounge with our cocktails, reviewing the menu and ordering before we sit down at the table.  The wine list is an incomprehensible selection of French wines.  Somehow (without much difficulty) we manage to do quite well.

Our second evening out is the night before we leave, Friday, 26 July, when the six of us go to the Calcot Manor.  Dinner reservations are for 8:30.  Unlike The Close, Calcot is all by itself, across the road from the beautiful blue linseed fields.  We have again chosen well.  This time we sit outside before dinner, conscious of the unlikely ability of our group to sit still in the charming lounge.  At our table, in the middle of the restaurant, the long wait for a wonderful meal passes with much less trouble than expected when the owner provides books for each of the children to read, and engages the children in conversation.  It is a memorable evening.  Cathy and I vow to return sometime to the Close or Calcot for a long weekend by ourselves.

Calcot Manor

 On the 27th it is time to uproot ourselves once again.  We love the country, and have been very comfortable for the past two weeks.  We've had a chance to catch our breaths after all the running about we have done since leaving home five weeks before.

Prior to departure I spend hours trying to plot the route to Saffron Walden, but it is a difficult task.  All direct routes lead to and from London, like spokes from the hub of a wheel.  There is no easy way across the country in the direction we want to go, from Tetbury, 100 miles west of London at the nine o'clock position, to Cambridge, 60 miles north of London, at the one o'clock position.  The easiest route is to go back on the M4, circle the M25 ring road to the M11, then head north on that Motorway.  It would be very simple.  Too simple!  I refuse to believe it is better to go all the way back toward London; it must be more economical to cut across the country toward Saffron Walden, angling in a northeasterly direction on country roads.  Later I will learn better.

We are finally on the road at noon.  It is one of the hottest days of the year.  The BBC 1 disc jockey can't stop talking about the heat: it is in the mid 80's and lovely!  We eat peanut butter and jam sandwiches en route ("jelly" means Jello), and I am secretly ecstatic at our plight on such a terrible day. 

Our drive is complicated and more than once I go the wrong way.  The mistake I usually make is taking the turn ahead of the time I should, not yet having learned that it is both the road number and the next big city I must look for.  Perhaps the most frustrating thing is that I am never really lost (there are direction signs everywhere): I'm just going the wrong (long) way.  Our 160 mile trip takes over four hours.  We arrive at Westfields House at 4:15.  We even have mail.

It is late Saturday, however, and, in a near panic at our lack of groceries, I quickly unload the car and look for a grocery store, realizing that nothing will be open on Sunday.  There is a co-op in town, but I can't figure out where to park.  (There appears to be something down a narrow alley, but I am afraid the van is too large for comfort).  In my panic and because of the one way street system, I do not discover the Waitrose grocery store (open till eight on Saturdays!), three blocks from our house.  (Waitrose will become our regular market.)  Instead I drive ten miles to Bishops Stortford, a bigger town than Saffron Walden.  I find a Sainsbury's.  The store is deserted and the shelves are deserted: little milk, no fresh meat or vegetables, no bread, no orange juice.  It looks like they've just had a run on food.  I learn the stores do not restock on Saturdays.  I am the last customer to leave at 5:30, and proudly bring our precious groceries back to Westfields House.

6. Folly Cottage, Folly Farm

13 July - 27 July,  Folly Cottage, Folly Farm, Tetbury, Gloucestshire. 

We are staying in the English countryside in a two story stone cottage with three bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs and two more bedrooms and a bathroom downstairs.  We also have a kitchen, dining room and living room with fireplace.  The cottage is quite spacious; it was originally built (hundreds of years ago) for two families.  It has a beautiful yard off to one side inhabited by a shy wood pigeon and, in the back, a sunny stone patio next to fields, where sheep and cows graze in the distance.  Above the patio, the upstairs windows (particularly when one is sitting on the toilet) have beautiful views of the Cotswold countryside. 

