This morning it took me about twenty minutes to fully adjust to reality - I had been in the middle of a very vivid dream when the alarm went off. Those were twenty minutes I didn't have, however, resulting in my leaving the house without most of what I needed for the day, and on the bus I realised I had also put my skirt on the wrong way around. I had to wriggle as I walked from the bus stop to work to try to turn it so the zipper, seams and extra fabric allowance where my rear end should have been were all successfully relocated. The fact that the waistband is a little snug due to pre-winter carb-loading made this even harder to do inconspicuously. At lunch I slowly and elegantly tipped the juice from my fruit cup into my lap, until my motor skills belatedly kicked in. Some days, I can't take me anywhere.
But. But! We rented a car this past weekend, and returned it without mishap! Yes, mistakes were made, British drivers were irritated, arguments were had (one roundabout just about ended our relationship), but we did it. The greatest challenge may have been maneuvering in and out of the two metres square that masquerades as a parking space in front of the flat. (The neighbours enjoyed a drama complete with song and dance as we tried to fit the car in each night.)
No overly ambitious trips across the country this time. Instead, we drove around the Cotswolds on Saturday, visiting Great Tew (and a dreamy little pub), Stow-on-the-Wold and Bourton-on-the-Water. On the way we stopped at the 3000-year-old Rollright Stones. Not exactly Stonehenge, but blissfully off the beaten track.
On Sunday we drove down to Uffington to see the oldest and most famous of the 'white horses'. The drive to get there was gorgeous but stressful - not unlike the Road to Hana in Maui (though admittedly without 400-foot drops down to the ocean). The horse is thought to be 3000 years old, and except for becoming a bit thinner (heroin chic, y'know) has changed little in that time. The finest views are from further away ... here's the best shot I could get:
It's hard to imagine just how much human civilisation this area has seen. To the right of the horse (not pictured) is an even older burial mound, and just above, at the highest point in Oxfordshire, the remains of a 2700-year-old hill fort. Today people graze their sheep in it; in the 16th century they held sporting competitions there. Below the white horse is a valley where you can see terraces made by medieval farmers before the Black Death cut back the area's population in 1349. Below is Dragon Hill, where, according to legend, St. George slew the dragon. The dragon's blood supposedly poisoned the grass, leaving the bare patch you can see.
We hiked a little ways along the Ridgeway, a trail that follows the course of an iron age road, to visit the site of a 5000-year-old tomb. (It has rather obviously been restored.) Here they found lots of ancient dismembered human bones! Jeff dared me to crawl inside but I declined due to my fear of spiders, centipedes, rats, zombies, and other creepy crawlies.
All in all, a good weekend, though my nerves were so shot from the driving that I could have used a day of recovery before returning to work. (I have a litany of complaints about English road design, but perhaps that can wait for another day.) Still, it's a short week. Thursday I'm away up north for four days. Hopefully I'll bring back aching muscles, great photos, and a renewed zest for life. Ha.
