When your grandson Hezekiah is born in Oxford, England, it’s imperative he receives as much Scottish encouragement as possible.

We didn’t go as far as drip feeding Wee Eck with Irn Bru or giving him a good whiff of haggis, but surrounding him with Scottish accents at the start of his impressionable young life was his grandparents’ privilege. 

Don’t get me wrong, I love my English neighbours, and found them very friendly and helpful.

Indeed, gravel biking as an interlude from washing dishes, changing nappies, winding wee man, and cuddling 'Hoots Mon Hezzey', I got loads of helpful chats and directions from locals on the ‘Ridegway’ between Chinnor and (P)Uffington.

A glorious sunny day allowed me to appreciate the gentle rolling Oxfordshire hills. The Chilterns are a chalk escarpment, north-west of London, covering 660 square miles across Oxfordshire, Buckinghamshire, Hertfordshire, and Bedfordshire, and the Ridgeway is one of the oldest tracks/roads in the UK, dating back around 5,000 years.

Alas, the walkway and cycle path are rather rutted in parts, and I was thrown from my bike twice. 

On route to White Horse Hill, I took a break from the Ridgeway in picturesque Wallingford and found myself seated next to a bust of Agatha Christie, who lived there in the last 42 years of her life.

Sat there, statuesque and stunned, she scanned my grazed napper, elbow, knee, and one lens missing sunglasses, and asked “Whodunit!?”

I confessed, “Me, Agatha! I’m the wally responsible! But my bike seems to be okay!” 

On the way out of Wallingford, the bells pealed from St Agatha’s belfry. Intrigued, I swung by to see if there was a wedding or special occasion, but the bells simply seemed to be swinging and ringing for the joy of it.

I googled St Agatha, and was relieved that the church’s name wasn’t some misplaced worship of the murder mystery maestro, rather in celebration of Agatha of Sicily (231-251 AD), a virgin martyr and patron saint of breast cancer patients, rape victims, bell-founders, and bakers.

It is awful what the man who tried to force Agatha to marry him put Agatha through. Clearly used to getting his own way, this brute tried to break Agatha’s vow of chastity by confining her to a brothel, throwing her in prison, and torturing her, going so far as to remove her breasts.

The inhumanity of some people, and yet this innocent young woman declared in the face of it all that her freedom and joy was in Jesus, her Saviour. 

Sobered and spurred on by St Agatha’s story, and boosted by buoyant bells, I sped on to Wantage where Alfred the Great, the West Saxon King, was born in 849 AD.

A John Knox type of figure, he is credited with restoring education, reviving respect for the laws, renewing the Church, and delivering his people from a fearful enemy. 

At Alfred’s statue, a friendly local gave me directions to get back on track with the Ridgeway and I reached White Horse Hill, where St George is said to have slain the fearsome dragon.

Another kind passer-by pointed me to The White Horse Inn at Woolstone, where I enjoyed a pint and awaited St Dorothy of Waterside’s sweet chariot to carry me home, and enjoyed some banter with some delightful Englishmen while they drew with Denmark at football (much less painful than following Scotland’s trajectory).

Then it was back to grand-parenting duties, with a fresh appreciation of limbs intact and of a United Kingdom which includes some lovely people and beautiful countryside.