Even the tourist book we bought admits to not being quite able to describe the Cotswolds, other than by its rolling landscapes and stone work: stone walls, stone buildings, stone roofs.  Sheep are a common sight as well, grazing on the rolling hills.  It is all quite beautiful.  How nice to be in the country at last, after all that walking in New York and London!  (I am convinced I lost weight carrying Thomas around town on my shoulders.)

There are two drawbacks to our cottage.  The first is that the building is at most six feet off of the two lane road into town, just past the point where the cars coming into town must reduce their speed.  The cars rarely slow down.  I get used to the noise, though the thought of Thomas or Jeffrey walking out onto the road is frightening.  My only other complaint is the low overhead between the kitchen and the dining room.  "Duck or Grouse" is the local expression and it's 50-50 for me.  When I leave after two weeks, it is with a knot on my head. 

Across the road is the Folly Farm itself, a working dairy and PYO (Pick Your Own) farm with raspberries, strawberries and black and red currants.  We enjoy the raspberries and strawberries but pass on the tart currants.  In our own yard, the children and I discover stinging nettle plants.  Even the slightest brush burns and stings the skin.  We discover, however, that Fairy washing up liquid (dishwashing soap) provides some relief; it must counteract the chemical in the plant.

During our first week, we meet Vaughan and Brenda and their children, Esther and Annharagd, who are also visiting Folly Farm for the week.  They are Australian, but are headed to Denmark where Vaughan, a research physician, has a job.  Vaughan and Brenda recommend the good sights about Tetbury.  We pick berries together at the Folly Farm PYO garden.  The night before they leave, we have farewell dessert at our cottage, and resolve to keep in touch.  Most importantly, Vaughan explains to me how the roundabouts work.

I spend our first day (Sunday) reading about the Vanagon and am impressed at all the nifty little places VW has hidden things: batteries under the seat, washer fluid under the carpet, spare tire under the front of the car.  Robert admires our new car as well, remarking, with a wisdom beyond his years, "Too bad we have to trash it."  We are, however, good to our new car, and happy with its ability to transport us around the countryside in relative comfort, while we listen to "Cats" and BBC 1, the rock station.  There happens to be a VW dealer in town and, a day or two after our arrival, I order floor mats, which are supposed to arrive in a couple of days.  On more than one occasion we visit the car wash.  I have never seen so many bugs on a windscreen (windshield) before!  The mats come in, they are the wrong ones and are reordered.  I can't keep up with the bugs, there are too many.  The mats finally come in the day we are leaving.  It is only then I realize that our driver's side is on the left not the right as an English VW van would be – the mats aren't even close.  I decide to pick some up when we go to France or Germany.

We are good tourists.  I begin to stop keeping track of things in my diary, for we are nearing the end of our travels.  Before the diary runs out I record visits to: Bath, a beautiful and ancient city, for shopping and sightseeing; the nearby towns of Cirencester, Malmesbury, Stroud and Minchinhampton; the farther villages of Sapperton and Duniston Abbot and towns of Stow (we have tea) and Bourton on Water (we window shop); Cheltenham for the shopping mall and, on another occasion, a cricket match; Stonehenge; a famous pottery factory run by monks called "Prinknash" (Prinach); Bibury for the trout farm and adjacent museum; another "Folly Farm" for a bird and duck farm; ancient Berekely (Barkley) Castle and its adjoining butterfly museum; Westonbirt Arboretum, close to Charles and Diana's home; Wales, across the River Severn, to Tintern Abbey, the Wye Valley and the Jubilee Maze.  We drive upon four lane Motorways and highways, two lane A and B roads and one lane farming roads.  We do have one near catastrophe: as we are driving through a tiny village Thomas opens the sliding door; fortunately we are crawling down the one lane road and Thomas is wearing his seat belt.  We resolve never to let Thomas sit in that seat again.

