We took off swiftly and sped up Sycamore Hill, where trees of that name were in abundance. Beyond that, a road lead to a motorway, which stretched across a broad lake. Dale pulled the sun-roof back and turned up the stereo. The wind spilled in on our faces as we raced along the N11. Rich sienna and copper rock lead down from the road to the waters edge, a flickering and sparkling spectacle. Tree after tree passed us on the left. A small yellow shuttle bus, taking rugby supporters to a match, overtook us. Dale looked displeased when I put on the accelerator.

We left the road bridge and entered a thick oasis of low trees, which stretched the breadth of a small island. The trees covered and darkened the road, as we travelled further inland. I had wanted to take some photos during our trip, but my camera had vanished the previous day. The sun sprinkled in through dark olive leaves. It finally won, when the overcast trees gave way to a blue sky and low prickly aubergine trees. This wasn’t quite the savoury delight an epicurean like myself had envisaged, but none the less, it had made an interesting contrast to the lush green scenery we had left. Dale was also becoming bored with this sticky scene after several minutes, so he unexpectedly veered off the main road, taking a narrow country road down through marshes of streams and lines of brambles. This was the Lake District, an area rich in wildlife and beautiful to the eye. Water was abundant for miles, in various forms. Our road grew narrower and narrower, until it eventually became a small muddy track, of less than a metre in width. It was here that we abandoned our vehicle, and took to our feet, moseying up along that meandering path by the water’s edge of another grand lake. Tall trees fenced off by meshes of wire and wood, lead to an old wooden house. It looked abandoned and austere, as it peered over the shadowy silver waters of Loch Enoch. Would we check it out? Definitely.

We travelled through bushes and brains, until we were on a high old stone bridge, way above an abyss of tree-tops. Eves Hollows was next. We feared for our safety as a little bit of the bridge ahead was missing. All that remained were two thin train tracks to keep us above sea level. Well, there was a well from a large well down under. It gushed, popped and exploded with water. The red train travelled on southward, veering along Conquer valley, a dark subterranean hollow of dirty muck. A sudden swerve of the carriage forced us back to normality. We were above the roof-tops of many small red and blue houses. The Lucifer threat was still upon us, chasing us, copying our every move. As if a wizard’s ward had passed over the region, the houses all turned to blue. I wondered if Lucifer was omni-potent or impotent more like. The train jostled and jolted, travelling slowly through a jungle of junipers and vines, before jetting through a wide staircase of laurels and sediments of sandstone. This tasty nugget vanished from sight to leave us with sparse ember land.

Dale lay back on the plum seat with his hands clenched. I chose a fruit and nut bar from the sweets trolley and put on ear phones, listening to some soft violin music.

It was 7:30 when the train pulled up at Bresh Court station. We disembarked and entered the white timber station house. Our silver Ford capsule was waiting for us on the far side.

The end of the narrow street opened onto a plaza of little shops and restaurants. Rosie and Olivia Nutgrove, twin girls, from my town, were swinging their legs and drinking yellow lemonade, outside a dark glassed restaurant. We left the square through a gap between tall buildings, and passed a small green, which was surrounded by black chained bollards. People were sitting on benches and reading newspapers there. A path lead us through a small park of white and lavender blossom trees and wine berried bushes. Beachwood forest was close, but we decided to give it a miss, instead, heading for the lake. Willow trees blew fervently by the manmade square lake, which rippled with dark green waters. Fishing and paddle boating were popular here at the height of the season. Boating – ok, fishing – evil. Alongside it, a wide promenade, lined with decorative dark green street lamps, lead us to the high streets of Brentford shopping district, the epitome of good taste in fashion and antiques. We arrived at the junction onto Belfry St., a narrow paved path that lead to a small blue church. The old bell clunk and clang as we flickered past. I thought of the souls of the evil, who would be facing the fires of hell later. Did they think they could hide their deeds from God or Lucifer? It did seem that Armageddon was upon us these days, the last days of the tribulation. Were they ready to be permanently crucified by Lucifer in the afterlife?

Onward, we strolled, quietly and pensively. We wrapped up the trip with a tour of the antique car fair close-by, before heading back home by train.

Behind her neatly trimmed lawns and floral cascade of weaved hanging baskets, was a dim green coloured glass glass-house. We sauntered inside and met with a foray of delicious eats, from bramley apple dumplings to custard pies, in pink and yellow. The resident fat lady had a pleasant smile on her face as she munched into a rhubarb and biscuit pie. Dale grinned.

Suddenly, there was a scream from the garden. A few people rushed out to inspect. A bundle of ivy had become detached from the old wall and had fallen on top of one of the old ladies. She was frantically trying to unravel it, but it twisted and twined around her as she struggled. Two gentlemen grabbed her arms, and pulled her in two opposite directions. It must have taken at least half an hour to set her free and afterwards her cheeks were red and her hair was a wretched mess. Her torn hat lay strewn on the pavement. She was nolonger the formidable woman we had seen in the green house. A bead of sweat formed on Mrs. Kindworthy’s brow as she studied her damaged wallflower. Dale and I sneaked out quietly, during the cufuffle and headed along a path to the side of her house. It lead us to a tiny old village of narrow streets, terracotta shop canopies and sign posts. Baker St. was packed with tourists. We sat outside a small café and had tea with tiny coloured iced buns and winged things. A row a delectable jams caught my eyes inside the gournet shop next door.

We left the cottage, heading down a few winding steps, with views of beautiful gardens on either side. It was late spring and the sky was now overcast with a gleaming grey. With a slight chill in the air, a line of birds sang a shrilling symphony. I buttoned my pale blue cardigan and swung my red handbag, as we clamoured down steps, and walked along the underground pass. On the far side, we were met with a cobbled stone path that lead to a series of gardens. Thick, neatly trimmed bushes lined mowed lawns. At the end, we walked downhill to a narrow river and crossed a little blue wooden bridge to Green Acre, a gateway to the hills and yellow meadows of East Vale.
We walked along a dirt road, past bushy trees, with pleasure leaves. The road plumeted to a red farm house. This was our first stop of the day. It was here that the farmer's wife, Nora Kindworthy, was promoting her latest produce and giving out free samples of fresh puddings and cream cakes..

My Day Stay in Birkshire

Dale awoke early and pulled down the pale green quilt. He stepped out of bed and did a few stretches against the window. The sun peered in and he peered down at the small lake surrounded by green shrubs and tall trees. We left the small room that we had inhabited for the night, on our travels back from the country village of Edam. Edam was close to the river Riddle, at the heart of East Moore Glen, and home to Bell Grove Peppermint Factory and Wine Distillery.

We made our way down the hallway of the old guesthouse to the dining room. An old pram, holding bottles of fine ales and stouts, took me by surprise as I entered. The buffet table was tempting - a platter of roast leg of lamb, surrounded by olive and mustard vegetables. Beside the meat, there were several fish lined up on a silver plate, that looked like an oversized version of my goldfish Ziggy. My reaction was to look South-West, where I spotted some delicious ice creams in multicoloured flavours, like butterscotch and lime. I felt that I needed more money to buy what I wanted here. There were too many nice things to choose from.