Henley on Thames welcomes us like an old friend. Over the years it’s become an oft visited nook. And what’s not to love? For those with Melbourne leanings, picture old school Brighton but by a river. This visit comes with a slight side order of trepidation though – lovely Henley was the pivot where last year’s plans nose dived. Mind you, I can think of worse places to be stuck, especially given that regatta trials were in progress swelling the streets with the buzz of excited athletes, tall of height and lithe of limb.
This year Henley greets us at a leisurely, far more sedate place. As everywhere we’ve been so far, Henley has been stilled by the heat. We hear that 190 days have passed since England’s southwest has seen rain and serious water restriction discussions are in progress. Lovely green England is sadly absent.
We’re taking some down time over the next few days – a little boring perhaps, but much needed. Once a bit of house elf-ing is out of the way, we’re free to explore familiar ground.
Henley’s history as a 1700s coach stop is evidenced throughout the village. These side entryways are the giveaway – designed to drive coaches through for overnight stopovers and fresh horses for the next leg of travel.
Petunias burst from window boxes – pink and purple feature with some residents taking the colour scheme very seriously indeed. I wish we had this tradition at home – flowers brighten in a way little else can.
The Thames provides a constantly changing framework to village life. It’s thriving, full of pleasure craft, canal ‘noddy’ boats, ‘look at me’ speedsters and kids splashing about in defiance of the heat.
Daily walks witness the ancient rhythm of the lock, rising and falling metres to accommodate passing water craft, albeit now at the press of a button vs the crunch of hand turned gears. It’s a mesmerising bit of engineering.
A gentle rhythm settles: I visit my favourite house – a perfect little riverside cottage just for Moi, but sadly nobody pops out to offer me free ownership. And I hovered too, just in case…
There’s local art of plenty: psychedelically decorated canal boats, the sports club where children have captured the biodiversity of the Thames and green walls are all the rage – very calming to look at.
We meet border collie Pippin, living his best life retrieving sticks with boundless joy
and see the weir, complete with a special salmon run sluice way (it’s the small opening, far left).
I find time to rustle up a fancy pizza, but
Himself wouldn’t be quite himself without luncheon occasionally. A pleasant afternoon is a whiled away in the Cote Brasserie, giving us an opportunity to pretend we’re in France. Rather delicious, with a charcuterie tasting platter
prawn and crab linguine for me and a juicy roast chicken for the lad.
It’d be quite rude not to have petite treat with coffee.
We wander Henley streets and see The Merchant House, dating back to 1436. It’s Henley’s oldest
and visit a few old favorites.
A paddle steamer on the Thames looks a little out of place. Lost perhaps, enroute from a distant Louisiana bayou?
I find time to devour several books, catch up on sleep, correspondence and writing.
Evenings are cool, despite the heat and come complete with bunnies hopping about, eeking out dinner from the meagre grass. Fortunately there’s water nearby and they still appear to be in good condition. I’ll admit to fiddling with the photo below – brown grass just looks too sad. Rain is very badly needed.
So not the most exciting three days but very pleasant nonetheless.
Suitably rested, we’re ready to hit the road again, aiming for Windsor …. for a third time. Our first attempt was absolute bedlam. Despite Himself’s best efforts, there was nowhere to park and we missed out. Last year we tried by train but arrived too late in the date do the castle justice. Fingers crossed. Hopefully the third time’s the charm.
Miss Baci Travels 