Strolling Down the High Street

About a week ago, I showed you some photos of my favorite house in the village of Riseley, in Bedfordshire, England, and I asked if you'd like to see more. Since several of you replied in the affirmative, here I am to give you a second helping of Riseley. As always, click on each photo to view it full size.

Denis and I spent three weeks in England in April 2007. One week was spent outside Riseley because it was so close to our family in Bletchley and Letchworth. The next time we're in England, we fully intend to stay in the same place because the owners are so nice and the accommodations are wonderful.

We stayed on a working farm just outside Riseley. The fields of oilseed rape were a brilliant yellow, the hedgerows were in bloom, the birds were singing and staying out of camera range. It was April in England, and the weather was glorious.

Our "cottage" (part of the former piggery at Coldham Farm) was perfect, with three huge arched windows to let in all the brilliant light. At night, floor to ceiling drapes pulled shut to make the space cozy. I'd show you photos of the inside as well, but this post isn't about the cottage. It's about Riseley.

Denis and I drove through the village at least twice each day, and I fell in love with the houses along the High Street. One day we made the time to stop so I could get out of the car and walk along the street, photographing anything that took my fancy. That turned out to be quite a lot.

The first house to take my fancy was this one because of its checkerboard brickwork. In doing a little research on the village, I discovered that Riseley had its own brickworks, so this house may be made from Riseley bricks. I also learned that it used to be the White Horse Pub, and... it's for sale right now. A cool £730,000 if you're interested!

Speaking of pubs, Denis seemed to show an inordinate interest in those. The first one he took a look at was The Five Bells, which I have learned is now closed. That's Denis on the right, walking up to the pub to see if it was open.

So now the village only has one pub open for business. It's the biggest of the bunch, the Fox & Hounds seen below.



While Denis was discovering that none of the pubs were open, I was walking up and down the High Street, looking at the small stream that flowed along the side of the street and all of the houses.

Riseley has several thatched cottages-- and one of the few master thatchers left in England. Most of the thatched cottages were little beauties, like the one here on the right. Village life wouldn't be complete without a fixer-upper or two, and here's one with a few bags of rubble at the curb for the skip.


Fortunately we'd chosen a good time of day to explore because I found myself walking back and forth across the street as I found one beauty after another.

I never knew what would catch my eye next. Would it be shingles in a decorative pattern? Lovely bow windows? Pretty pink flowers in bloom over a door? A vine that seemed to have a stranglehold on the upper story of a house?

I didn't try to plot any strategy. I let my eyes and my feet guide me without rhyme or reason, and I hoped that I had enough camera batteries to last as I strolled and acted like a typical tourist besotted with the location.

Riseley is one of those places that Anglophiles envision when they think of the English countryside. It has roughly 2,000 residents, which is the same size as the village I grew up in thousands of miles away in central Illinois. As I walked and observed a villager or two walk into the small grocery store and off license or felt myself being observed by the occasional driver of a car or lorry, I felt at home.

I wondered if I were to find myself transported here and living in one of these lovely old homes, if I'd feel as content with reality as I would with the daydream. Who knows? One thing that I do know is that, like all small villages, you never stroll along the High Street completely unobserved.

At the end of a boxwood-edged path, an asthmatic WOOF sounded through the mail slot of one door. One of the four-legged villagers wanted me to know that I had been seen and that I shouldn't even think about getting into any funny business. The thud of two front paws against the door emphasized each bark.

At another house, I had to smile. Every village has at least one curtain twitcher-- someone who stands on the other side of those net curtains to keep an eye on all the comings and goings in town. I had found Riseley's in the thatched cottage to the left. Since I lived across the street from one growing up in Illinois, this really made me feel at home!

When I finally stopped strolling and clicking, I went back to our rental car where Denis was sitting reading a book. As I buckled my seat belt, I had the feeling that I was going to be the subject of a conversation or two at The Five Bells and the Fox & Hounds that evening.

That little village still calls out to me. I want to see how the restoration of that thatched cottage went. Are they going to be able to reopen The Five Bells? Will I have the nerve to walk through the gate of the "orange house" to knock on the door and ask about its history? And-- best of all-- will I have enough camera batteries on hand as I stroll down the other streets of this lovely place? I'll be sure to let all of you know!

