Day 9 - Tuesday's Travel- The Ettington Park Hotel Stratford-Upon-Avon, England

I've interrupted silent moments in the car, and giggly moments at dinner with Scot to utter these words -

"Before I die, I must go back to that hotel in England."

Reflective times remind me of where my soul is truly at rest. That would be at The Ettington Park Hotel. I'm sure many of you have heard me wax on about this hotel before. I swear I'm not being paid to advertise for them. Here's how it all started.

Sixteen years ago, I spent a semester at the University of London. When my parents picked me up in the spring, we toured the English countryside for three weeks. One day, we happened upon a castle-like building on the outskirts of Stratford-Upon-Avon. We drove up the gravel path and were surprised to see that the grand building was a hotel. We walked through the gorgeous halls, inquired about the hotel rates, and sat for a cocktail in the exquisite drawing room (top left)

Fast forward to 2000. In the fall, my parents, sister and Scot and I rented a house in the Cotswold's for a week. One day, we went into Stratford and on our way, passed the Ettington Park. I had forgotten where the hotel was, but there was no mistaking it as we drove past. It stuck out of the acres of unspoiled verdant grass like Stonehenge. Nothing was around for miles. "STOP," I told my father. I got out of the car and ran up the walk. This was it. This was the magnificent hotel we had visited many years before.

The entryway had a reception stand not unlike something from "Faulty Towers." Approximately 50 keys hung from a post, and the man behind the counter wore a rakish cap. In the hallway stood tall rubber boots, loaners for walking in the muddy woods. Not far off, two hunting dogs sat in beds. When I inquired about whose dogs they were, the employee told me they were hotel dogs, and were available for guests to walk. The halls were deliciously rich with tapestries and wood, without being stuffy.

We entered the drawing room to have a drink. Upon recommendation of the bartender, Scot and I ordered Archers and lemonade, some fancy British refresher. I started to hum along with the piano player and lost myself in the realization that I was in the same countryside that The Bard wrote about. The enormous glass- paned windows looked out onto the lawn, and across the road sheep were grazing in a field. I was somewhere special, with my favorite people, and that eye-opening moment was forever seared in my brain. Our group went out the side door and ventured outside to stroll the hotel grounds. It was then I started to twirl. And sing. And run through the grass. I channeled Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music. There is a framed picture in my house to mark the moment I found my "lifewomb."

Scot and I decided long ago that should we ever win the lottery, we would escape to The Ettington to plan our next move. The rain splattering on the windows would be the perfect accompaniment to the talk of dreams, and hopes for the future. My personal relaxation goal is to sit in the drawing room of The Ettington Park and write for hours, and then tramp through the wet fields with the hotel dogs. I've uttered my wishes to return so many times. Once, after my tonsillectomy, when I was praying for death, and another time as Scot playfully tackled me on the floor of the family room. Maybe for our 15th anniversary we'll go. Or when I get published. Or when we have the money. I will go back to The Ettington Park one day. Hopefully sooner than later.