Hemingford Abbots.

It turned out that the mooring was halfway between the two villages.

I think tranquil is the word I'm looking for.

Or possibly timeless.
I remember waxing lyrical about Hemingford Grey, I believe I called it, "The most chocolate box perfect village anywhere." Well I was mistaken.

Its neighbour, H. Abbots, edges it out.

Worthy of a 1,000 piece jig-saw.

The perfect thatched pub, the heart of any village. It would have been churlish not to grace them with our custom.
Best of all though was the fact that it sits on a dead end road, so no through traffic. We strolled up the High Street hand in hand, only having to dodge the occasional Chelsea tractor.

Watch this space........