Cobblestone Bridge

When Nanette and I travel to England it’s as if we’re visiting an old friend with many faces, all of them friendly. Recently we were able to get away, just the two of us, to explore a corner of the isles we had never visited before: the Hampshire region in southwest England. It’s not often visited by tourists and those who do venture south, often do so via what the English call rambling – strapping on a pack, lacing up your boots, and hiking.

Nanette and I are natural born ramblers and we’ve been doing it for years, so we were delighted to get to know Hampshire this way. The region is laced with chalk-bottomed streams that overflow with plump brook trout and each bend along the river reveals another timeless village. The flint stones that create the quaint Hampshire cottages and lanes are gathered from the rocky fields that line the valleys.

In my imagination, Cobblestone Bridge is one of those delightful villages discovered on our recent rambles. The scene is filled with glowing sunsets, lamp lit warmth, and the inner yearnings of my heart.

The stately old bridge is overgrown with climbing wisteria. The thatched roofs are built up from bundles of locally grown reeds. In the world of Cobblestone Bridge, man and nature come together in a celebration of the glory of being alive. I thank God for the chance to have entered, if only for a week or two, into such scenes of perfect harmony.