Our Travel blog
We headed to Woodstock in Oxfordshire tired, smelling distinctly agricultural and in need of rest and relaxation. Inspired by the festival and our new friends we took to the highway in fine fettle singing along to Day Dream Believer, the atmosphere only slightly ruined when More Kissing in Porn by Mr B the Gentleman Rhymer came on.
We arrived at the site on the Blenheim Estate and took a stroll into the village. Undoubtedly its very pretty and interesting in a picture postcard middle England kind of way but Woodstock seems to take its tweeness a little too seriously. The pubs for example, and it certainly is not short of them, make much of their foods providence and emphasise how local it is. At the prices they are charging you'd expect to sit down and discuss with it how it would like to be cooked and served before it trots off to the butchers.
Maybe the fatigue was affecting us and it would look better tomorrow, when we are planning to visit Blenheim Palace to see where the old bulldog Winston Churchill was born into abject poverty.
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