The battered old blue box faded into existence in amongst a copse of willow trees, its light flashing as the time vortex stabilised itself. With a hiss the doors opened as it touched down, discharging its passengers into a bright summer morning.

"I tell you, Rose," the Doctor announced brightly as he adjusted his flowing ginger wig, "if you ever feel that this country of yours doesn't produce party animals, just take a trip to the 1660's. Monarchy restored, decade of fascist oppression finally relieved; you lot went mental."

"Try Tottenham Court Road, 3 o'clock Saturday morning," Rose replied through grit teeth as she struggled to get her wide skirt out of the TARDIS' door. "Cheaper, nearer and probably just as mental."

The Doctor turned and smirked as he watched Rose emerge flushed out of the TARDIS. She'd thrown a fit at the first sight of the dress she'd have to wear to blend in with the crowd; I do not wear clothes that are wider than a car! she'd screeched at the sight of the cage-like farthingale. "Rose, I've no desire to see you tottering about on a pair of stilettos in a dress that looks like a belt that's had a growth spurt in the middle of 21st-century London," he retorted as he pulled out the embroidered cuffs

on his justacorps, adjusting his cravat. "I can do that any time," he added more subtly.

He stumbled as an ivory fan smacked his shoulder, wielded by an indignant Rose. "I don't know how they got around," she complained, hitching up her voluminous skirt to meander through the trees. "It's like wearing a tent!"

"Funny, I swear I met a woman from the 45th century who said the same about hoodies," the Doctor replied smartly as he offered out his arm. Rose grasped the crook of his elbow, frowning as she let him lead her out of the woods. They were greeted by a picturesque panorama of 16th-century village life; ploughed fields rolled out, seemingly forever, dotted by farmhouses producing all the smells and sounds of country work. In the distance lay a small town, quiet and sleepy, though already beginning to bustle with the noise of tradesmen and smithies preparing for the day's work ahead.

Rose fanned herself idly as she scanned the unfolding world.. "It's just like out of a painting," she murmured, a wondrous smile beginning to spread over her face. The Doctor, however, was not so enamoured.

"The wrong painting," he replied with a frown. "We were meant to be in St. James' Park, in the middle of London!" He squinted to see what lay on the horizon. "We're at least…forty miles north of it, I'd say," he muttered, irritated.

"Oh, this is just gorgeous!" Rose interrupted, stepping forward as if to embrace the whole vista. "It's so bright and fresh and everything's just so…green!" The Doctor raised a single eyebrow. Had she heard a word he'd said?

"I said," he repeated more softly, "that we're forty miles from London. Can't flag down a black cab here, can't get the Intercity to Waterloo. If we're here in the 1660's, then we're here in the 1660's, we can't feasibly get anywhere el-"

His sudden silence intimidated Rose. "Doctor?" she asked, turning to face him. "What's wrong?" The Doctor was staring intently at a mass of men marching down the dirt road to the village. Pulling a pair of slim, brass binoculars out of an inside pocket his body tensed up as he saw a red-uniformed gentleman riding a white horse with his sword unsheathed, leading a body of up to a hundred stone-faced, pike-wielding soldiers directly to the unknowing village. "Doctor?" she asked again, grasping his arm. "Who are they?"

"They're the New Model Army," the Doctor replied with a dry mouth. "Oliver Cromwell's elite soldiers, one of the most brutal and feared army units your country's ever produced." He pocketed his binoculars and pulled off the hot, heavy wig to wipe the sweat from his brow. "We're not here in the 1660's," he said as he turned to Rose, "we're here in the 1650's." Rose's eyes widened in fear and confusion. "Welcome to the decade of fascist oppression."