Woodstock

Back in the 60's when your mum had an 'eclectic' taste in music, weird taste in clothes, interesting taste in smokables, loose(r) taste for sex and now doesn't like to talk about it, there was Woodstock.

This is the other one...

The trip to Oxford had a couple of purposes. First to see where the judges, politicians and foreign despots go for their education. Secondly, a guy I work with - more of this in the next post - is leaving to go back to New Zealand for a few years and threw a goodbye barbie. As he lives in Woodstock, we thought we'd get there a bit early and have a look around.

30 minutes after leaving Oxford on a bus and riding through the lush, green fields of England's home counties, we arrived in Woodstock. Eschewing Blenheim Palace - which takes a good part of a day to look around - we did a quick spin round the village and got some piccies of this lovely little place.

The geographical centre, I suppose. It's a bit too smeared out to make that a definite call, though.

A pub.

The gardens are quite small so, every Friday, children are employed to stick plants to the front of houses. We used to send them up chimneys so they should be grateful.

Another pub.

Not a pub. A restaurant unfortunately.

Vertical gardening strikes again.

Not a pub. An inn. Which, thankfully, amounts to the same thing.

Pretty little lane.

Footnote: Your mum would like to point out that she has NEVER had an 'eclectic' taste in music, weird taste in clothes, interesting taste in smokables (and didn't inhale, anyway, OK), loose taste for sex and now doesn't like to talk about it. She was a child of the 70's and, well, you've seen the photos!