Annnd.. that’s a wrap

This amazing holiday was booked through Macs Adventures - and I can recommend them unconditionally.   Except for this small point:

Dear Macs:  You are SO busted.  I have no doubt that your hiking mileage estimate is accurate, if you’re a hawk or a homing pigeon.  But the reality is that you’re not counting the ups and downs in your forward motion.  I get that, I really do.  But seriously, you’ve got to add a footsteps count.   Today, for instance - you said ten miles, as the crow flies.   Hey, guess what?  It was 21 km, as the person walks!  Over 33,000 steps and honestly, I have to say that I celebrated every single one as I finished off this amazing trek.   From the time we left weird old Malcolm in Pennsylvania this morning, until we stepped onto the marker in front of the cathedral in Bath, it was 6.5 hours.  As the car drives, it would have taken about 40 minutes.  But that’s not how Macs works, and thank heavens.   They guide you along exquisite vistas, through historical landmarks, past ancient ruins.  Up and down and then down and up.  Like.. WAY up. You can see the city of Bath, then it’s gone, and you circumvent it for miles just to take in a battlefield from the 17th century.   And then you’re in an ancient forest, where kings hunted pheasants.   Then onto a tiny, narrow path, with sheep all around you.   With the exception of our traffic round-a-bout incident last week, today we had our scariest moment ever as we came through a kissing gate, high up on the hills, and wandered through a herd of fat, glossy cattle.  One serious lady had a new babe close by and she looked at us with a warning, baleful glance.  And she had horns, a fact that I did not understand.  Horns and an udder.  Didn’t know that was possible. Anyway, bravedo was useless and so we chucked to her... "Oh hello!   Nice baby!  Stop staring at us!  Coosh coosh Madame!  Off you go!  Chuck chuck!"   And as we approached the next gate, high on the hill, she continued to herd her calf directly in our pathway, which was about 10 inches wide.  Baby kept stopping for a leisurely suckle.  I was wishing I could do the same.  Finally, I unsnapped Kate’s emergency whistle from her pack.  To what end, no one knows.  Do cows know the SOS signal?  The LEAVE ME ALONE blare?  Eff off!!!!  Anyway, after a lot of respectful posturing in the high paddock, Bossy finally moooooved aside and took her babe with her, giving us the hairy eyeball the entire time. That was the fastest that we’ve cleared a gate thus far, and believe me, there have been a thousand gates since we began.

There is no possible way for the pictures to do justice to the beauty of this area.  Despite the similarity of the photos, every mile or two the view completely changes, and they are all breathtaking.  So cudos to you, Macs, for the exemplary engineering of this walk and for the villages and venues you chose to host the walkers along the way.  Words cannot express how thrilled I am with this experience.  I would repeat it in a heartbeat.

In the mid afternoon, after a very long day, we set our boots on the Cotswold Way plaque in the square on the west side of Bath Abbey.    It  made me gasp.  From here in Chipping Campden - 

To Bath Abbey, 160 km later.   Priceless. 

P.s.  With thanks to sister Jan for the great edit on this very important picture!

Through fields of pheasants and fallow deer

Happily, Kate’s knee responded to two days of TLC and a bolus of ibuprofen, so today found us back on the path from Old Soddy to Cold Ashton.  In truth, we’re in Pennsylvania, about two miles north of Ashton.  This B&B is not getting the five-star award, as it is right on the motorway and nowhere near a warm pub with friendly beasts.  However, we did arrive three hours early, covered in mud and wet to the bone, and the host was gracious enough to allow us to dump our filthy shoes and gaiters in his outside room before allowing us up to our room.  I literally had to roll my pantlegs up to mid thigh to prevent the mud from dripping down my legs as we went upstairs.  All was not lost as he kindly offered us a beer and though I had to drink it sitting primly on a chair in our tiny bedroom (luggage had not yet arrived), it was worth the wait.  So was the hot shower, once the suitcase appeared.

