27-29 August 2005
Moreton-in-Marsh, Chipping Campden, Broadway, Stanton
For three days I have lived my life as a tramp. I have had no chance to make proper notes because I have been constantly on the move. I have travelled on foot from one village to another. I have passed beautiful valleys and hills. I have crossed numerous farms. I have had wordless dialogues with cattle, sheep and horses. I have camped on private farmland overnight, risking the wrath of the farmer. I have used the public toilets for relief. Where I have lost my way the adventure has been greater.
I am making these notes a few days after my return. I hardly remember what I saw where. Yet some images are so vivid that they are not forgotten so soon.
I started at Moreton-in-Marsh, a sensible starting point because this is one of the few Cotswold towns connected by rail. Unfortunately I was late to arrive. Only last week I spoke of my own discipline. To be without exception is an unlikely exception. It had been a long week at work and I decided to get an extra hour of sleep on Saturday morning. The result was that I had to endure long waits at Reading and Oxford to get to Moreton-in-Marsh where I had missed all suitable buses to Broadway. So a quick change of plan was necessary.
From my brief look, Moreton-in-Marsh didn’t look all that interesting. It was therefore sensible to leave it quickly. A bus to Chipping Campden was available and I took it. So for the second time within a span of just one week, I found myself at this pretty town with its narrow lanes, packed row of stone buildings and the familiar Market Hall. There are no harsh colours at Chipping Campden. Every tone is harmoniously arranged within the overall mood. The doors are painted red, blue or black but these do not distract the eye. The town stands as the timeless beauty of a black & white photograph. Here I commenced my tramp for the weekend.
The Cotswold Way leads my way. From Chipping Campden the path climbs steadily towards Dover’s Hill. Looking back along this path the view of the town just left behind is splendid. Chipping Campden is pleasantly situated in a quiet valley surrounded by hills all around. The late summer colours of green and golden brown are predominant. To this rather uniform scene there is one tree that stands out, balances the picture and heightens the mood: the tall Lombardy Poplars. They break the horizontal lines and curves by their vertical clumps. They add interest to the hills the way a church tower adds interest to a village or town.
From Dover’s Hill, the Cotswold Way continues an easy stretch to Broadway Hill and its folly tower before descending to the town of Broadway. The view from the Tower is different, unlike the picture of Chipping Campden seen earlier. Here we are on relatively higher ground. The town of Broadway merges well into the landscape. The details of the town are lost. The magic of the poplars remain unseen. Here the bigger picture takes over. Details are flattened. Hills far and near are seen in one sweeping view. So are woods, farms, clouds, peaks and valleys. So to discover Broadway one must descend to its quiet lanes.
Broadway, which actually lies within the erstwhile Worcestershire, has many beautiful buildings but they’re so only so if you see them that way. Otherwise, they are old, crumbling and uncomfortable living spaces. The romance of these buildings is better sensed away from the town centre with its noisy display of shops, restaurants, tourists and traffic. The east end of the main street is far quieter and I am glad that this was my first impression of Broadway. The main street that cuts through town is broader than in Chipping Campden. Therefore it lacks the cosy intimacy the latter presents. The street is lined with shady trees but these disturb the continuous view of the buildings. Here again Chipping Campden succeeds.
The St Michael and All Angels Broadway Parish Church was uninteresting. The old 12th century of St Eadburgha, about a mile outside Broadway, was a worthwhile stop. It had many items of attention: a simple font, a wheeled bier, an old round alms box with three locks, circular Norman pillars and six bell clappers. Each clapper was about 3 feet long. One can imagine how much bigger the bells must have been. Even a church as this, quite removed from any populous town, was open to a passing visitor like me. Only some years ago an old parish chest and some wood-carvings had been stolen from here. Yet the doors are open and always welcoming.
From here I continued south to Snowshill Manor House and Garden. It was positively a waste of time. The garden was nothing when I have seen Hidcote. The house was crammed with items of a bizarre collection that could not be named, categorised or arranged by theme, culture or age. It was close to a junkyard calling itself a museum in some sense. If all these items could be cleared to some dungeon, or even burned, I am sure the manor house could be converted to pleasant living quarters. There might have been real gems worthy of preservation but none were tastefully displayed. The dark and sombre atmosphere that I now recognise as a typical National Trust interior does much to dampen one’s mood.
So I was glad to continue my tramp in the final hours before sunset. Sunset in the Cotswolds is a splendid experience. When the warm stones get warmer with the setting sun there is that radiance and glow which cannot be found anywhere else. One wishes to stand and watch the stones change their shades in slow degrees as the last adieu of the day’s light. In such twilight hours, yet another Cotswold village lay in my path, Stanton. At sunset it was favourably displayed, without the crowds of Broadway. Further south I passed Stanway with its impressive gateway to Stanway House. The origin of villages and their names begs a question – has the village grown out of the manor house or has the house inherited the name of the village that’s much older? The reality is that manor houses are quite an establishment in themselves. It is most probable that an entire village of supporting needs has evolved to serve the manor and its farm.
