The cemetery at Shipton-under-Wychwood.
We had already enjoyed several memorable encounters with some real Brits out in the English countryside. For example, a couple of days earlier, we had come upon the gentleman on the previous page. He had left his bicycle leaning up against a tree and was unhurriedly sipping his afternoon tea on this ancient footbridge. As we pedaled up to him, we paused and asked if he were concerned about the black thunderheads building on the horizon. He looked up and studied the sky carefully for a moment. Then, in his precise, posh English, as if he were Sherlock Holmes explaining an obvious deduction to a befuddled Watson, he replied “actually, not at all. It appears that the cumulonimbus is indeed building steadily but slowly and traveling in a northwesterly direction at what I would estimate to be 10 miles an hour. My home, you see, lies in a westerly direction and is only five miles away. While considering that I will be bicycling at my normal speed of approximately 15 miles an hour, by my calculation, I still have ten minutes left to enjoy my tea. At which time, I shall mount my bicycle and proceed, arriving home at least five minutes before the rain begins.” Before we said goodbye, this gentleman observed “it is said that you Americans live to work, while we British work to live. Would you agree?” From what we’ve seen, we definitely agreed. This particular Tuesday morning, we’d gotten separated from our group and pedaled alone into a sleepy-looking hamlet. The name of this little town that time had apparently forgotten was Shipton-under-Wychwood. More or less a typical Cotswold village, it featured the requisite Norman-era, abandoned ancient church. 236