Chapter 99: Along the Windrush
An hour had passed on the single-track lane. Barely a handful of cars had gone by. I was hoping to get to my great-uncle and aunt’s in Burford but it seemed a long way from Snowshill. I had the nearest town on my sign but that seemed a long way too. 10 miles was too far to walk.
Finally, a car.
It crawled up the hill, then slowed to a halt beside me. A friendly couple smiled through the window and said they could take me. Relieved - a lift at last - we set off, through the Cotswolds. Snowshill disappeared behind the bridal hedgerows.
Bron and Mike were driving home from a day at Snowshill Manor. It had been a good trip. The house is famed mainly for its collection of curiosities. “It was a bit dodgy though,” Bron qualified, “he made all his money in slavery.”
Bron had lived in Cirencester all her life and that’s where they were headed now. When she was younger she would hitchhike into town to nanny children. I said they could drop me on the main road and I could catch a lift to Burford from there. “Oh don’t worry,” Bron said, “We can take you to Burford. It’s not too far out of the way.”
Bron was enjoying driving. It was a nice evening and besides, she said she needed the practice. Mike was usually behind the wheel but he had an accident a month ago and lost his license. “I’m rather enjoying being driven,” he chimed cheerfully.
Mike had been working in deliveries when the accident happened. He picked up a van, brand new, two miles on the clock, drove it off the forecourt then blacked out. When he came to it was on fire and he was being dragged out by a lorry driver. Remarkably, besides a slight bash to the chest, he was ok. A little shaken of course.
The week of Easter was spent being tested in hospital but they couldn’t find the cause of the blackout. Mike thought the wind was the most likely explanation for the crash. It was strong that day and probably caught the empty van, blowing it off course and into the trunk of a tree. Either way, they’d revoked his license and he was given six months off work. “So now I’m practising for retirement!”
Fortunately for Bron, Mike used to be a driving instructor, so he was helping her get her confidence back. “Not to make you nervous or anything…!” She joked.
Mike and Bron met 12 years ago on a dating website. They said such sites are very good for connecting older couples. It’s tricky to meet people in that way otherwise. They told me about a friend of theirs whose husband of 46 years died during Covid. When she was ready she went online and met someone. They fell in love and now they were moving in together. “People say it’s scary,” Bron said, “but really it’s much scarier meeting someone in a pub.”
Bron used to work for the Sunday school. When her children were just growing up, the local vicar came to her and said, “I know you want an office job…but how about being an undertaker?” A receptionist role had come up at the local co-op. She took it nervously and on the first day, she picked her daughter up from school in a limousine. “She was really embarrassed!” Bron chuckled, “I said, at least it’s not a hearse!”
After a while, Bron found herself helping out more and more in the mortuary. She began with dressing the bodies, then slowly got involved in the ceremonies themselves. Soon she was a manager.
It was rewarding work. We don’t talk about death much as a society, but as an undertaker you’re faced with it all the time. There are hard moments of course. Trying to remain professional when directing a friend’s funeral is not easy, though it gave her friends an appreciation of what she did. People used to joke, “Oh you’re an undertaker, do you only work in the morning?” But after going through the process, they were grateful.
There were other hard times. A while back she had to direct a funeral for a 19-year-old who’d died in Australia on his gap year. He didn’t have insurance so it had cost the family thousands to get his body home. “Of course you put on a brave face and be professional, but you’d cry as soon as you were behind closed doors,” she recalled. Babies and children were difficult too. But for all its trials, there were many upsides. It gave Bron a rich appreciation of life for one.
I said all the funeral directors I’d met had had a sense of humour. “Oh yes,” she agreed, “You’ve got to. Of course, you’re respectful to the customers but you can’t do the job without one!”
The road came into a beech wood and a sudden sparkle of colour filled the car. A blanket of bluebells, kingfisher colour, glinting on the silver trunks, unfurled all around. They blurred as we drove through the wood, an ethereal streak that seemed to hover above the ground. There are few sights so magnificent.
We reached Burford soon after. The high street, lined at the top with limes, is as handsome as any in England. I thanked them and stepped onto the street. We bid each other farewell and I told them how much I’d enjoyed the journey, joking that I hoped my next lift from an undertaker wouldn't be in a box.
I walked down the high street and crossed the gold-stone bridge over the Windrush. Fitting I thought, given the river’s source is not far from Snowshill. It meets the Thames at Newbridge then flows on to London. I hoped to get there by nightfall.
I climbed the hill to Richard and Dido’s. My cousin Lucy was there too and we had tea in the conservatory. It was lovely to see them all. Their interest in history is no doubt the genesis of my own and we reminisced about when I was a kid and my siblings and I would go into the garden to look for Roman coins. I remember the thrill of finding one, pinching it with grubby fingers in the flower beds, the copper green and furry. Years later, I realised Richard had quietly placed it there.
I couldn’t stay long, it was getting late and the clouds had come in, heavy and dark. It looked like rain.
Richard kindly offered me a lift to the main road, and we drove back up the high street, past the church where, in 1649, 300 Levellers were imprisoned for their radical belief in equality, religious tolerance and common land rights. They carved their names on the font before the ring leaders were shot. Richard has written a book on the churches of Oxfordshire which helped instil in me a strong belief that it’s always worth going in if you’re passing.
We reached the main road as a light rain began. Richard wished me luck getting back to London, and I promised to give updates on my progress.
Ten minutes later I was on my way.