A day in the Cotswolds. That’s what my tour was called (shout out to the wonderful people at Go Cotswolds, a small grassroots company with a small passionate team who will quickly tell you before the tour starts: there’s no way to actually see the Cotswolds in a day). Another early morning wake up call, but for me this is what vacation is all about.
The day will eventually take an unexpected turn, but for the time being I remain blissfully ignorant of that (eventual) chaos. This moment is about my continued journey into these spaces that informed my childhood as a young reader. I talked about what the Cotswolds are in my previous blog on my visit to Stratford Upon Avon. This day was about travelling to a handful of it’s greatest hits: Stow on the Wold, Bourton on the Water, Broadway, Chipping Campden, Snowshill, Bibury, Moreton on Marsh.
When I mentioned my interests in the literary side of the country, the tour guide got a slight gleam in her eyes. I am told they like to tailor the tour as much as possible to the interests of the travellers in each unique group, and this, it would seem, was an easy mission. After all, if, in the history of this place, all roads lead out of London, the great literary minds of my childhood had a special fondness for the Cotswolds.
Of note:
- Stow on the Wold is where Lewis Carroll found his inspiration for the titular character in Alice in Wonderland
- Tolkien’s presence is felt all over the place, having spent much time traversing these grounds, including the famous Tolkien Door (also Stow on the Wold), the Broadway Tower (which I think my tour guide worked in just for me, influencing Tolkiens concept of Amon Hen), the Rollright Stones (which we never got to see), the Bell Inn in Moreton On Marsh (where I got to sit where Tolkien once sat, soaking in the inspiration for The Prancing Pony), and the countryside. For Tolkien, these influences reach all the way up into Birmingham (where I will end up at the end of the day), the place of his childhood, where sites like Sarehole Mill, Moseley Bog, Perrott’s Folly hand us the mill in Hobbiton, the Old Forest, the two towers, and is also the location of the church where Tolkien found himself being mentored by Father Francis Xavier following the death of his parents.
- J.M. Barrie’s history at Stanway House, where he had an amateur cricket team with Arthur Conan Doyle, H.G. Wells, A.A. Milne (can you imagine!!??)
- T.S. Eliot’s history in Chipping Campden, where visits with a close friend inspired what became his greatest poem (Burnt Norton), inspired by the manor of the same name
- Beatrice Potter, who’s famous book was inspired by Gloucester (for me this was a drive by)
My favourite of the places was Stow on the Wold. Hard to beat standing at that door.
Bourton on the Water is small and quaint, and the sort of place you would want timed for a sunrise or a sunset. It’s popularity definitely means crowds.
This is similar for the famous Arlington Row in Bibury, a place that makes you long for a picture without the crowds, which is ironically why the crowds are there in the first place.
In contrast, the grand streets of Chipping Campden, a bigger center (relatively speaking), are conditioned for those crowds, offering a welcome market town vibe with a decent area to explore off the beaten (High Street) paths.
I’m probably not alone here I’m sure, but second to walking or biking the Cotswolds Way, which I imagine this space is really designed for, is driving the countryside. I had a taste of this on the hour long bus ride from Moreton on Marsh to Stratford Upon Avon, which is quite beautiful, and this would be equally true for the train ride running through the opposite side of this storied terrain. This brings you through small towns such as Shipston on Stour, Limington, Honebourne, Blackminster, Upper and Lower Moor, and bigger places such as Gloucester and Evasham, framing your windows with a novelesque, page turning journey. On our tour, crossing over to Broadway and stopping in Snowshill (the picturesque town that provides the home and backdrop for Bridget Jones), Cotswold Lavender was one of the sites which would, for watchful eyes, break open as you emerged from the Hedgerows in their brilliant colour.
And then of course there’s your companions for the day, a small crew of people from around the world. One couple from Michigan making their first trip to England at 80 years old (and still rocking it) to meet their family (and heritage) after a lifetime of never having the opportunity. A middle aged mother on a mission to get pictures of those lavender fields for her daughter, and a couple bound and determined to find their ways into conversations with the locals at every stop (and consequentially became our running commentary on the old wool producing families still residing in the area). Although sadly the only time I had with her was the drive from Stratford Upon Avon to Moreton on Marsh, where she would transfer to the other tour (secret Cotswolds, which ironically was the trip I initially signed up for before time restricted my ability to get to Stow on the Wold), there was a wonderful woman from Australia whom would have made a great conversation partner along the way.
In talking to a friend, I spoke about my overall experience with the Cotswold’s, suggesting that I am absolutely glad I went, I enjoyed experiencing it, but I am not sure I feel a strong need to return. I would qualify that statement by saying, if I did return, I would endeavor to see it from the vantage point of travelling the Cotswolds Way.
