Bourn is a lovely village, a step back in time for us Americans with its narrow streets, thatched cottages, and pretty gardens. Larry and I helped ourselves to free pears offered by a generous resident as we rambled about.
Inside was again similar to the other churches; hushed, stone arches, tombs in the floor and along the walls, stained glass, beautiful wood pews, a font...I tried to imagine my great-greats sitting in those pews, heads bowed. What did they look like? Were there little children lined up beside them. squirming and being given stern looks? Were there glances between young teens, and giggles? I strained to hear the voices soaring in an ancient hymn.
The exterior of the church is in great condition; the stone masons of those long ago days knew their trade well. This church also dates to the Norman times, although it has probably been added on to a few times over the years.
It was getting late when we left, and we had the most important place of all still to visit: Caldecote, where my mother was born.
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