From Bracknell you head out towards Wokingham and then follow the ring road. As it starts looping back around there is a set of traffic lights and a sign for the A321. Take this and we are on the road to Henley.

You first wind your way through Twyford, a Saxon settlement built around two fords that still has some look of the middle ages. If you look harder, built into the angled mud walls are estate agents and banks, these walls of many colours tainted by the detritus of traffic. Through the lights and either side the great English countryside eases by. Vibrant green tree’s, lush hedges fronting vast fields of green or arable farming. The sound of tyres occasionally resonate back from terraced housing that goes half a million for two bedrooms.

Wargrave is slightly smaller than Twyford but richer in the tales from which it derives its name. It is told that vikings invaded 1200 years ago, burying the dead in a massive 'grave' of 'war'. Some would say it is from the settlement built upon a 'weir' off the Thames, this skirted a 'grove' on the outer limits of great Windsor forest. Who knows, history is shaped by those that speak of it.

I wonder whether these glorious black timbers set in white walled houses came from that wood, hundreds of years ago, and by who's hand? All buildings seem at odd angles to each other, oddly placed like some great giant passed through here and threw great dollops of mud to the ground, from which the people carved their homes.

Moving on now we slowly edge forwards behind a long line of red brake lights that snake around the curves of property towards a junction. We have time to take in the contrived names hanging outside the gated and bricked walls to the left. You would probably think some great estate sat behind, holding vast buildings and people of the type that only existed in Brides Head and Footballers wives. I picture 'posh' strutting and floating from the stepped front door to the appropriately sleek motor vehicle.

If you keep an eye out for an open gate you will see the reality is that these walls front nothing more than a rectangular area of grass that itself edges onto the most precious commodity of all, the river Thames.

We make it through the junction and a few curves of the road later we are heading over the small bridge into Henley. This bridge sat here before the Americans had their civil war, the river stretches away either side. There is life here, in fact there is so much, taking the time to look will have you in the back of the proceeding vehicle! There is another set of traffic lights just the other side of the bridge. Don’t worry, we will get to the river and all it holds, although it is not for the river we have journeyed.

Over the bridge we ignore the first left which looks like the obvious choice, it takes you down to the rivers edge and the life we speak of. Instead we head into the square.

I am not sure why Henley is so famous. Over 800 years ago it started as a small port supplying timber and grain for this nations capital. Sometime between then and now it was anointed a playground for monarchs and their consorts, today just a playground of the wealthy watched over by the ordinary.

This is a square you will find in any medium sized village, a church, one or two main streets and several pubs. As it is Henley a whole array of wildly expensive antique shops stand out between plain stone buildings of the 19th century. These shops hold objects that have been made in times gone by, were owned and used in history. These things feel precious, like we yearn for the time they came from, but we struggle to verbalise why. We do know these objects will be expensive because the cars parked outside cost more than we earn in a year.

At the first roundabout we make a left turn, and head under the bunting, through the fork and past the pub, through the streets lined by upright people in multi coloured clothing. You imagine they speak with very refined accents and are called Timothy or Grace or some such, probably spending their time between the estate, the river and the stables. Very occasionally you will spot a gleaming body covered in tattoos, he stands out like the sun on an overcast day, and is glorious for that.

Eventually if you just keep following the road you will see a small sign for the sports centre, just before the Jet Garage. You turn into what seems like a lane that at sometime was tarmacked, sometime long ago. It hardly fits the description of road, so narrow and rutted, closed in on both sides by bush and bramble, long limbs that drag themselves wearily the length of the cars body.

About 500 yards down on the left there is a car park, its like the secret garden, hardly anyone knows it is here despite Henley parking spaces being the rarest commodity.

As you enter the car park, the other side behind a chain fence is the bowls club. Despite a ban and the sun beating relentlessly, sprinklers in the middle of the lawn greedily arc life onto the grass. The sound is rhythmic, captivating. On the right there is a wall of mighty oak trees, but you guess there is more just beyond, you can hear the yells and shouts of people having fun!

There is a narrow path of dry mud lined by nettles and long grass, it dips and then emerges onto a vast area fronting the river bank. It’s about the size of two football fields in width and the river just one pitch width away in front. Heading towards the river there are two more tree’s, huge with the great branches reaching out over the field offering shade.

It is to one of these we head, its not really clear but it looks like under one there is a bundle. The details cannot be discerned but there is something there, odd colours against the shaded green. Closer now. River boats glide past, engines throatily compliment the symphony of life, a cool breeze lazily tugs at our clothing before moving on, skipping across the grass. Across the way a large number of semi uniformed school children scream and preen, testing emerging realisations, this is the summer, there is no better time.

As we get to the tree we can see there is someone laying in the shade, on a groundsheet, on their front. She wears combat trousers and a yellow strapped top, legs wave in the air, arms are outstretched and in her hands there is a book, black covered, well thumbed.

As we approach we enter ninja mode, avoiding twigs and anything that might beacon our approach. She is expecting you, probably even knows you’re here but gives no indication of this. As you get closer you see the mostly full water bottle to one side, the bag placed on the floor as if just dropped from the shoulder and the narrow sheet upon which she lays. There is beside her another groundsheet, narrow like the one she lays on, right beside. This is for you.

You step forward having successfully negotiated the trail to the foot of her sheet and reach forward, running your fingers down the under side of her foot. She turns and her face lights up with a smile that melts your very insides. Rolling onto her side you kneel down beside, laying down and wrap your arms around. The body moves in close, whole and giving under your arms. The smile moves closer, the brilliant blue eyes flash and all the worries, the hassle of driving, the anticipation dissolves and your lips touch.

There are not many words that anyone could ever write that could ever describe the feeling of the next few hours under the dappled light of this magnificent tree, beside the busy Thames, in each others arms.