In our drives we greatly admire the crops of faint blue – linseed flowers, someone says, and the bright, red-orange poppies that dot the fields.  There are rivers, from the mighty Severn, more than a mile across, to smaller streams: Bibury's stream is so clear we can see the trout from the top of the bridge; Bourton has a river right through the middle of town, bordered with a grass park and shops.  Even the road signs are entertaining, especially the triangular white sign picturing two stooped over pedestrians with canes: look out for elderly people!  Everything is green and beautiful.  My main complaint about driving is being unable to travel the beautiful country roads at a leisurely pace of 30 or 40 miles per hour.  Sixty miles per hour is the norm; if I drive any slower, traffic backs up far behind me.

In between our car trips and a day off now and then, we walk around Tetbury and visit the antique stores and book shops.  We grocery shop at the small Gateway and Spar markets in Tetbury and the huge Tesco in Cirencester.  On Sundays we attend mass at nearby St. Michael's, which is within walking distance from our cottage, and in the evening watch additional episodes of "Chimera," which is now revealed to be a creature half human, half ape.  The show is too scary for Mara and Jeffrey who wait on the steps of the stairs, out of view, but within hearing range. 

 We cook at the cottage, but have a couple of nice meals at the Crown inn and order out from the local fish and chips take out, not far from our cottage.  The Folly Farm brochure talked about barbecues.  I am the first one to ever ask about it and end up assembling it from the box, but it does work and we enjoy a couple of barbecues.  We are more enamored with our afternoon teas: cups of hot tea and milk accompanied by scones spread with clotted cream or, more usually, extra thick double cream and jam.

6. Picking up the Van; West to Tetbury

Dover.  In contrast to London's warm, bright day, Dover is cold and foggy.  Upon arrival, we each have a cup of tea while we await our ride from the dealership.  It is a wonderful cup of tea, the best I ever have in England, a perfect remedy for the aggravations of the afternoon and the cold, damp sea air and the perfect fortifier for the long evenng ahead of us.

We pick up the car just before closing, at 5:27 by my watch.  Though I have all my car related papers, neither the woman who takes care of us nor I know what is needed to transfer the vehicle, and, after showing me where the manual is (she is unfamiliar with the Vanagon Carat, but feels she owes some duty!), she wishes us well and closes up shop.  Fortunately there is a petrol station open across the street and I fill up for 25.50 pounds ($45).  I obtain directions from the attendant and we are quickly on our way back to London. 

Neither driving on the left nor directions seem too difficult, it is highway just about all the way to London.  We arrive in the City at 7:30.  Although I lose track of the signs and drive the long way around, I have a general idea of which direction I should be going, and we make it back to the flat by 8:15.  A 43 mile trip.

London to Tetbury.  The VW is a nice sized room on wheels, complete with table, but it is an effort in creativity (as it was with the Suburban) to load up the car with all of our luggage (including that belonging to the forward troops) and still have room enough for Mara and Jeffrey to be comfortable.  But I quickly do so, with the van double parked in the fairly narrow street, finding the key in the promised hiding place.  The day is growing dark.  I call the Folly Farm to try and let Cathy know where we are and when to expect us, but there is no phone in the cottage.  (It is hard to imagine the world before cell phones!)  I do, however, receive some helpful directions.  By 8:45, as much as I love London, I am happy to be on the road again in our new car. 

We head out, following the signs to "The West."  Finding the M-4 without getting lost is relatively easy: it's the same direction as Heathrow and well posted, and we do not stop until a rest area a couple of hours out of London.  The directions to Tetbury are very good: which M-4 exit, which turns and so forth.  I follow them right to the end, where I lose the track.  Fortunately, I see the "Folly Farm" sign and find our rental, Folly Cottage, directly across the road, as promised. 

It's pitch black when we arrive at 11:30 p.m., 150 miles from London.  All of the lights inside are off, but I recognize a most delightful stone cottage.  I have to knock on the door and arouse Cathy.  She is happy to see us, and helps bring in Jeffrey and Mara both of whom are asleep.  I bring in the luggage, this time with the thought that I will only have to do this two more times.

