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On an
warm and overcast English afternoon, I wandered into Titchmarsh for the second
time in four years. My first reason for visiting was not the pub you see in
this story, it was because of my Dad. Titchmarsh lies in a small valley in the
rolling hills of Northamptonshire. What is wonderful about this part of England
is that the rolling hills of not only Northamptonshire, but the surrounding
shires of Cambridgeshire, Bedfordshire and Huntingdonshire are full of tiny
rolling hills laced with quaint tiny villages. But again, I did not come to
this part of England because of these wonderful little hamlets. The landscape
in all of these shires also reflects a flat and unending maze of landscapes that
cap these tiny hills and dales. These hilltops, which are like tabletops above
the gentle valleys below, became the focal point of the United States effort
during World War II to support Britain and the RAF in their time of struggle.
It was on these small hilltops that the US and England constructed Army Air Corp
airbases for the air campaign the allies put into the European theatre from 1941
to 1944. I came because my dad was based at what is now RAF Molesworth, the
nearest base to the now quiet hamlet of Titchmarsh. So on this warm, overcast
afternoon, I retraced the steps that my dad used to bicycle upon during his free
time in the English countryside. He would leave the base between missions as a
B17 ball turret gunner; bicycle down a single track road into the village of
Titchmarsh, sometimes going no further, other times continuing on to other small
neighboring villages with the names of Thrapston, Old Westin, and Kimbolton. On
my first visit, I came upon the Dog and Partridge, a wonderful jewel of a
pub off the small village’s main High street. One can sense the feeling of
history, and of the turbulent yet unending past that the structure has survived
through. I spent a little time in the village wandering from churchyard to
pub. On this second visit, I came with my cousin to revisit the pub and the
area. After a pub lunch, I walked out front to photograph the pub and low and
behold, sitting up above me in a window box adjacent to the pub, was a gray
cat. The cat was laying quite content in the thatch, gazing down at me and the
meandering English day playing out below it. The curtains were drawn but the
window was open, and the airy motion of the day created an inviting scene. This
particular pub stands where many a man long gone once passed by, and where at
least one man I know as a father, dropped in for a well deserved pint of ale and
shared a few sticks of gum with the young local children outside. On my return,
the cat was an appropriate host to my camera and smile.
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