Slow travel that has the luxory of soaking in multiple days of sunsrises and sunsets from different angles. Which is to say, I absolutely see the allure and the magic of the place for many, and this, I think, is it’s element. The reason, If I was to throw out a guess, for my slightly tempered response is the simple realization of what this space currently is, at least when it comes to its popularity as a tourist destination: a retreat for the rich. A place you wonder through and admire while knowing it remains essentially untouchable for most of us.
A place where you get bits and pieces of the generational life which still remains, much of that still connected to those old world practicies (hang on to those encounters when they come along the way), but mixed in with the big money, where you have to assume these figureheads have distanced themselves, through their walled off estates, from the same streets we are treading in interest of grabbing those sought after shots of the buildings and architecture they (thankfully) have been forced (by law through regulation) to preserve.
Saying all that, I know that there is a whole world to discover underneath the present layers. This is the same world that inspired those literary voices. This is a history that reaches back to early settlements, that contains important pieces of the UK’s history. And certainly, the further out you get from the popular centers, the more connected you start to feel with this still active heartbeat. A world untouched by the industrial revolution. There’s an irony here. When I made the change from the secret cotswolds tour to the day in the cotswolds, it was with the voice of one of the ones running the company ringing in the back of my head saying, I get the draw of the big hitters, but my favorite is the secret cotswolds. I feel like this might have been the right way to go for me personally, looking back, however, here I was driven by the need to see that famous Tolkien door. You could say I am the problem. In fairness, this was the theme of my personal pilgrimage, and it was, legitimately, a single decision that meant choosing between being able to see it or missing it altogether.
So there, I suppose, is my easy ticket back. If I was to return, the secret tour would make a great pairing with the Cotswolds Way. That to me feels true to seeing the place in its element.
Leaving all potential regrets behind, my day in the cotswolds nevertheless left me with some pictures and some memories, some great conversations and some more to imagine. The final moment of my day was heading to see The Bell Inn, as this is where we ended (and technically started) our tour, in Moreton on Marsh. A picture perfect finish to a relaxing day. Now it is onwards to Birmingham and then to York
Which is precisely the point in which things begin to go off the rails (pun intended).
Initially Birmingham was a stop over for the night, allowing me plenty of time to explore some planned Tolkien sites shown above (the Oratory of Saint Phillip where Tolkien was raised by the priest following the death of his parents, and home of St. John Henry Newman) the inspiration for the two towers in Perrots Folly and Edgbaston Waterworks Tower- pictures taken from google), which are very close togetherbut a window of oppportunity to visit Whitby, which was high on my list, reorganized this evening around a later train to York (the meeting point for my tour of the Yorhsire Dales and Whitby. So plans shifted to a quick cab ride out to see the church and the towers during my stop over.
As things go, timing is everything, and disrupted trains can easily upend any tightly scheduled plans. Thus I arrived in Birmingham with just enough time to check out it’s famous canal front. I would have to live with existing in proximity (a 30 mintue walk away to be precise) to these sites, although I reassure myself with the simple thought that Birmingham would be the necessary middle point for a planned return to the U.K prioritizing Wales and the Lake District. In any case, this would be, as it turns out, an omen for the rest of the night.
Arriving in Birmingham, I was immediately hit by what, I could only assume at the time in my ignorance, was a convention of some sort. I am talking the crazed fanatics kind, where I found myself navigating through crowds decked out in costumes and riding a next level demonstration of enthusiasm.
Or maybe this is just Birmingham, I thought in the moment. What do I know. In any case, that twinge of regret over not trying to call over that cab and making a mad dash for my Tolkien sites still sits with me, but given what was actually going on- England, I find out, was playing in the World Cup- I am not sure that would have been either possible nor the smartest move in the end. Not to mention I am sure that cab ride would have been at minum 120 canadian dollars.
But then again, given the chaos that was about to ensue, I was minutes away, as it turned out, from getting some extended time in Birmingham. That’s how things go. At least I get a decent story from it all.
After my quick leisurely stroll (more an opportunity to stretch the legs), I returned to the train station to board my train to York. All seems good. I do indeed board the train, and (a very full) train does indeed depart the station.
Mere minutes into my departure (I am talking 10 minutes in), I get a muffled announcement come over the intercom. I can’t quite make out what it’s saying, but I catch hints of some sort of disruption. I chalk it up to connecting trains and dismiss it, as I am on a direct line to York. Settling in for the couple hour ride, the next thing I know a train agent is making his way up the aisle, stopping to chat with the different seats as he goes. I get my ticket ready, as I assume this is what he wants. By the time he arrives at my seat I’m getting the gist that there is more going on and that this just might impact me after all. Sure enough, I get the same shared pronouncment that this train, which is supposed to bring me to York, is being shut down. And not just this train, but an ever lengthening list of trains now also going dark, one after the other. Something about an electricity shortage or something like that. Our next stop would be the end of the line, and efforts to then redirect us using different connecting trains was falling apart in real time. This included the final trains of the night going to York being cancelled.