6. Cambridge and Saffron Walden; Tea at the Savoy

Wednesday.  This is the day of big plans.  Using my Thomas Cook European train schedule (purchased in Las Vegas) I have plotted our day.  We are dressed and out the door at 6:40 a.m., in coats and ties and dresses.  We walk to the Tube, which we take to King's Cross, then make the 7:20 Cambridge train by two minutes.  We arrive at 8:42.  Our appointment at St. John's (the girl's side of the school) is for 9:20, so we have a snack at the station, then hire one of the few taxis big enough to hold the six of us (a London taxi, of course). 

Cambridge.  Mrs. Hayward, the deputy head, meets us and shows us around the girl's classrooms.  We poke our heads in a few classes.  Mrs. Hayward is very pleasant.  She has a full head of short gray hair and reminds me of a friendlier version of the headmistress at my own English school in 1958-59.  When our visit is over, we walk the half block to the main school, where we are once again given a tour of the premises (including swimming pool), this time by a couple of the 6th formers (7th graders).  When we are through, we meet Mr. Kevin Jones, the headmaster (the "head") in his office and discuss schooling over coffee, tea, biscuits (cookies) and Leggos.  Mr. Jones is also charming.  Although he is a young man and soft spoken, Kevin Jones is obviously a man who knows the score.  We learn that Prince Charles has been known to land by helicopter in the St. John's College playing field across the street.  Robert doesn't even flinch when he learns for the first time that his year has school half days on Saturdays.  Mr. Jones pushes the parents choir on me, but I resist his gentle persuasion and soon we are off, back to the train station, for the 12:45 London train which stops at Audley End.  During the twelve minute train ride to Audley End we have a moment to feel pleased at our choice of a school.

Saffron Walden.  At Audley End Station we hire a cab to take us the two miles or so into Saffron Walden.  Feeling it unwise to introduce Mrs. Dodds to the entire gang (particularly Thomas), Robert, Thomas and I leave Cathy, Mara and Jeffrey at Westfields House to meet Lynn Dodds.  At first sight, the house looks small, but I take away no lasting bad impressions.  Robert and I walk around Saffron Walden with Thomas in the push chair.  It is a nice little town, lots of shops and a nice market square with a tourist agency.  Cathy and her two meet us at the town center at 2:30, and we take a very short taxi to Dame Bradbury's, the local private school.

 Dame Bradbury had been our first choice for a school, because of its location in Saffron Walden.  At the time we inquired, however, there were only two openings and we needed three.  The same thing had proved true at other nearby schools, including Waterside and the local public (in the American sense) school, right around the corner from our new home and, surprisingly, also the local Catholic parochial school.  The only school which had been able to accommodate all three school age children was St. John's. 

We are warmly welcomed by the deputy head.  She will be the new head in autumn, replacing the current head mistress who is retiring after many years.  She is pleased to inform us, as she shows us around the school, that Dame Bradbury is now able to accommodate all three of our school age children.  In contrast to St. John's, which is mostly a boys' school with girls, Dame B's is mostly a girls' school with boys.  Again the people we meet are friendly and it seems to me we face a difficult decision: Dame B or St. John's, Saffron Walden or Cambridge, save a little money nearby or pay for the prestige of Cambridge. 

On the train back to London, I learn it is not a difficult decision at all: the children unanimously choose St. John's, Saturday classes and all.

London.  We are back in London by six o'clock.  Cathy and I see that the children are fed and content, then take a taxi to the nearest French restaurant we can find: Le Muscadet.  It isn't worth the price, but it's nice to get out on our own, if even for a few hours.  (The restaurant is just off of Marylebone, which Cathy later names our car.)

