#crondall

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Ce bâtiment-là, qui compte plus de 500 ans d’âge, trône au centre du village. Il s’agit du plus vieux pub🍻 de Hampshire. Il abrite toujours un restaurant et un Bed and Breakfast. Il paraît que le Sunday roast en vaut la peine... vais-je me laisser tenter avant de reprendre l’avion? #pub #oldpub #bedandbreakfast #crondall #hampshire #angleterre #royaumeuni #voyage #voyageuse #digitalnomade (à Plume Of Feathers Crondall)

Ah le charme des petits villages britanniques... avouez que ça donne envie d’attendre le bus 🚌 pour se rendre jusqu’au prochain! ❄️ #bus #arrêtdebus #crondall #angleterre #royaumeuni #voyage #nomadedigital (à Crondall)

Je suis arrivée, en cette fin d’après-midi, dans le village de Crondall, situé au sud-ouest de Londres, et qui compte moins de 2000 âmes. C’est donc dans la plus grande tranquillité que j’achève mon séjour en Angleterre. Cette photo a été prise peu de temps après mon arrivée, et l’on peut voir que la campagne anglaise est enneigée comme elle ne devrait pas l’être. 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁥󠁮󠁧󠁿 🇬🇧 #crondall #angleterre #royaumeuni #neige #campagneanglaise #voyage #voyageuse #nomadedigitale (à Crondall)

The hoard contained more than 100 coins and was discovered in Crondall, Hampshire, in 1828, by 18-year old Charles Lefroy.

They pick at my cuff and pull a wiper from my car's tonsure, Atrabiliar and surly, they explore me with censure. Reason falls short, favours the non-subtle extrapolation— To those not open to the concept of appropriation, Someone who wears an army jacket must be in the army, Or an impostor; and the part of the road that happens to be Outside their house, is their own, by camber and corollary, Not for the common; and thus they seize, when they do not get me, Onto the cuffs, the sleeves and collar of my camouflaged smocks, Uncomprehending of incongruous fatigues, orthodox Of war, being worn on the school run; and when my car is parked Outside, they act up, at dawn, undisturbed at dawn, foreheads marked With entitlement, and they make my windscreen wiper acute. Peaceable in isolation, I would merely institute A basis for enlightenment, a parable to digest: I started to help him dig his car from the snow, but left the rest For him to disperse, alone, after he mused tentatively That I had sound practical reasons, other than charity, To aid; he could not puzzle it, how someone could just be kind, Frivolously neighbourly, on this adopted road inclined To flood, though not on my side.

Who is that man with greying hair, who enters alone, appendix to the flock finds a pew unoccupied in the South Aisle, restricted of view, does not kneel or seem to know the patterns of worship, says "no" to collection by simpering and showing an empty hand, appears baffled when the faithful are invited to extend peace, and then keeps staring throughout the final hymn, surprised, pensive, at the back of the head of the woman who turned around to shake his hand? I am that man. Yearly, the squire calls at my house, exhorts continued fealty
 By renewing my subscription to the parish magazine. Dearly dunned, and by no compulsion other than my frailty, I have come to this service at midnight, grateful for the screen
 Of ramified arches. I nearly stayed at home.