Most people have a favorite place to escape. We need somewhere we can go to relax and regroup our thoughts. Maybe it is somewhere special from our childhood, and it is no longer possible to go there in the physical realm. This being the case, we can always go back mentally.
The memories are so vivid and we imagine ourselves there. Whenever visiting home in England, the trip always includes a revisit to a very special place. By using the five senses to describe the setting, it is possible to experience this journey together. Let us escape to tranquillity in the small town of Olney, Buckinghamshire, England. Olney is the small town where our family grew up; it has been a community for almost 2000 years now. We start our journey by walking up the old high street.
The aged bluish black brick paths are so familiar; we avoid stepping on the few loose bricks that send cold rainwater shooting up one’s legs. The street lined with a vast blend of Elizabethan, Victorian, and Georgian houses all attached, several of them now house small shops. An irresistible aroma of warm fresh bread wafts across the street from Revitt’s bakery. The high street remains the center of all the hustle and bustle of traffic passing through, and voices of local people in deep conversation. The smell from the fish and chip shop overwhelms the air. We now arrive at the market square, framed by even larger houses, including that of the great poet and hymn writer William Cowper.
The Term Paper on Haunted House
... back off to (that lead to deserted houses) loathsome houses. Questioning myself, the thought of how someone could ... crowds beginning to pile up around the busy street market my dad abruptly decided to bring my ... a blood red sticky substance scattered in a small puddles. I imagined it was wine, considering ... with a blood red sticky substance scattered in small puddles. I imagined it was wine considering ...
Now the spire of the parish church is in view. The church clock strikes on the hour with the Westminster chimes. After we pass the church, we approach the old mill. The huge wrought iron gate swings open and we walk through. While walking across the field we avoid the cow muck. There are faint sounds of cows mooing and chewing grass.
The water gushes out of the mill and into the river. We cross over the river by a small bridge and walk part way up the old Roman path. We are here. We are now on Clifton Hills; to our right is a huge weeping willow. Let us sit down under the tree. The branches bow down to the ground, swaying from side to side in the gentle breeze.
The grass feels so soft and is the most vibrant array of greens. The mild wind rustling the leaves of the countless trees, and the birds singing, all accent the continuous flow of the river. Daisies and buttercups are growing all around. There are hedges of hawthorns, rose hips and blackberries.
The biggest, juiciest, sweetest blackberries up so high and to lofty to pick. We can almost taste them. A deep breathe in, breathing in the fresh country air. We see no one in sight for miles. Unspoiled beauty and peace as far as the eye can see. It becomes hard to leave and return to the stress of daily life, we hope to return again one day.
In conclusion, this tranquil place is now visited more by imagination than in reality. Without the memories etched in the mind, this would remain impossible. The walk up the high street never changes. The splendor of the houses and shops stay the same. The smells from the bakery and fish and chip shop linger on. The sounds of the church clock calling out the time, the continuously running river, and the leaves swishing in the breeze still remain.
The soft velvety grass still felt underneath the fingertips and the taste of the juiciest, ripest blackberry savored. The mind keeps this place the same eternally.
