She stood on the bridge under the gaze of the unusually warm England sun. The river looked cool and inviting, the punters drifted like a dream, and we watched them with longing. It was not long after that we found ourselves floating down the river just like we had seen them, I myself inspired by the sheer Englishness of the sport. A man standing on the platform, pole in hand, pushing it along the bottom to propel the narrow boat along, the people sipping wine from delicate glasses without a care in the world… it took hold of my imagination and would not let go.

My camera was ready to capture, and so I followed after the punters for quite awhile. I took comfort in snapping pictures everywhere I went. Through fields scattered with lonely cows, old cobblestone pathways amidst blooming flowers, people eating sandwiches by the riverbank as they watched the punters… my camera captured it all. When the path tore away from the river, it was a shame to break away.

After an hour’s walk, the orchards were in view. We weaved in between trees, between the chairs and tables that looked so quaint that they might have been a part of the natural orchard itself. Wasps floated from tree to tree, sometimes to wreak havoc on the people by landing on their precious jam not properly guarded.

Crumpets with jam – an English delight. We ate them both quite hungrily. The fields, the orchards, the river… they call to me. And I, so far away and detached from this whole new country, take delight in the memory of our walk. I remember the feeling of the sun on my face, the peace at arriving at our destination, as well as the wonderment of exploring the heart of this country with my beloved camera. It was the English holiday I had only dreamed about, and still dream about half a world away.

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