As I mentioned, had this happened in Birmingham, this would have given me that extra time I needed to get to my wanted sites, given that I would have changed to the later train prior to it being cancelled. Anyone with experience in how this works knows that the station is obligated to get you to where you are going, which means when all else fails they end up putting you in a hired cab. Best case scenario would have been getting an extended stay in Brimginham and eventually getting that cab from there. As it was, a train packed full of people now found themselves stuck at this middle of nowhere stop,. To make matters worse, the heat wave and the main event (the world cup) seemed to have emptied every vending machine of water, the one thing I failed to stock up on before I left (or more accurately couldn’t, as they were sold out in Birmingham High Street station as well).
For context, I am now somewhere in the vicinity of the Nottingham area, which is also bringing up one of my other regrets: not being able to get out to Sherwood Forest, and that feeling that I could be spending my time there instead of in this station. I have deep affection for the Robin Hood lore, but it was one of those places that required the good part of a day using the train, and doing my research, while it’s described as a quaint stop (the city of Nottingham), the forest itself was more about the lore than a needed destination in and of itself. A nice place to visit, as I heard many say, but not a priority.
But the lore nevertheless was a big part of my childhood, so here I am, once again looking from a distance knowing I am in proximity to it, biding my time with an increasingly restless crowd decked out in costume and short fuses. I can confirm, I got way too much information about way too many of their relationships over the fading hours of this unplanned stopover.
Eventually we got word to follow the station worker out to what was now a fleet of waiting taxis. When I say waiting, what it ultimatley demonstrated itself to be was another angsty mob, this time apparently made up of every possible available taxi fighting things out for the right to the desired contract. This was a windfall for them. I changed hands no less than four times just on route to “a” taxi. After one heated exchange between drivers, what should have been taxis with six people each started to be emptied out, sending half full taxis on their way. I can only assume this was an effort to give as many of them a piece of the contract as possible, and/or avoiding an all out war. What started as six in my cab filtered down to two. Me and a Russian lady who lives in York.
I should mention: it’s now approaching midnight. Some Russian Vodka feels like a needed thing right about now.
When we finally arrive at York Station it’s definitely past midnight. My reserved hostel isn’t far away, but navigating it in the dark was still a fun exercise. The first thing that greets you is the old city walls. Walking through these gates, which reminded me a bit of our time arriving in Krakow, you enter the old city center. At one point what I assume to be a cat or a dog comes running by me with a significant sized prized prey in it’s mouth. What a greeting from the otherwise empty streets.
The further up I go into the heart of the old city center, the closer I get to what is the ominous glow of light emanating from windows reaching up and down the street. TVs. Pub after pub, restaurant after restaurant, home after home, all still with their doors open and tables packed watching the still running game. Eventually I arrive at my hostel. I should mention, I have never stayed in a hostel before. I don’t really know how they work. In this case I made my way into the building where I had to push my way through the crowd of people to find what I eventually discovered was the check in point at the bar. They gave me directions to the room. I grabbed my key and made my way back out to the central halway to go get settled in. My first instruction: find the door that says basement on it. I’m looking. I can’t find anything. A guy notices me wandering around and asks me what I’m looking for. The basement, I say. He says oh, it’s over here. He opens a door for me and I head down the stairs. Suddenly the door shuts behind me and I find myself in the dark. The door I came through locks on the other side., so I can’t get out the way I came. I start feeling around through the faint glow of emergency lights dotting the roof. Damp, old stone walls. Some shelves. How am I going to get out of here?
This went on for about a good 7 minutes, when the lights suddenly come on, and the guy from the bar is standing there. A split second where I am slightly uncertain about how this is shaking down, but he apologizes. The guy who let me down here, into what appears to be the supply room, didn’t know who I was or what he was doing. “You went too far,” he explains in his thick British accent . He then guides me up a back way I never would have found in the dark, out the door and towards my room.
At this point I am more than ready to head to bed. I have no idea what the actual etiquitte is for a hostel, but I am also not too concerned at this point. Plus, it seemed like everyone was still up at the bar watching the game. So I throw on my phone’s flashlight and find my bed number- great, it’s a top bunk. I don’t change, I just find the closest outlet, toss my bags up on the bed with me, shut the curtains, and curl up around it.
Ping.
Dang it. I neglected to turn my phone notifications to silent. I pull back the curtain, crawl back down the ladder, and silence my phone. Only to find myself considering another dilemma. If I leave my phone down here how do I hear my alarm? If I take it up with me, how do I charge it? I consider that my first instinct to leave it on the ground charging perhaps isn’t the best move, and opt out for charging my portable charger and keeping my phone with me. instead. As I finally look to get what appears to be about 5 and a half hours of sleep before needing to get up for the next day’s tour, for whatever resaon I find the words of the cotswolds way marker back at Chipping Campden playing through my head.
“Now the light falls across the open field, leaving the deep lane shuttered with branches, dark in the afternoon.” (T.S. Eliot)
The Stories of my Life 