Thursday.  Nothing is quite as easy as it seems.  Today is the day we are supposed to pick up our car.  Dover Court motors calls, however, to say they are having trouble with the British Customs declaration I filled out, saying I would use the car for a year.  I will need to make some further clarifications or avoid the fuss and get a six month exemption.  I am told that after six months I can request an extension, which is most often granted.  I sign the six month form, but inform them we are leaving London in two days, on Saturday, and I must have the car by then.  They agree to do their best, and I agree to pick up the Vanagon in Dover instead of Milton Keynes (north of Cambridge), which is the usual location for deliveries.  After the car dealership, I walk toward Piccadilly Circus, stopping to fill in more spots in my British wardrobe at Fortunam & Masons (plaid shirt) and Cordings of Piccadilly (tattersall shirt and twills).  I contact Hertz and make back up arrangements for a car.  In the evening we all go to Flanagan's on Baker Street, which is not quite as much fun as I remember, but they still have the sing-a-long and it is a companionable place to eat.  The mushy peas are very green and fresh.

Friday.  Today is another big dose of English: tea at the Savoy.  In the morning, I take Robert shopping at Selfridge's so he will have a coat and tie to wear at tea.  I mail some letters and buy my all-important writing paper.  I order our expensive stationery from Smythson's with the Westfields address on it.  We all meet at 3:20 at the Savoy, looking better than our Sunday finest.  As promised by Sara, there is lots to eat: salmon sandwiches (not a hit), delicious scones, tuna sandwiches, tomato sandwiches; the tea itself is also very good, but the price is the best surprise of all.  Because of our youthful group we are only charged for three teas.  During tea I call Dover Court and am happy to learn that the car is confirmed for Dover on Saturday. 

Robert (in his new coat), Thomas and me at the Savoy

After tea we all return to the flat.  I walk back down to the Chinese restaurant we ate at on Saturday and find Mara's lost purse.  At the Marks and Spencer at Whitely's I buy a cooked, cold chicken and a bottle of Fortunam & Mason white wine for dinner.  I also purchase train tickets for Robert and Cathy.  Tomorrow, they will leave from Paddington for Tetbury, our next stop.  Mara, Jeffrey and I will take the train to Dover, pick up the car, drive back to London to pick up the luggage and then head West on the M-4 to Folly Farm.  We eat dinner at the flat and pack up again. 

The week has passed by very quickly and it seems as if we haven't done a thing but shop and make phone calls.

Saturday.  We finish packing and are finally off at 11:30 or so (we must be out by noon).  Once again, there is the long, heavy trek with the luggage, although this time it is down the stairs and everyone is a bit more helpful.  Our landlady, Ines, is very accommodating and agrees to store the luggage in her basement flat and hide her key so I can pick everything up later on, when we return with the car.  We agree that Ines can deduct from our security deposit the cost of the glass panel in the front door that Robert broke, when the peach pit he was throwing at Mara went off target.  Mara as usual makes herself at home in Ines' flat and Ines types Mara a letter on the office machine.  Ines gives me directions back to London and out again.

We split up before noon.  Cathy's group takes the 12:15 train to Swindon, where they will transfer to Kemble.  Mara, Jeffrey and I set out for some last minute shopping on Oxford Street before we have to leave for Dover around two.  I have two missions: buy a converter (240 AC to DC) and buy the portable compact disc/stereo we need for all the music we are shipping over.  It is a mistake from the beginning:  Saturday is a very busy shopping day, especially on Oxford Street.  I turn the wrong way coming out of the Tube station at Oxford Circus.  I try Dixon's and am unsuccessful.  At John Lewis, I am educated (and corrected) about converters in basement housewares and electronics; upstairs in audio/video I have to wait in line to buy the last JVC portable.  We spend another half hour waiting for delivery downstairs, only to learn they haven't got the machine they sold me.  We go upstairs to wait in line for the refund, now seriously behind schedule. 

Having finished my wasted efforts, I ask my two companions whether we should walk to our train station, Charing Cross, or take the Tube.  Jeffrey and Mara are tired of walking; Mara is afraid of a fire in the Underground.  I give in and we take a taxi.  It is another mistake.  The traffic around Trafalgar Square is horrendous.  What would have been a twenty minute walk or a five minute tube ride is an expensive, half hour cab ride in slowly creeping traffic.  We just miss the 2 o'clock train and have to wait for the 3 o'clock train which will get us into Dover Priory at 4:45 p.m.