Tine on the Guermantes Way
Tine and Rubob enjoyed a walk along their own Guermantes Way this afternoon, past some of the grandest houses in the village. Instead of a Duchesse de Guermantes or a Mme. Bontemps, Tine's neighborhood has the likes of old Mrs. Riddle -- "the likes of" because Mrs. Riddle is sadly dead and gone.
At the start of the walk, Tine took an interest in a nest she spotted. Rubob shivered while Tine dawdled, because Rubob forgot his stocking cap.
"Looks like a squirrel nest to me," he said.
Rubob was far more intrigued by some steps further along, which he said reminded him of Betws-Y-Coed in North Wales.
"Why's that, Rubob?" Tine inquired.
"Well, all the slate." Rubob said.
"What was the name of that hotel there, where you went to bed after that wet morning we spent attempting to climb Mount Snowdon?" Rubob asked.
"The Royal Oak," Tine said. Tine recalled the soaked sheep that tried to get in the car with her in the parking lot at Mount Snowdon.
"It must be named after Charles II," Rubob said.
"What must be?" Tine asked.
"The Royal Oak. That's where Charles II hid from the Parliamentarians, in an oak tree."
"Maybe the squirrel is hiding from them, too," Tine said.
"What squirrel?" Rubob asked.
They made their way up steep and winding Diamond Glen ("It's not me pump but me puff," Tine recalled her uncle saying on a ramble in North Wales).
John Coolidge, son of Calvin, lived not long ago in a brick pile up a long driveway to the left of the road, but the view of the house was obscured by the trees on the crest of the hill. In any case, Tine was drawn to the right of the road, where a stream rushed down from the millpond.
From the top of Diamond Glen, Tine and Rubob walked along rustic Reservoir Road and down the hill to the estate of the formidable Mrs. Riddle, who was an architect, among other things.
"The house looks rather clunky and ordinary next to the spectacular natural sculpture of the trees," Rubob opined.
"Maybe you have something in common with the squirrel and Charles II," Tine said. "Maybe you'd rather live in a tree."
Rubob stopped to look out over the hills in the distance. They then ambled down the hill, on the path mowed by them as what look after Mrs. Riddle's estate in her long (but entirely understandable) absence.
On their way down the hill, Tine and Rubob passed the house where Mrs. Riddle's favorite milking cow, Anesthesia's Faith, is buried in the back garden.
Then it was back along High Street for Tine and Rubob. They were winding their way home at this point, but the walk still afforded some pleasant views.
"Aren't you going to take a picture of the steeple, Tine?" Rubob asked.
"Congo," Tine said to Rubob.
"What's that?" Rubob asked.
"That's what the girls at Miss Porter's called the Congregational Church: Congo."
Tine stopped to admire some ornamental grass that looked just as ornamental in its winter hue.
"We're almost home, Tine," Rubob said, stopping at a street corner to admire a winter sunset through the trees.
All in all, it was a very pleasant walk.
At the start of the walk, Tine took an interest in a nest she spotted. Rubob shivered while Tine dawdled, because Rubob forgot his stocking cap.
"Looks like a squirrel nest to me," he said.
Rubob was far more intrigued by some steps further along, which he said reminded him of Betws-Y-Coed in North Wales.
"Why's that, Rubob?" Tine inquired.
"Well, all the slate." Rubob said.
"What was the name of that hotel there, where you went to bed after that wet morning we spent attempting to climb Mount Snowdon?" Rubob asked.
"The Royal Oak," Tine said. Tine recalled the soaked sheep that tried to get in the car with her in the parking lot at Mount Snowdon.
"It must be named after Charles II," Rubob said.
"What must be?" Tine asked.
"The Royal Oak. That's where Charles II hid from the Parliamentarians, in an oak tree."
"Maybe the squirrel is hiding from them, too," Tine said.
"What squirrel?" Rubob asked.
They made their way up steep and winding Diamond Glen ("It's not me pump but me puff," Tine recalled her uncle saying on a ramble in North Wales).
John Coolidge, son of Calvin, lived not long ago in a brick pile up a long driveway to the left of the road, but the view of the house was obscured by the trees on the crest of the hill. In any case, Tine was drawn to the right of the road, where a stream rushed down from the millpond.
From the top of Diamond Glen, Tine and Rubob walked along rustic Reservoir Road and down the hill to the estate of the formidable Mrs. Riddle, who was an architect, among other things.
"The house looks rather clunky and ordinary next to the spectacular natural sculpture of the trees," Rubob opined.
"Maybe you have something in common with the squirrel and Charles II," Tine said. "Maybe you'd rather live in a tree."
Rubob stopped to look out over the hills in the distance. They then ambled down the hill, on the path mowed by them as what look after Mrs. Riddle's estate in her long (but entirely understandable) absence.
On their way down the hill, Tine and Rubob passed the house where Mrs. Riddle's favorite milking cow, Anesthesia's Faith, is buried in the back garden.
Then it was back along High Street for Tine and Rubob. They were winding their way home at this point, but the walk still afforded some pleasant views.
"Aren't you going to take a picture of the steeple, Tine?" Rubob asked.
"Congo," Tine said to Rubob.
"What's that?" Rubob asked.
"That's what the girls at Miss Porter's called the Congregational Church: Congo."
Tine stopped to admire some ornamental grass that looked just as ornamental in its winter hue.
"We're almost home, Tine," Rubob said, stopping at a street corner to admire a winter sunset through the trees.
All in all, it was a very pleasant walk.
posted by Tine at 4:35 PM
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