By the Pricking of My Thumbs...

My Wordless Wednesday choice (seen at left) seemed to have teased several of you last week. You were of the opinion that this house could tell a story or two. It undoubtedly could, and I thought it deserved to have a little more said about it.

In April 2007, Denis and I rented a beautiful place just past the outskirts of the lovely village of Riseley in Bedfordshire, England. The location was ideally suited because it was close to several family members. For the week we were there, we drove along the High Street through the village at least twice each day, and I fell in love with the homes I could see. One day, I spent a good portion of one afternoon walking up one side and down the other of the High Street taking one photo after another and wearing out a set or two of camera batteries.

Of all the wonderful houses along Riseley's High Street, this one-- the "Orange House"-- spoke to me the most. I don't know anything of its history, but I thought you'd enjoy seeing more photos of the place. As always, all you have to do is click on each photo to view it full size, and I hope that you do, or you'll be missing tons of details.

The first photo of the Orange House you see at the top is the way it looks as you're heading out of Riseley toward Coldham Farm where we were staying (in cottage #5). In this next photo to the right, you'll see that it looks almost completely different as you're driving into the village. In this photo, it looks like a group of several separate buildings, and that's exactly what it is.

As you walk into the village, one of the first of the buildings you can see is half-timbered and looks as though it might have had something to do with stabling horses, with possibly a hayloft above. You can see a glimpse of another building behind it and to the left. In front of it is a good-sized thatched cottage, and although I know the place has to be dark inside, that new window just doesn't look right on that outside wall. What do you think?

As I continued to walk up to the front of the Orange House, I was trying to get photos from as many different angles as I could. Sometimes this involved walking back and forth across the High Street. Since I did this the entire length of the street, I just might have been the topic of conversation at the Fox and Hounds that evening.

The front of the Orange House shows you the different buildings and differing roof lines: brick, half-timbered, thatch, tile. Since a brick and tile works was in Riseley from the sixteenth century, I can't help but wonder if this place is made from local materials.

There was no help for it but to walk back across the road and go up to the gate. It was April, flowers were beginning to bloom. An area of old cobbles separated the two buildings in the front and led almost all the way to the building in back, which from its style was probably stables for horses. I loved the decorative pattern in tiles on its roof. The materials may be plain, but what is built from them doesn't have to be. All that's needed is a bit more time, the skill and the desire.

You can also see from this picture the lovely little stained glass window on the wall to the left. You can also see something else that just isn't common in the United States: when you live in a house that's truly old, none of the walls are straight and true. Time and gravity take their toll. The thatched cottage to the left has a wall that looks very bowed, and it's not a trick of light or angle. No matter how crooked, I never once had the feeling that this building would topple down.

Something that can't be seen in the photo above is the window to the left. You can see the merest hint of the windowsill just above the ivy, but that's it. In that window was an old blue glass bottle with a cork stopper and a very attentive black cat. I looked at the bench and the bird feeder outside. I looked at the blue bottle and the black cat.

Instead of walking through the gate and knocking on the door as I'd originally wanted, I came back to the pavement and walked past the house. There was a lovely wattle fence and flowers in bloom, and perhaps the most interesting elevation of the Orange House.

Look at that beam separating the first and second floors (or ground floor from first floor... this having one foot in the USA and one in the UK can be tricky once in a while). Not the straightest thing you've ever seen, is it? And those old windows with the small leaded panes-- and how about my favorite? See that door that goes to nowhere? Come home from the pub a bit worse for wear, and it might be a tad dangerous to leave the lights off while flinging open a door and stepping outside!

I hope you agree with me that the Orange House is a fascinating collection of old, old buildings. I would certainly love to learn its history. It's right on the edge of town and with the back buildings looking so much like stabling, I wouldn't be at all surprised if it was originally a coaching inn.

Now... you may still be wondering about something I said earlier. If I wanted to walk through that gate and knock on the door, why didn't I?

Because I suddenly began feeling very uneasy, and the hairs on the back of my neck began to stand up. I can't help it. When something tells me to walk away, I do.

Was the trip back to the Orange House worth it? Would you like to see my journey down the rest of Riseley High Street?