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Wednesday, February 15, 2006

A Visit to the Cotswolds


Friday, 29 April, 2005 : My first experience of communicating with horses, the Parelli way. Felicia drops me off early at Chillington farm, leaving me enough time for a rejuvenating birding ramble. Spot a yellowhammer, a first! I am on a roll, just yesterday I had another first, a siskin which popped out of a hedge while I was jogging, almost making me abandon the run. Near a murky patch, I sight three lapwings. Marvel at the acrobatical manner they twist and turn in the air; other acrobats on the wing vie for attention too, barn swallows darting about the field at great speed, flitting inches above the ground. Spring is here, the birds are at play.
The course starts off well. Ingela Sainsbury, a tall Swiss blonde well respected for her work with equestrians, teaches us a novel way of communing with your horse. For centuries man has been training horses to do what he wants by beating them into submission with bridle and whip. Parelli does away with the old school of thought. Here, bearing in mind that the horse is a ‘flight’ animal whose basic instinct is to follow the group leader, Parelli comes up with definite steps on how to play group leader with the horse, who soon learns to trust you enough to follow you through hell and high water. I watch an amazing demonstration by Ingela, where with a slight inclination of her head or the wriggling of a finger, she is able to make the horse follow her instructions. In fact, I hear that Parelli experts can tame a fully wild stallion in fifteen minutes! Monty Roberts, the American horse whisperer whose understanding of ‘horse language’ came from observing them in the wild, runs a similar school of thought, but apparently his methods are not so user friendly--whatever that means.
I get a lift back home with Chris, a British woman who organises equestrian holidays all over the world, from Montana to Rajasthan.
Saturday, 30 April: Felicia joins me at the Parelli camp; she too finds it interesting. It is a long day, for a few moments my attention wavers as I see a bird fly up into a tree a good hundred metres away. I realise that it is a spotted woodpecker, another first! (This discounts the dead spotted woodpecker brought in by a friend’s cat some months ago) Felicia is sceptical, but when it flies out across the fields in its characteristic undulating manner, she accepts my finding.

Sunday, 1 May: We meet an adventurous newly wed couple--Luis Dias, a Goan doctor and Chryselle, a pretty freelance writer, who are spending a weekend in the Cotswolds, a very picturesque part of rural England. Thanks to Felicia’s job as a vet, I have sampled much of quintessential England- busy farm life, quaint little cottages, splendid mansions and breathtaking countryside. Villages in the Cotswolds are even more so, with painstakingly maintained gardens and ‘drystone’ walls, which use no cement. The houses, built with honey coloured limestone date back to the 16th century, have hardly been altered, and seem steeped in history. It is a beautiful place, but I could never live here, it is too perfect for my liking.
Nearby is a small bird park; as far as bird parks go, I have several reservations-- but I am curious to see how this park is managed… maybe I am biased against zoos, and this one will bring about a shift in attitude. ‘Birdland’ has about 500 avians, belonging to about 120 different species such as king penguins, sacred ibis, marabou stork, tragopans, ermine bee eaters, Bali starling, demoiselle crane, fulvous tree duck, African spoonbill, kookaburra, Moluccan cockatoo, and various jays etc. A few species like the night heron, glossy ibis and the spotbilled duck are featured from the Indian subcontinent. There is even a bird of prey display, where I get to hold a forest eagle owl who quite understandably hates the camera. We also see a neurotic parrot who has preened itself so much out of boredom that its primaries and tail feathers are worn stiff—I guess that sums up “Birdland.”
Later we lunch on a busy lawn alongside a stream in Bourton-on- the-Water, along with a number of tourists in the bright sunshine, all determined to make the best of the excellent weather. Bikers roar down the streets on vintage bikes to a rally somewhere beyond, children splash around in the stream. Luis helps a Japanese tourist load film in his camera; there seem to be a large number of Japanese tourists all over. In fact, the official Cotswold website is hosted in two languages, English and Japanese. Apparently, tour operators bring them here after spiriting them through nearby Stratford Upon Avon, the birth place of Shakespeare.
We next opt for the ‘Oxfordshire Walk’, a stroll through meadows flush with many protected wild flowers. Once again I marvel at the way the National Trust looks look after the countryside here; they do not ruin a heritage site with development as we do in India, instead they go to great lengths to keep it rustic, with only the hint of a signboard to guide the way. I spot a few butterflies: a small tortoiseshell basking patiently, an orange tip dancing about in the sunshine. Yellows and blues flit about happily in the fields, through which wind small streams. A grey heron circles high above, lazily riding a thermal; this is the first time I have seen a grey heron do that. Felicia and Luis also watch it climb higher and higher.
We walk to a lake where I am elated to see Canada goose, tufted duck and red crested pochard with my binoculars. Felicia points to the far side of the lake, claiming that there is a somormujo!
A what? Those are all ducks, I reply.
No, she insists. One of them is not a duck.
I look at her look at a tiny speck across the lake without any binoculars… even with my binocs I can barely make out the bird. What the hell is she talking about? Undaunted, she thumbs through my birdguide.
“It is probably a juvenile crested pochard,” I say, in an attempt to dismiss her claim. We argue some more. She keeps leafing through the book, to finally point at a bird…a great crested grebe! I peer though my binoculars once again, this bird does not mingle with the tufted ducks, and it does have a crest…indeed, it turns out to be a great crested grebe! We share our finding with Luis, who is also delighted at the discovery. The grebe comes closer later, enabling us to confirm the sighting.. another first!
(Later, Felicia confessed that it was only wishful thinking about the somormujo. When her astonishing wild guess proved true, she was even more surprised than I was!)
A great walk, I am more than thrilled!

