We got off the train in the small Cotswold town of Moreton in Marsh. The brochure for the house we had rented said that we would just step down from the train and, inhaling deeply the fresh air of rural England, walk a few steps to a taxi that would take us the final three and a half miles of the journey that had started in New York. Yeah sure. What few taxis there were had all been reserved ahead of time.
We wheeled our luggage a few blocks to the High Street and stopped at a small bakery for a bite of breakfast while we tried to figure out what to do. We phoned for a taxi but got no answer. Same with Uber. After a bit, Ann left me sitting at a sidewalk table and returned to the taxi rank at the train station. After what felt like a long time, she came back with unwelcome news. It would be repeated when – desperation setting in – she sought help at a real estate office and in a pub: “taxis are a problem here.”
We had planned eagerly for this trip to the village of Todenham, population about 350. We would spend two weeks there being one with the English countryside and thatched-roof cottages. The increasing possibility that we actually couldn’t get there was indeed a problem. We had been in transit for fifteen hours, but tired as we were, we considered walking the rest of the way. For various reasons, it was not possible. How was this to end?
At last, we got help from the young woman who was running the bakery I was camped in front of. Acknowledging “that’s a problem here,” she made it her mission to get us to our cottage. She called her mother, who was a taxi driver. She was booked. She called her boyfriend, who was also a taxi driver. He was booked. She called other numbers. She said she would take us to Todenham herself, except she didn’t drive. She kept after it while waiting on customers. Finally, she found an Uber in a town some distance away. As if that was not enough help, she left the shop in charge of a teenager and shepherded us through market-day stalls and a clanging, flashing carnival to where the driver was waiting at a place we would never have found on our own.
Jet lag had not begun to wear off before we started worrying about how we would get back to the train station when our rental was over. But first in the hierarchy of worries was how to get something to eat. We couldn’t get a taxi to come and take us to a grocery store, and the pub, which was said to be in tiny Todenham, was no longer in business.
A farm shop a mile and half away sold a few vegetables, eggs, bread, cheese, and (it turned out) an excellent Cotswold gin. We walked there for enough food to sustain us the three days until we could get to a grocery store in Moreton by taking the small once-a-week Tuesday bus. There we would have an hour to shop before making the return trip.
I had only a five-pound note to pay the three-pound fare. The driver said he would have change on the return trip. When we got off, I was about to ask him for advice on how to get to Moreton on the Saturday when our train would be leaving. Before I could do that, he said he would return my five pounds, if I answered one question correctly. It sounded like a good game, and I agreed. With a deadpan expression, he asked, “are you going to vote for Trump?” My answer was what he wanted to hear. A short happy chat on politics followed, and he handed over my five pounds. For that few minutes, transportation worry faded.
While waiting on a bench for the return trip, the only other passenger on the bus, an elderly woman, approached from across the road. Ann invited her to share our small bench. For the twenty minutes until the bus arrived, we chatted amiably. She lived in a small town a couple of miles past Todenham, her name was Sandra, and she was a Scot who was married to a Yorkshireman. We brought up the difficulty we were having finding a ride to the train station. “That’s a problem here,” she said on cue.
About halfway to Todenham, she came to where we were sitting in the back and said she had thought of someone in Moreton who might drive us. She wrote her phone number on the grocery receipt – she had no internet connection – and told us to call her at six that evening. We offered to pay her friend fifty pounds (about $67) – more if necessary – for that short trip. It would be a bargain if it saved us from missing the $386 uncancellable ticket to Penzance that we had booked. She assured us her friend would not want money. She added that she and her husband would drive us to the train except that their car was too small to accommodate our luggage.
I was taking a nap that afternoon, when I heard Ann’s voice from downstairs. When I went down, I saw that she had company – Sandra from the bus and her husband Peter. They had come to the cottage to tell us that Peter was sure he could get our luggage into their wee car, and he would drive us to the station. We drank tea and chatted for over an hour.
They could not have known how grateful and relieved we were. We had been thinking last resorts, including throwing ourselves on the mercy of the rental agency. Surely the housekeeper would drive us to the station rather than just put our stuff out on the road when our term was up. I wondered if Sandra and Peter might know Verity, the clerk at the bakery.
When we weren’t fretting, we found the Cotswold holiday to be just what we had wanted. Most days were bright and clear. We took long walks on public footpaths through picturesque countryside, made a wood fire on chilly evenings, and enjoyed lots of tea and biscuits.
The cottage was situated next to the 14th century church, St. Thomas a Becket, and on a misty Sunday morning, its six bells rang out over the village and surrounding countryside. They are not heard much these days; like many historic churches, St Thomas no longer has regular services. They rang last Sunday to announce the annual Village Harvest Thanksgiving. We attended eagerly.
To open the service, we sang Come Ye Thankful People Come accompanied by a wheezing old organ. A visiting priest, tall, slender, and white haired, read prayers of Thanksgiving, which included gratitude for the fruits in their season and similar gifts, all especially fitting in an agricultural area like the Cotswolds. We sang Morning Has Broken. The priest gave a brief “address” (not a sermon), which made the point of the gathering in various ways, followed by two hymns I didn’t know. We filed out feeling uplifted, renewed, and especially thankful for the kindness of strangers.