One August English morning Joe and I decided our little car should choose which of the myriad Herefordshire country lanes to explore. Idle nearly three months, and bored (as I'd returned to TC in mid-May), this perfectly suited the car.
Off we went, the pleasant British lady's voice of our GPS content to simply note our course. (When we'd had enough, we'd simply press "'home"; she'd "consult the stars" and unerringly guide us back.)
We popped into bustling Hereford to milk a cash point (ATM machine). Then, after a quick look around, the car's bonnet pointed roughly north -- British cars wear bonnets (hoods) and boots (trunks), you know -- and we were off!
The day was fine; falcons and buzzards soared high, their keen eyes scanning the lush, endless hills and valleys for silly mice out for a frolic. The sun shone kindly on this massive, gorgeous panorama. Climbing high, we chugged along, windows down, wishing the English believed in scenic overviews. Never mind: No one was behind us, so we moved slowly, savoring some of the finest rural landscapes in the world.
Oh! For three seconds, achingly lovely, mysterious perfection flashed by.
Close your eyes. Picture a long, slim, paved country lane framed on either side by precisely planted, half-century-old oaks emphasizing its gentle curve to the vanishing point. Sunlight filtered benignly through those sentinels' lush leaves onto a closely mown carpet of dappled, emerald grass.
That fleeting image will remain with me always.
Twelve miles (and 35 minutes) later a small, weathered sign (nearly devoured by a determined hedge) struggled to announce the way to Weobley (pronounced WEB-ley), voted the most beautiful black-and-white half-timbered village in England in 1996.
Hmmm. We do love England's cherished, ancient architecture. (Hereford, population 70,000, has wonderful examples.) Deciding, the car ambled slowly down toward Weobley's heart. A few bends and tall hedges later, there it was. Ancient cottages, pleasingly slanted from the weight of centuries, framed the lovely central village commons. Several incredibly old, gently off-center shops next to them sold books, kitchen implements and gardening supplies. A church steeple pierced the white-fleeced blue sky; sheep grazed peacefully across from its cemetery. You could put Weobley (pop. 700) in your pocket.
The sun blessed profusely flowering baskets and geraniumed windowsills, but aside from a parked car or two in its tree-framed, light-drenched center, there was, except for birdsong, not one sound. No people, even in high summer. Not even cats or dogs ... we'd stepped straight into a postcard. My skin prickled.
Time hesitated, stopped. We looked. And looked.
Across the commons a skirted gray-haired lady left her little cottage to visit the nearby Royal Post Office. She paused. Our eyes met. Looking around contentedly she nodded, then smiled, knowing all about enchantment.
An 800-year-old pub overlooking the market square boasted solid English fare. Three locals sipping lager acknowledged us, then continued conversing in low murmurs. Two tasty ploughman's lunches later we emerged, blinking, to walk slowly to Weobley's 14th-century church.
Its cool, dim interior boasted vaulted ceilings and stained glass windows. Protruding from huge stone pillars were 10 half-size beardless medieval men's heads, smiling, looking disgruntled, puzzled, annoyed or amused; one was even outright laughing! They delighted me. Rich perfume emanated from freshly cut lilies; graves with their residents' likenesses commemorated in marble were sprinkled throughout. It was dead quiet.
Car and guide got us home; still bewitched, we hardly noticed. The "mental flu" so prevalent these days -- madding crowds, and a myriad of modern worries -- had, with a dose of rural England's timeless elixir, vanished, for one brief, shining moment.
Dee Blair's Sunnybank Gardens are at 325 Sixth St. in Traverse City. Visit her Web site, www.deeblair.com for more information. Find more of her columns online at record-eagle.com/deeblair.
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