It is five thirty, we drive to another village, Chipping Norton. On the outskirts we see an imposing old factory, now converted into apartments.At Chipping Norton we see a poster advertising a dine n’ dance. As we pass the venue of the dance, Luis sees some people decorating the hall. He chats with them, they invite us to the dance but we are hesitant--we fear we are too scruffy to grace their event. That does not matter, one of them explains, this is a wartime dance which will be frequented by people in fancy dress costume. Very reluctantly we retreat, telling them that we would love to come, but will have to desist.
As we walk to the car we abruptly change our minds, deciding to go for the dance. However, we are not keen on the dinner which is bound to be a stuffed shirt affair. The organisers don’t mind us opting only for the dance, which comes at a huge discount.
Luis drops his car back at the bed n breakfast where they are staying, together we all set out for the dance. We dine at a Bangladeshi restaurant where Luis and I relish a chicken vindaloo, while Felicia and Chryselle opt for tamer fare.
As we enter the dance hall, everyone stares at us. The men are in black suits and ties, the women dressed to the nines, with only a handful in wartime attire. We feel their hard scrutiny; I hold our tickets out, we might look scruffy but at least we won’t look like we are gatecrashers.
The music begins with a perky quickstep, not my biggest favourite, causing me to fumble around the dance floor.
However I soon begin to relax, with a little help from Felicia we manage to get by. When the foxtrot comes on, I drag Felicia onto the floor. Luis and Chryselle are not doing too badly either. By now, people are beginning to give us surprised looks. After we whiz through a waltz . a young man comes up to us and asks us whether we are professional dancers. Course not, we laugh, we just love to dance, and a good dance is hard to come by in England.
I see a lot of girls sitting alone, once in a while they get up to dance, usually with their father; they seem miserable, I don’t blame them. How often I have seen similar scenes in Goa. They say the loneliest place in the world is a dance floor. Maybe so, I have had my share of misfortunes on dance floors-- but not tonight ..tonight the best is yet to come for Felicia and me.
The next session is a jive, my favourite. Felicia and I have not jived for ages, but it does not matter; I love to jive, when Bill Haley and the Comets begin to turn up the heat, I am scarcely aware of what I am doing…all I know is that when Jailhouse Rock ends, all the people in the hall start to clap, and I am too embarrassed to look up.
There is a singsong; Felicia and I are tickled to see Luis singing away to all the wartime songs, while the Brits maintain a stony silence!
The dance winds up at eleven thirty, we drop Luis and Chryselle at the bed n breakfast, and begin the long drive back to Bridgnorth, feeling very pleased with ourselves. Ah, a day well spent!

2 Comments:

At 7:57 am, Blogger Cristina Costa said...

welcome to blogsphere!
Loved the pics. So bucolic, so pleasant!

 
At 7:00 pm, Blogger Miss Frangipani said...

Gosh! It's almost a year already! Must head that way again, soon!

:)

F, have a good trip to Spain.

Love,
MW

 

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