Ten miles. That’s how far these Texas boots went through Windsor and Eton — and not once did I miss a highway, a Whataburger, or air conditioning.
Instead, I found myself caught up in something else entirely: a quiet kind of magic that creeps up on you between the swans gliding on the Thames and the cobblestone streets that haven’t changed in centuries.
We kicked things off near the river, where Windsor and Eton face each other like old rivals — one royal, the other academic. From the Côte Brasserie patio, you get a postcard view: calm water, graceful bridges, and swans that act like they own the place. And honestly? They kinda do.
Cross that bridge, and you’re in Eton — all crooked lanes, hanging flower baskets, and tucked-away pubs that have been pouring pints since before Texas was a word. One of them proudly declared “Licensed Premises Since 1727,” which made me laugh — not because it’s old, but because they still run it like it’s opening week.
The shops were small, but not in a tourist-trap way. Everything felt… intentional. Like it’s still a town where people know each other, and the shopkeeper probably went to school with the bartender two doors down. You don’t get that vibe at the outlet mall.
And then there’s the Long Walk up to Windsor Castle — a mile-and-a-half straight shot with a castle staring you down the whole time. It’s like the royal version of a West Texas ranch drive, just with fewer mesquites and more corgis, probably.
This wasn’t my first stop in England, but it was the first time I felt like I’d stumbled into something truly lived-in and proud. Not flashy, not trying too hard — just steeped in tradition and confident in its own story.
We Texans know a thing or two about pride, history, and walking with purpose. Turns out the folks in Windsor and Eton do too. So if you’re ever over this way, lace up your boots, hit those cobblestones, and let the charm do the rest.