All things considered, today’s walk went smashingly.   We climbed gentle hills out of Sodbury and hiked through fields, some at the end of harvest, some in fallow.  Pheasants called and strutted past us, a he and a she, himself in the lead and herself hurriedly pecking and fretting behind him.  Just like real life.

About two hours into the stroll the rain arrived, without prior announcement and with real intent.   When you are high on the exposed hills it only takes a moment before you are dripping wet, making us so grateful, again, for the ponchos from Ann.  Saved our bacon, more than once!

Our host, Malcom, is a real "character."   We were greeted with the question "Are you Americans?" - and when we assured him, no, Canadian, he acquiesced and opened the door.  "Oh I suppose you kin come in," he said grumpily, "Commonwealth and all."   Most of the time when we are asked if we’re American and respond accordingly, we receive a flurry of apologies - "Oh good lord, ladies, so sorry!   Now that I hear your accent, I can tell you’re Canadians!".  Ha ha.  One lady told us our accent was "Pure North Dakota."   We’re still puzzling over that one.

Dinner tonight is in-house, mainly because there is no other choice within walking distance.  Malcolm asked "Which one of yoos is the vegan?" When I replied it was me, he said "Well it’s a wonder you isn’t dead out there in the forest, it tiz!"   He’s quite challenged over the menu, despite my assurance that a plate of vegetables would be just fine and then he walked away muttering about onions and wizzled carrots from the garden.   My cares disappeared when he told us the price of dinner included wine.

Our decision as to whether we will walk tomorrow is multi-faceted, dependent of course on Kate’s knee, and whether our shoes ever dry, and if the skies cooperate.  If the stars align it is our intention to finish this last leg and celebrate this amazing journey at its proper end point in front of Bath Abbey.  Stay tuned.

Hamish loves toast

Here’s what I admire about England.  Brits and dogs are synonymous and in every little pub and restaurant, there is a polite black nose not far from your table.  Not asking for a bite, mind you, just letting you know, if you wanted to share, that would be fine.  And if you forget that he’s there, you might hear a courteous reminder with a low, quiet grumble.  No eye contact, of course.   There are dogs in almost every shop as well, snoozing in the sunbeams, blinking a lazy hello to the customers.  Dogs along the lane, in the fields, even in the churchyards (I had a particularly notable meeting with an obese wiry terrier appropriately named "Piglet."). It’s all so civilized and friendly and many a conversation is generated over the well-being of the friendly little Scottie or elegant Border Collie that happily sits and receives pats and praise.  There are no dust-ups with other dogs in the pub, although we did note that wee Hamish had to be sent to his room when he got a little territorial.  One can hardly blame him.

We are in Old Sodbury.   Just down the road from New Sodbury and very close to Chipping Sodbury.   And that’s the other thing I love about England.  Every thousand yards or so there is a new village, with its own charm, name and claim to fame.   Today we were graced with perfect weather and we had a few wonderful walks, one of which was on the Cotswold Way.  Emerald fields, rolling pastures, church steeples and bells combined to complete the idyllic picture.

Tomorrow we journey, one way or another, to Cold Ashton.  This is our last stop before Bath, where we will spend two nights before flying back home on Monday.  It is hard to believe that this journey is coming to an end.

Adaptation

A wise and wonderful woman in my life taught me to "adapt, make do, and press on."  This advice has carried me through many twists and turns on the trail of life, including the current one that has resulted in our being sidelined from the Cotswold Way.   Somewhere deep in a forest (we think) a nymph or pixie or troll jabbed at Kate’s knee as she strode past and caused a knife-like response and resultant step-by-step agony.   Brave sport that she is, she has carried on to the best of her ability but when said knee decided to hit her with jolts of pain even when standing still, it was time to break out the ibuprofen and pop on our thinking caps as to the next direction.  And isn’t it just fate that the new direction has rewarded us so richly with the "real" Cotswolds and the ability to spend time in the villages and hamlets with the locals.  A chance to meet this merry gent, who played perfect classical music on a side street in Stroud -

Or to ride the buses, and listen to the blokes passionately discuss the latest "match."   One dear fellow asked us where we were from - and when we replied "Canada" his brow furrowed for a moment then his eyes dawned with recognition when he replied "Ah!  In Norf America, ya?"

