It’s rooted in one of those grandparental duties:
“Grandad! tell us one of your silly jokes!”
Well, what about the root of all literary criticism (and historiography): 5W+H.
“Who? What? …”
“… Where? When? Why? and … err …”
Placenames provide all of those, with a bit of effort. There’s Ware in commuter-country Hertfordshire. And earlier today the Lady in Malcolm’s life drove past Horton, without hearing the “Hoo”. There was the small town of Wem, neatly by-passed. And now Malcolm absorbs his final pint of the night, overlooking the river Wye. All he needs now is Mr Howe to accost him, for the pattern to be complete.
And the greatest joy of the moment is a free wi-fi which addresses Malcolm’s ageing iBook.
… And that is the end of a day which involved Shrewsbury Abbey (the name of Wilfred Owen picked out on the war memorial with a poppy: Cadfael only by invitation), Hereford and the fabulous (in every sense) Mappa Mundi.