I grew up in the rolling Cotswold Hills of England, on an estate tucked between the two tiny towns of Wallingford and Watlington and the villages of Ewelme, Brightwell Baldwin, and Britwell Salome. It’s a convenient part of Oxfordshire, located only an hour northwest from London.
My children were christened in the Ewelme church, the same church I was christened in and where my father’s funeral was held, although he insisted on being buried in the churchyard at Brightwell Baldwin, deemed much more stylish, much less squashed, and suitably opposite the Lord Nelson pub.
The Lord Nelson boasts a fine menu, two rooms to sleep in, roaring fires in winter, Pimms in the summer, and year-round gossip from farmers and gentry alike, perched on bar stools with snoozing dogs on the well-worn tartan carpet at their feet. A picture of the Queen hangs on the bar wall, and union jacks swing from the low ceiling, reminding us that we are British.
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PHOTOGRAPHY BY MIGUEL FLORES-VIANNA
WRITTEN AND PRODUCED BY INDIA HICKS
This story appeared in the Winter 2017 issue of MILIEU.
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