We have been caught up in throngs of excited children being picked up by their mums after school, all looking so tidy and sweet in their uniforms.  We’ve wandered the shops, exchanged quips with the tradesman and we had the poignant privilege to spend a half hour with the curator of a tiny WW1 museum, poring over priceless artifacts and fighting back tears of respect.  We happened on a row of almshouses and explored a tidy courtyard within and then happened on a stone chapel behind a weathered wooden door.  Unexpected and humbling.   

The villagers of Wotton-Under-Edge greet you with cheery greetings, and the warmth of their smiles is both contagious and endearing.

Point is this:  None of this would be possible had we not changed course.   After a 6 to 8 our hike there is no energy left for exploration or even pleasantries.  Most of the time it has been dinner, shower, bed.  Then up at first light to reload the pack and put foot on the trail.  So - funny how life works, aye?  Now I can say I have had the best.  I’ve hiked the hills and dales and dallied with sheep and cattle, wandered through the crumbling ruins of castles and forts and prehistoric barrows.  I’ve loved every second in the rich forests and I have shamelessly flattered more trees than any forest might deserve.  And now I get to take in the flip side, the human side, and feel the threads of the tapestry of this marvellous, wondrous corner of England - untouched and achingly transparent.  

From the Falcon’s Nest to the Hobbit’s Hollow

Here is our view from our B&B at King’s Stanley.  We’ve been happily upgraded from 2.5 stars to 5!  Not only do we have our own suite and private loo, the vistas are stunning, and, after spending a few nights sleeping over a pub, the peace and silence are almost deafening.

Rain arrived today and with it, a change of venue.   We found ourselves exploring the beautiful little town of Stroud, complete with pedestrian-only streets and a myriad of sweet shops, tea rooms and ancient buildings.

Today we were more than happy to skip a portion of steep and muddy trail, and we boarded the local bus and rode like royalty for all of ten minutes to our cozy nest in King’s Stanley.  With a spa-like atmosphere including thick robes and luxury body washes and soaps, there is only one minor issue - that being, one can only stand up straight at full height in the dead center of the room.  Walking anywhere else requires a deep, reverent bow and a primate shuffle, else risking a sound knock to the noggen.  With luck that little fact will stay fresh in my brain during my nocturnal wanders tonight.

Painswick, 1200-1700 a.d.

Oh good Lord.  Talk about forbearance.   Does life get any harder than this?

To bear a long series of afflictions with pious fortitude while "waiting in joyful expectation for the glorious arrival of her dissolution" sounds like an urgent trip to the Walk-In is needed, followed by a long session with a therapist and maybe a couple of glasses of wine.   How did these poor waifs make it through their lives, short and difficult as they were?

Today we are in Painswick, after hiking for about 4-5 hours through Sherwood (just kidding) forest.   But truly, it was beautiful and the paths were carpeted with thick layers of beechnut leaves.  There was a heady, spicy scent on the trails, and we continued to share our journey with the local gentry, usually with half a dozen dogs in tow.  Bliss.  We lost our way only once, when the Cotswold Way veered onto the Painswick Golf Course.   I was more than intimidated as we crept down the fairways, vigilantly watching and listening for whistling golf balls coming our way, until we ran into a lady (and her dogs) who scoffed... Oh heavens!  It’s only a golf course and no one plays on it anyway!  Obviously not, as we noted a few Guernsey cows peacefully cudding on the 12th tee.  GPS reported us on the wrong side of the fairway but a helpful gent (and his dog) soon put us right and we descended the last mile or two into Painswick without further problems.

Just look at this village - it is listed in the Domesday Book and very little has changed since. 

