In March 1934 while on a tour to Great Britain and South Africa, the Harrises spent a few days holidaying in the Cotswolds at the Bull Inn at Fairford, between Oxford and Gloucester. Local Rotarians were unaware of their presence until Paul Harris went into a bank to change some money. Members of the Cirencester Club visited the Bull, and one, a draper called Leach, offered to drive the Harrises to see the English Wallingford. As Paul wrote in his diary:-

"I was interested in Wallingford because I was brought up in Wallingford, Vermont, a beautiful little village in the Green Mountains. It was a long but interesting drive (about 30 miles). On arrival at the quaint little city we went at once to the church which occupied a position on the public square. While walking about we met an English gentleman of about my age. He volunteered some information and being thereby encouraged, I asked him what other places of special interest had best be visited. He answered, 'The house of William Blackstone stands on the banks of the Thames. I suppose you know who he was.' With high enthusiasm I said that I certainly did; that his commentaries occupied an honored position in all law libraries in America.

Then something happened, the reason of which I could not at the time understand. Like a bolt out of a clear sky he shot out this remark;

'That is just like you Americans. We give you the best we have and then you come around with your hands out.'

At a loss to find better words, I inquired with considerable asperity, 'Have you ever been to America, sir?' and he said 'No'. I said, 'What a pity! If you will come to Chicago, I will show you a city not one tenth as old as yours. We have a population of three and one half million people and we have already built four great universities.' My wife's embarrassment was painful, but Leach laughed audibly and ejaculated, 'Lovely, lovely!' Our guide looked at me quite seriously and then astounded me again by saying, 'Did you say that you wanted to look around? Come along with me. I will show you the interesting sights of the town.' He was true to his word. No one, I am convinced, could have done the job better.

As Jean and I were about to leave him to have a cup of tea, he said, 'Come and have tea with me.' I said, 'No, please come with us.' He was not to be denied and he led us out of the business section to a residential district along the Thames embankment, pointing out the Blackstone homestead as we passed.

I was not quite certain that he was not intending to have us all 'pulled' on a charge of lese majesty or something worse.

We eventually halted at the front door of a mansion inscribed 'Cromwell Lodge'. Our leader opened the door unceremoniously and admitted us. We passed through the hallway and out to a garden backing on the river. The view up and down across into Staffordshire (actually Oxfordshire) was of itself worth a long journey. A bridge, part of which was Norman, could be seen in the distance.

Our eccentric host then invited us into a spacious drawing room and ordered tea. At this juncture a lady entered, whom our host introduced as Mrs Ponking, his wife. If she was annoyed by the unexpected presence of strangers, she had an admirable faculty of concealing her feelings. For all I could see she was as much interested in the adventure as her remarkable husband. Manifestly he had done the same thing before.

Conversation flowed freely in the warmth of the fireside and our host agreed to accept a picture of my own beautiful Wallingford which I promised to send him. I was in fact congratulating myself in the thought that all unpleasantness was past, when suddenly Mr Ponking ejaculated: 'I shall never go to America.' It was somewhat startling, but I realized that there was no accounting for folks and that after all it was my host's privilege not to go to America.

After I had delivered myself of this ponderous thought, conversation turned into pleasant channels again. When we left his home, Mr Ponking went with us, somewhat to the surprise of his good lady, but perhaps she would have been even more surprised had he not surprised her. Surprises were manifestly the order of the day in Mr Ponking's household. He took us to a book store, bought us a book on Wallingford, disappeared then re-appeared only to say, 'I shall never go to America.' Then he scudded away through the rain and falling darkness into a mammoth department store, the facade of which bore the legend 'Ponking and Co.' My first impulse, of course, was to enter in hot pursuit of the fleeing Englishman, sieze him by the collar, drag him out of his 'sanctum sanctorum', ignore his protests and forcibly take him to America, but on more mature consideration concluded to let him have his own way about it.

The Wallingford incident may seem like a fairy tale, but it is not; it is true as above related."

From 'A visit to Great Britain and South Africa' by Paul Harris 1934, unpublished.

Basil Lewis