Nearly ten years ago, our family wandered into Hambledon, a little village that time forgot in the Chiltern Hills. It was August, 2006, and we had landed at London Heathrow just hours before the airports shut down because of a terrorist plot. And while authorities searched for the perps just a few miles away, outside High Wyckham, we wee ambling about Hambledon and an equally sweet village called Fingest.
I’ve wanted to come back ever since. And today, I have. And even though it’s totally part of today’s world, it still feels to me, anyway, a step removed from the present, with its narrow little streets, and the occasional clip clop of a horse’s hoofs on the cobblestone streets.
Coincidentally, the newspaper headlines that I read as I have breakfast are similar to those of nearly a decade ago. British holidaymakers are being flown home early (and without all of their luggage) from Sharm al Sheikh–which was exhibiting at World Travel market–because of strong suspicion that a terrorist bomb downed that Russian flight.
Some things change. Some don’t.