After we arrived and stowed our gear, we wandered the grounds of nearby St. Mary’s church, feeling reverent and awe-struck.  In fact, I want to go back there tomorrow to take more in.  It is recorded to have been on this site since circa 1200 but probably even before then, possibly during Neolithic times. It is on the convergence to two underground streams and was likely a sacred place of worship.   It amazes me how tangible and touchable the history is here.  No line ups.  No entry fees.  Just friendly, helpful, proud locals who are eager to share their history. If you want to see the hand-woven alter cloths from the 1200s, no problem, just draw the curtains back and enjoy.  Ancient tomes are there to admire, and intricate woodwork, stone carvings and timeless altars are all within reach.   Most of the graves are crumbled and the inscriptions illegible but there is still a set of stocks anchored close to the court gate across from the churchyard.  My feet were too big to fit; were these for children?  I thought bad kids were simply baked into pies!

We’re staying at the Falcon Inn, circa 1700, and although the floor only has a few dips, the ceiling above us has a distinct bowing to it.  Meh, it’s survived for over 300 years, so what’s one more night, right?  Obviously, no jumping on the bed.

Door knockers continue to be irresistible to me:

And this... beautiful, peaceful, sweet village window.  

Tomorrow - Carlton Kings, which means we are more than half-way on our journey. Such a trip this has been.

The rolling ridges of Crickley Hill

The trails in and around Birdlip are exquisite.  The village itself is a tiny, Medieval hamlet with a single hotel, the Royal George, where we are comfortably tucked in for the night.  The room is a bit dismal but the loo is glorious, large and bright and level.  Hee hee.   Today we hiked with the intention of picnicking on Crickley Hill, passing through lush forests on well-marked trails before eventually coming out to the roadway in order to complete the last few miles.   And there the trail stopped, not because of obstruction per se, but because of a roundabout so hysterically frantic that, after half an hour of tentative fits and starts, we had to give in and turn back.  For a nation passionately devoted to its walkers, Britain provides no safe passage to cross their busy highways.  Unlike our thoughtful country, where it is illegal not to stop and allow pedestrians to cross, the Brits rev up and fly by at a frightening pace.   There are no lights, no crosswalks.  An imperious gesture with a walking stick and locking eyes with an oncoming driver does nothing.  In frustration we turned back and eventually ran into a local lady. When we asked her how the heck to get across the road, she rolled her eyes and said,  "Oh I know!  It’s the worst roundabout in all of the Cotswolds!  Positively lethal!"   We did not find that reassuring and voted for life and limb.  As Kate dryly stated "I’m going to need my skin for the next week or so."

Tomorrow we depart for Painswick, about a six hour hike.  We will pass Cooper’s Hill, site of the annual cheese-rolling competition.  Unfortunately, this event is held in May.   I’m sad to have missed it, as even though they tried to make it illegal (due to the massive amounts of injuries incurred), the local rivalry is so fierce that it continues, despite the risk.  To quote:  A group of contestants is set on chasing a giant Double Gloucester cheese down an almost sheer hillface for no other reason other than to win the cheese, and the glory, thus gladdening the heart of anyone who felt that British eccentricity was dying out.  These Brits live on the edge, don’t they?  If you don’t get mashed up while chasing cheese, the roundabouts are sure to finish the job.

Sticky Pudding Analysis #1

Oy, what a day.  No wonder mutton has to be boiled for hours to tenderize it.  After another day of sharing the pastures with our wooly friends along steep side hills, our muscles are aching.  Those rolling, beautiful hills look benign but they are steep, and the Cotswold Way traverses the valleys up and down and over so that 10 km feels more like 20.  And it rained, not seriously and not for too long, but enough that we had to bust out the new ponchos (huge success and blessings galore to Kate’s sis, Ann for the generous and thoughtful provision of same).  When protected from the elements of wind and driving rain one’s power can be directed to careful steppage through rocky sluices and cow patties.

