Film, Media & TV1 min ago
Sunday Times Travel Comp Feb 2Nd 2020
8 Answers
Anyone know the name of the village and tomb ? better still the 2nd village
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Where Was I?
Friend and I are at loggerheads. We’ve spent the morning pottering about in countryside west of a city, and particularly enjoyed a village church — home to an Elizabethan lawyer’s palatial tomb. Now, over a pub lunch in a second village, 1½ miles west-southwest of the church, we’ve decided we want a more urban afternoon.
But there’s a problem. I’m in favour of a return to the city. Friend fancies a town immediately west of it.
“Come on, me old china,” I urge Friend, trying to stoke the fires of his interest. “Nothing’s going to match the city’s main museum.” It’s not just its collection of the city’s best-known product that will dazzle us. It also exhibits a fine array of 19th- and 20th-century British paintings. And part of an Anglo-Saxon hoard.
“No,” Friend says. “I must see where she was born.” He’s referring to his “favourite author” (brother: Edward). She spent her first 18 months in the town before living a famous youth.
“Museum,” I counter.
“Author,” he insists. In a moment of weakness, I crumble. So it is that, an hour later, I’m trailing Friend in the middle of the town, 9½ miles northeast of our pub lunch.
Hang on: what’s this? I’m expecting a house with a commemorative plaque. Instead, Friend has led me to a cake shop. Apparently, he’s wanted to return since he tasted one of its brownies two years ago. What about the author? “We’ll get to that later,” he says, between chocolatey mouthfuls. “But the day’s already been quite cultural, don’t you think?” “More like a testament to your sweet tooth,” I grumble.
— Sean Newsom
Where Was I?
Friend and I are at loggerheads. We’ve spent the morning pottering about in countryside west of a city, and particularly enjoyed a village church — home to an Elizabethan lawyer’s palatial tomb. Now, over a pub lunch in a second village, 1½ miles west-southwest of the church, we’ve decided we want a more urban afternoon.
But there’s a problem. I’m in favour of a return to the city. Friend fancies a town immediately west of it.
“Come on, me old china,” I urge Friend, trying to stoke the fires of his interest. “Nothing’s going to match the city’s main museum.” It’s not just its collection of the city’s best-known product that will dazzle us. It also exhibits a fine array of 19th- and 20th-century British paintings. And part of an Anglo-Saxon hoard.
“No,” Friend says. “I must see where she was born.” He’s referring to his “favourite author” (brother: Edward). She spent her first 18 months in the town before living a famous youth.
“Museum,” I counter.
“Author,” he insists. In a moment of weakness, I crumble. So it is that, an hour later, I’m trailing Friend in the middle of the town, 9½ miles northeast of our pub lunch.
Hang on: what’s this? I’m expecting a house with a commemorative plaque. Instead, Friend has led me to a cake shop. Apparently, he’s wanted to return since he tasted one of its brownies two years ago. What about the author? “We’ll get to that later,” he says, between chocolatey mouthfuls. “But the day’s already been quite cultural, don’t you think?” “More like a testament to your sweet tooth,” I grumble.
— Sean Newsom
1 to 8 of 8
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