There was a fine adventure during our first week in England, but I’d like to tell you about one in the second week first. (Did that make sense?) During the first week we were visiting the Throwers, down in Chichester near Portsmouth.

At week’s end they kindly drove us up to Buckinghamshire and turned us over to Paul and Beryl Witheridge, genealogical buddies of Anne.

Like the Throwers, Paul and Beryl showed us a great time: she, a superb cook, laying out splendid meals (including a salmon en croute I’m going to try reproducing very soon); and he, an Oxford graduate, touring us around the University and the old city.

Because Paul knew that Anne and I were both fans of the TV series, ``Morse,’’ he created a ``Morse’’ pilgrimage for us, leading us around to area pubs and seating us right where Chief Inspector Morse had sat, berating his patient subordinate Lewis. And Paul and Beryl also conspired to remedy a problem from an earlier visit by Anne and me, maybe ten years ago.

Back then, I’d been riding her through Salisbury Plain, spouting pedantry about historic spots we were passing. Ground mist steadily thickened into fog just as we approached a major attraction: the Great White Horse of Uffington. I was excited about artist Anne seeing this awesome figure, carved through the turf and into the limestone face of a great hill over three thousand years ago. The figure is stylized and seems timeless; it almost portends those spare paper cutouts made by Matisse during his last years.

And here’s what astounds me: The local folk have carefully maintained the Great Horse, even as religions and attitudes changed around it, for thirty centuries.

The country folk have always regarded it as sacred, and neither medieval church nor the 17th-century Roundhead iconoclasts dared to move in and destroy it. Hurray, I say, for a sense of the sacred! The horse, all sharp angles and vital energy, is a football field in length from nose to tail.

Seen from below against the lush green of the mountainside, it’s breathtaking.

That’s what I wanted my Anne to see, even as the fog thickened. We crept along the road below it.

``There it is!’’ I shouted, keeping eyes riveted on the obscured road. ``The Great White Horse, right up there on the hillside!’’ Anne’s response was laconic. ``What hillside?’’ she said. And what hillside indeed? There was no hill to be seen, much less a prehistoric horse.

When I told the Witheridges about that disappointment, they privately decided to remedy it.

Without Anne’s knowledge, we four set out on a leisured drive to the Great Horse, approaching the site from the far side of the rounded mount on which it is carved. We parked halfway up the steep slope and then trekked on by foot. I can’t tell you my personal elation at find that, though at some cost, I could still climb a height as I had for so many years of hiking in England.

And when we reached the mount’s broad top, I felt, as Brits say, ``over the moon!’’ For the windswept top was several acres of stubby grass, and grazing idly across it were dozens of sheep. As I walked through them, they gazed up with eyes wondrously innocent of intelligence or guile.

Of course I said ``Hello, sheep,’’ repeatedly and got a few baa’s in response.

As I walked towards the edge of the hilltop, still another wonder opened before me: the whole of Salisbury Plain, or at least a 180-degree panorama of part of it. A thousand feet below us, it spread out for hundreds of square miles, blanketed by farm fields. There were crisscross roads, church spires, and clustered village houses. Rising smoke suggested cozy hearthsides indoors.

What an experience! Even if it should be my last time on such a height, no matter; it will live on within me. I’ll imagine that climb and the wind-blown hilltop, the grazing sheep and, oh, most especially, that breath-stopping view of the dear old Earth, still steadily turning.

My Anne, meanwhile, had been walked to another spot of the mound’s edge and realized that she was standing just above the head of the Great White Horse. (Later we walked down beside it, steadily more amazed by its size and artistry.) Anne was delighted, as were our hosts.

Nearby stood a much younger couple, she turning slowly, eyes closed, arms extended.

When I glanced toward her partner, he explained. An old myth claims a wish made and backed up by that ritual at the Horse’s head would surely be granted.

I considered and set aside closing my eyes and spinning. I’d have stumbled and bounced, tail over teacup, down a thousand feet to the plain. But then I turned to see my Anne, bless her, making her own slow spin.

I didn’t ask what my love’s wish was. Didn’t have to.

READ ABOUT Jim Atwell’s book, From Fly Creek--Celebrating Life in Leatherstocking Country, at JimAtwell. com.