The good news is that our accommodation tonight has been upgraded from last night’s two-star Medieval firetrap to tonight’s five-star, elegant mansion.   Our room overlooks five manicured acres of perfect pastures at the foot of the hills, and our soft beds have feather duvets.  There are towel warmers in the loo (currently employed in drying our trail laundry, heh).   Nothing rolls off our bedside tables and there are no vertiginous challenges to cross the room.

 Tonight we dined at a fabulous restaurant not far from our B&B where I was elated to find a VEGAN menu and immediately ordered a yam and leek pie.   Ah, my people!  Where have you been?  It was toothsome.  Cresting on a wave of nutrition and a large glass of Pinot,  I spontaneously decided to begin a serious cross-Cotswold study of Sticky Toffee Puddings.   Kate thoughtfully ate the minuscule amount of ice cream that accompanied it while I hoovered up the heavy date pudding swimming in toffee sauce.  As it is but the first of a comprehensive analysis, it’s hard to give it a proper score but based solely on the digestion level, I’ll give it a solid B, for Best Eaten NOT After Yams and Leeks.   We decided to walk home and here is an exact picture of us as we tromped up London Road.   I’m the one in the rear, praying for her toffee pud to please sink down and disappear.

This photo has not been retouched or altered in any way.

In the year of our Lord, 1435

Someone, by the name of Parsons, slept in my bedroom.  Under this same roof, but probably without the same cheesy music floating up from the pub.   Look at this hotel:

Do you see the skinny windows on the left?  That’s our room.  Do you see the odd slant to the roof and the walls?  This quaint little inn in the middle of High Street in Winchcomb has fulfilled all my Medieval longings.   There is a distinct and pronounced tilt to the floor in our room, so one needs to take minuscule, mindful steps just to cross the room.   My proprioception is completely scrambled.  Next to my bed is a small, wooden table, and after I carefully placed my water bottle and earplugs on it, I turned away to hear a mighty crash as they rolled off and skated across the room.   Nothing is level here.  Nothing can be left on the table.   My bedspread slithers off like some great silken reptile and, if I sit on the end of the bed, I have to brace my feet lest I catapult into the wall in front of me.  But wait, it gets better!  The tiny bathroom with bricked up wall (wonder who is entombed in there?) has a tile floor and one can easily skate from the door frame directly to the sink.   It’s harder to come out than it is to go in.  In conjunction with these charming hazards are low beamed ceilings and a staircase to the lobby that is winding, narrow, and with each step entirely different than the one before in size and angle.  I don’t think much has been done to improve the lodgings since Mr. Parsons checked in six centuries ago but then again, this is precisely the kind of history I was after.  

Hiking today was fabulous.  The weather was cold and clear and a good, strong breeze kept us company as we hiked through the cornfields, forests of beechnut trees, and ever present pastures of benevolent sheep.  Our legs felt it more today than yesterday, despite the shorter route - only 13 km but so many of them involved climbing and descending that it felt like much longer.  Tomorrow, we face a longer route and some uncertainty as our next stop, Carlton Kings, isn’t exactly on the maps that we own.   Could be an interesting day.

Here’s a few pictures of beautiful Stanton and some of the vistas along the way.  The camera doesn’t begin to do them justice.

That was a day

I’m not sure how to adequately describe the yin and yang of this day.  Our 16 km turned into almost 22, and that should give you an indication of the literal ups and downs.   There were soft, rolling hills and pastures filled with sleepy sheep, cud-chewing cows and the occasional sleek horse.  Our path criss-crossed the hills, veered up steep sides to the Broadway Tower, then down sharp inclines into towns.  Only to re-start the ascent again, and again, and again.  It was stunning and challenging.  We utilized the Mac’s Adventure GPS software because the map was pretty useless at finding trails that were so tiny; at times we were literally picking our way through the fields of sheep patties.   The signal, being spotty, was negligent at informing us that we were off path and thus, a lot of retracing of steps, gritted teeth and clenched jaws ensued, especially when into the sixth and seventh hour.  The signage, for the most part, was very good but when missing or somewhat deceiving, led to some unintentional exploring.  We actually descended into Stanton twice, thanks to the wonders of modern technology that had us believing we were on the wrong trail once again.  Happily we ran into some locals who soon put our feet right back on the very trail we had just re-climbed.  We passed the same horses three times as they looked at us over the fence, greatly bemused and nickering to each other about sweaty old ladies and the blue air that surrounded them.

