How about a buggy ride back in time through an enchanting village in England’s heartland? Mormor, (that’s me) is driving! Mormor is grandmother in Norwegian, giving a nod to my Norwegian mom and our family in Norway. Lil’ Prince of Gaydon (nickname I gave my grandson) and I are taking a wild ride through town!
Gaydon, though not mentioned distinctly from Chadshunt in the Domesday Book of 1086, was a separate settlement. It became known as Gaidon by the late twelfth century, taking its name from the proper name “Gaega” and the Old English word for hill “dun”.
Homeward Bound
Gaydon is at the gateway to the Cotswolds in the Stratford-on-Avon District of Warwickshire. Surrounded by rolling hills and rich farmland, Gaydon is known for its picturesque countryside and meandering walking trails. While the rest of the England races by with its twenty-first century angst, the 500 or so residents of Gaydon can chill away from the big city hustle in a community where time stood still.
I bundle Lil’ Prince into his buggy and wheel down his street lined by stately, red brick homes with colonial windows. As we pass by, I wave to the young couple next door and hope for a sneak of their new baby.
It’s a boy!
Lil’ Prince will have a new playmate soon.
Allez op, off we go ‘round the cul-de-sac and down the other side of the street past the home of the proprietors of the local pub, The Malt Shovel.
On the corner, the decrepit Gaydon Inn, notorious in the eighteenth century for violent highwaymen, still stands, barely. In 1725, a Parliamentary Act brought the stagecoach trade to the village, increasing Gaydon Inn’s importance. It has since has fallen into disrepair due to zoning laws.
Across the street on Banbury Road, a busy highway for commuter rushing to the cities, the Esso station and a quick stop shop, reminds me modern civilization is never far away.
We turn and wind along Church Street, which leads us to the St. Giles Church, as does Church Lane. Like in yesteryear, all roads lead to the church.
Now at the site of original thirteenth century medieval chapel, the current one was rebuilt in the gothic revival style of the mid 1800s. Only the bell survived from the original church, but worn gravestones from past centuries remain in the churchyard.
Lil’ Prince appears to be enthralled by the bewitching stories I spin of ghosts lurking among the ancient tombstones tilting in the heavy Warwickshire fog.
“They look like Hobbit Houses!” I exclaim pointing out low stone dwellings across the lane from the churchyard. Anyone in my family would have to duck to enter the doorway, but I would love to see inside even if had to crawl through the visit.
Just past the church, in front of the town parish, I read aloud the Parish Council News and update Lil’Prince on village events. Next to town hall, a white stone, blue-shuttered thatched-roof house stands magnanimously.
Next we stop to admire the Manor House on Kineton Road, which dates back to the seventeenth century. Surrounding the village, open fields, farms and estates, date back to the nineteenth century and bear the titles Manor Farm, Gaydon Farm, Gaydon Hill Farm, Gaydon Field Farms and Poplars Farm.
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- Thatched Roofed Stone House
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- Eclectic Town Hall
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- Poplars Farm
“How about that?” I laugh as I tell the Prince, “Now we are on Pimple Lane.”
Then, we stroll past the local village shop that opened May 2010. Volunteers run, the non-profit coop providing local produce, homemade gifts and daily essentials.
Last stop, The Malt Shovel, the local pub, which offers a cozy welcome to village life. With baby in tow, we pop in for a quick pint of apple cider, popular in the region.
This village is definitely worth a look see, but,”shh don’t tell anyone.”
If I advertised this gem, villagers would be dismayed. Gaydon’s natural beauty, unaltered by tourist buses, gift shops and fast food joints, is part of its charm.
Like the British would say, “Gaydon is a great place to stop and ‘ave a nosy.’”
Feeling old, achy and foggy brained? Experts say learning a new skill is recommended for our rusty bodies and aging brains. For me, relearning old skills is equally valuable. It is never more important than after suffering a traumatic brain injury (TBI) which can effect spatial awareness, balance, proprioception, executive function, listening, speaking and emotional stability.
This weekend at my alma mater, Sterling High School Class of 1975 celebrates its’ 50th reunion. Sadly, the Big Pond and 4000 miles that separate us makes it impossible for me to drop in, but pieces of my heart never left home.
In the 70’s, our streets were safer; outside threats smaller. We lined up on the playgrounds during fire drills and hid under our desks in tornado warnings. But no one could ever imagine a school shooting.
Back then, we walked through the open school gates freely. Now security guards check backpacks at the door and roam the halls sweeping lockers for guns. Active shooting drills have become the norm.
Not right away. But when Title IX started rolling, we were one of the first schools in Illinois to provide girls’ competitive sport programs.
If we ever failed to toe the line at SHS, we had great character-building role models, teachers, coaches and administrators who held us accountable and made us own our mistakes.
and other chronic diseases.
I stopped blogging when overgrown connective tissue crippled my fingers from Dupuytren’s Contracture, a hereditary condition. A hand surgeon split my palm open, removed the diseased tissue and attempted to straighten my little finger. The dozens of ragged stitches across my hand healed, but on top of muscle memory, the tendons and ligaments pulled my finger back into a clawed position in a protective natural reaction.
After a half a dozen visits, the ergo-therapist put my hand in thin, plastic glove and dipped it in warm, melted wax. Then she kneaded my palm and finger to break up scar tissue, restore mobility and coax tendons to loosen their hold on the joint.
Lately, the medical field has been broadsided. Healthcare workers face endless scrutiny and skepticism under a tsunami of misinformation on social media and inaccurate directives from the authorities. That, along with major funding and resource cuts, make their job even harder.
God grant me the serenity
Have we forgotten our past?
Yet as individuals, we remain impotent, helpless and hopeless. How can one human being, especially one with a broken body, ever change the world?
My old friends and teammates will remember my notorious feet with toes so crooked I could hang upside down by them. Back in high school in Sterling, Illinois my podiatrist, Doctor Heffelfinger, gave me my first foot orthoses. He also showed me how to tape each toe to prevent blisters from forming between my phalanges when playing basketball.
When he described the complex dissection required to prevent digital nerve injury, it helped that he spoke English. He drew lines across my left hand and explained that he would cut into my palm to remove the chords in my palm and pinky. Unfortunately, my disease had advance too far for him to perform a simpler needle aponevrotomy.
Dupuytren’s and the collagen had formed spirals around the nerves in the finger joint.”
On the bright side, I retain bragging rights in my extended Olson, McKinzie, Lechault, Carlson, Miles, Westphal, Zhang family. I hold the record for the most stitches. It will be hard to beat!