Thirty years ago this week Nancy, Walt, Barbara Smith and I flew to Scotland and went to Rattray’s bicycle shop for our beautiful Carlton bikes. I’d bought them after several letters and a phone call. The elderly Mr. Smith had adjusted them to our measurements so they’d be just right for our British trip.

We entered Rattray’s Cycle Shop looking very American in our new wash-and-wear plaid shirts. A white-haired man met us with hand extended and said, “You must be Sue, and this is Walt and the girls are Nancy and Barbara.”

The bikes were adjusted just right and had our names on plastic stickers. I had not given Barbara’s last name so her sticker said “Barbara Gerard.” We didn’t object.

The bikes were great. Mr. Smith didn’t ask for proof of purchase, but he did offer a bit of advice: “The hard saddle is important to brace you,” he said, thumping the hard leather. “Your foot will deliver more power to the pedal and thence to the rear wheel. The first three days will be murder, but after that you’ll be quite comfortable.” He was so right! The fourth day the soreness was forgotten, and we were happily pedaling along on lesser-traveled roads and stopping at almost every little village to refresh and visit with the local people.

I had reserved space at youth hostels for almost every overnight stay, and we were scheduled to ride about 25 miles a day, from one hostel to the next. We could have stayed forever in a small place called Stow-on-the-Wold in the Cotswold hills.

We stopped at a small butcher shop there and bought beef for stew we would make at the hostel. The butcher stared at our four new bikes and asked, “Whose wonderful idea was it to lay down your hoes and come off on this great adventure?” He was fascinated that a mother and three teenagers, brown from teaching swimming in Missouri’s sun, could go off on a cycling holiday.

The butcher called ahead and told the hostel “warden” about us. When we signed in, she said, “We’d like for you to see the big new pool 15 minutes away at Bourton-on-the-Water.” I was more interested in the stew. “The youth earned the money to build it. We’re all so proud. The teacher will pick you up after you eat and bring you back before the hostel closes.” The plan was made, and we couldn’t refuse. We rested, made our beds and then cooked and ate our stew before our ride arrived.

The merchants and townspeople at Bourton had offered to pay a certain number of shillings for each mile the youngsters hiked, and the money went to help build the pool. All ages hiked more than a year and earned a large no-frills pool near the school.

Four girls swam over to where we were standing and asked, “Could you teach us to do water ballet?” Several others joined us as we taught sculling, somersaults and tandem swimming. I taught from the deck, of course, and was glad because I could see my breath as I talked!

Then they did a floating water wheel formation as steam rose from the surface; our only light was from a distant street lamp. Later we crawled under our blankets, content at knowing that those eager students would be swimming and hiking another year or two to earn a heated enclosure for their beloved pool.