I liked the name Swanbourne, and arrived at a bridge with a high parapet, and a convenient spot to park. I looked around and spotted a girl jogging in my direction; I moved to the wall and looked over to see a dished railway line, and as this realisation came the jogger arrived and asked: "Waiting for a steam train?" I responded truthfully that she obviously knew the area better than me, as until I looked over, I had no idea whether a road, canal or railway, lay below. We exchanged a few words, and the girl took off her dark glasses, so I chanced my arm, asked if I might take her picture, she declined. I enquired whether there was a station down the road from which she had come. She had not noticed, however she did let me know there was a decrepit house probably up for auction, halfway down, after few shots from the bridge, I drove that way, took a couple of photos before finding the Station House.
It is now a private house, so I looked for the owner, and asked his permission to wander around taking pictures, he was very amenable, and I learnt he was the son of the Station Master, and had lived there all his life. It does however still remain owned by the railways. Initially, I missed his topiary work, though I had spotted the wheels!
Having listened to a bit of Swanbourne station's history I continued on my travels spotting an octagonal structure built around a silver birch. Several miles later, I came across the jogger, and was able to say that I had captured both the derelict house and the station. Soulbury sported a church on a hill, and several houses sporting beautiful displays of colour in their front gardens - I asked one lady whether she minded my taking pictures within her garden; she was only too delighted, and her husband appeared and we chatted, and I was able to mention the Jubilee water trough I had already just photographed. Next was the most unusual village hall I have come across, wonderful fields of rape, (when I pulled up at gate to take these shots, I turned to a horse determinedly using to scratch his backside!) Later at Oving, I spotted the most extraordinary corrugated iron-roofed cottage!
A beautifully preserved windmill towered over a small village blessed with pleasant pubs and full tables of customers quaffing ale in the unexpected Easter warmth, outside. I phoned to ask whether the Westcott Teahouse was open, only to learn the staff were out, and the workers were in the loft! I visited, offered my services, but was told it was already too crowded. I accepted a cup of tea, chatted and left them to continue on my return trip. This took me past the Railway Centre at Quainton, where I glimpsed Thomas the Tank Engine through the branches.
The last images I captured were of a pied wagtail and collar doves on water at Hoggeston, and sheep in erstwhile meadows as the sun lowered.
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