However, we were safely tucked in to our beautiful B&B when the heavy rains began, and a long soak in a deep tub followed by a huge meal at the (one and only) pub has restrengthened our stamina and good humor.  Tomorrow we will be attentive to the path markings as we make our way to Winchcomb, only a 3-1/2 hour (one prays) hike away! 

Sleepy, Comfy, Charming, Cozy, Quintessential Cotswold - Chipping Campden

The day is not yet over but it’s break time - time to organize the gear for tomorrow, time for Kate’s last-minute seamstress alterations on our gaiters/waterproof shoe covers, and time to load the snack packs full of almonds, Satsuma squares, dried mango and ginger chocolate.  We have had the most wonderful morning exploring Market Street and High Street, soaking up the history that one can find only in a Medieval village.   We bounce from century to century - dinner in a pub from the 1700’s, coffee this morning in a shop with stone, post and beam from the 1500’s.  The church of St. James gazes benevolently down on this sweet, cobblestoned village and affords endless photo ops.   As we walked respectfully through the graveyard that surrounded the church the tower bells pealed, sending shivers of delight down our spines.  Despite the photograph below, the bell ringer was not Kate - but not for lack of impulse.

This magical corner of England is exactly as I had hoped it would be, redolent in evocative history, brimming with small town friendliness and surprises at every doorstep, including these sensational door knockers:

Tomorrow we will begin our first day of the walk and a long climb to Stanton, where there are, apparently, absolutely no stores whatsoever and only one pub.  But we’re okay with that.  We’re intrepid, we have our hiking malas on.  Cheerio for today, mates!

And so it begins

As trips go, I’ve got to say that this one deserved an award.  I even managed to sleep from Iqaluit to Reykjavik - how often will I ever get to say that?  A big, beautiful AC 787 jet, comfy seats with extra legroom, smooth air and the entire last season of Downton entertained me through the shortest night of my life, given that dawn lightened the sky at 1 am, somewhere over Greenland.  Heathrow was orderly and our suitcases arrived on time, our driver arrived early and after a rather hair-raising 2 hour drive, we arrived in beautiful Chipping Campden just in time for dinner.  This is the view from our idyllic B&B:

Right now it’s nearly midnight in the Cotswolds and my body is in a state of complete confusion, having jolted me awake with one of the worst foot cramps of my life due to sitting like a statue for 10 hours while hurtling through time and space.  But it’s kind of fun to be awake in the night and not care.  There is no office in the morning, no obligation beyond breakfast at 7 a.m.  Tomorrow (today, I mean) we will explore and organize our gear for the hiking that begins the following day. From what we saw on our short walk to dinner last evening, this historic little village has much to see, and we are itching to begin exploring!  For now though, I am hoping that Captain Gravol at the helm should give me a couple more hours of sleep before the breakfast hour arrives.  I wonder what a "proper British fry-up" is going to look like, vegan-style?  Stay tuned.

Hold on to your knickers!

It has been nearly two years of planning, but here I finally am on the cusp of a two week holiday tromping and traipsing through the Cotswolds, England.  The journey begins in Chipping Campden on September 4, and my intrepid buddy Kate and I will walk approximately 160 km through such bucolic-sounding places as Birdlip, Winchcomb and Old Sodbury, before resting our boots in Bath.  Fortified with faggots and mash, haggis, neeps and tatties, spotted dick and as much Cadbury as we can carry, we plan on absorbing every moment of this amazing journey, and I’ll be blogging along the way as WiFI allows.   Hope you will come along for the fun!