What followed was a steep uphill path from Wood Stanway to Lower Coscombe. The reward was a breathtaking sunset. Nothing so beautiful was ever seen. The distant curves of the Malvern Hills darkened against a complete red sky. Not a cloud was in sight. They would have made it even better. The countryside glowed in full brilliance before disappearing for the night. It was time to head to the edge of some woods nearby and camp for the night. I was soon interrupted by a farm worker. This was after all a private land. But he was kind enough to let me camp, provided I left the farm early next morning before the farmer made his rounds. I cannot thank him enough. He was one of those not afraid to break rules when they relate as individuals rather than as guardians of an inflexible system. Yet I felt it was wrong. A small misdeed, when pierces the armour of conscience, may more easily lead to greater transgressions.
Ford, Condicote, Stow-on-the-Wold
The next morning with the first rays of the sun, I cooked and had my breakfast, packed my belongings and left the farm by half past six. It would be a long day of happy adventures. To start with I had to cross to the next enclosure by a kissing-gate. On both sides of the gate stood adult horses that made me feel diminutive but not vulnerable. These animals must be used to walkers. They are well behaved. I could stand next to them, pat them on the face and listen to their rude snorts without feeling threatened. When I moved the gate they understood my purpose and moved out of my way. Young horses on the other hand lack this maturity. Their curiosity is greater, their familiarity less. I was followed by three or four such horses later this day at a farm near Lower Slaughter. Running is not an option. One has to be calm and collected, ignore them altogether. They’ll saunter behind for a while and eventually lose interest. They soon realise that there is neither danger nor excitement from a passing stranger.
As I reached the top of the next hill, I rested on a bench that had these words:
Pinky Dickins
who lived here for 26 years
with her family and her horses.
Strange indeed, but I suppose I’ll never understand this sentiment until I breed horses of my own.
I passed Stumps Cross, Upper Coscombe and then a prehistoric landscape of strip lynchets. I remember seeing similar marks of the land at Glastonbury Tor. Some of these are not very different from the barrows or burial mounds seen elsewhere in England. These are small ridges or terraces formed in the process of prehistoric farming along the hillsides. Leaving the lynchets I took a wrong turn somewhere and wandered a good deal in orchards of apple and pear before finding my way at Little Farmcote. A proposed visit to Hailes Abbey had to be sacrificed. So here I took leave of the Cotswold Way and started on the Gloucestershire Way.
My first stop was at the village of Ford where I filled my water bottle at The Plough Inn. A signboard said “Hot food served all day”. It was 10 am and I was told that the kitchen opens only at noon. Thus, in a country pub, the day starts only at noon and dallies into the late hours of the night. I continued from Ford along a training racecourse. What followed were some of the best country scenes of Gloucestershire: fields wide open to the sky, the warm and still character of stubble fields, surrounding hills and woods covering their slopes. Stubble fields are all that remain after a harvest. They cast no shadow. They harbour no life of deer, hare or bird. The wild flowers have disappeared too with the harvest. They breeze blows but no waves of corn dance in these barren fields. Yet life is a cycle, an interplay of birth and death. Here in these stubble fields grass and flowers will once more grow. Crops will once more flourish. Life will repeat its birth and growth.
At Condicote, I sat in the church for a few peaceful moments. I am unable to recall what is it that I saw here or in the village for that matter. I am yet to see a dirty or an ugly village in the Cotswolds.
From here the Gloucestershire Way winds southeast and mostly uphill. It was a tough walk but well worth the views. At the summit is the town of Stow-on-the-Wold that looks across the surrounding areas. With such a prospect it is not hard to imagine why Moreton-in-Marsh has not prospered equally. Sure, the rail must have brought trade and development to Moreton-in-Marsh but at the loss of that Cotswold charm that we find so well preserved in Stow-on-the-Wold.
The atmosphere in the town centre is much the same as in Broadway. I stopped at Stow-on-the-Wold for a few hours. To start with, I had a proper lunch. Then I lingered a little longer in the pub watching the Ashes on television. For the last few days soccer has apparently taken a backseat. All attention is on the Ashes. Given the school holiday period, crowds are leaving disappointed from already packed stadiums. As for life at the office, project managers and engineers alike have live scoreboards on their desktops.
A few of weekends ago I was in a village of not more than ten houses and a pub. I was having lunch at the pub on a Sunday afternoon watching the Ashes on the TV. There was not much excitement. You can’t expect much in a village whose main occupation is farming. But all that’s changed now after England’s win at the second test.
I am not particularly interested in cricket but I am interested in the culture that invented it and still loves it with an undiminished spirit. Here cricket no longer has the intensity and popularity that is in soccer. But cricket retains its reputation as a gentleman’s game. It’s not surprising because here in England tradition is everything. Like the difference between pop concerts and classical concerts. It is game of leisure pursuit with moments of excitement. It is an opportunity for a whole day out for the summer, a picnic with a spectacle. It’s probably the only other sport besides horse-racing where a large part of the audience turns up in full aristocratic glamour.
An example is a Sunday cricket match at a field near my house. It is a whole day affair even if there is no audience, even if it is a practice match by amateurs from a local club. On Saturday some grass is cleared and a temporary pitch is made. One guy takes measurements, draws the creases, the inner circle and the boundary with powered white chalk. The next day all players turn up in crisp white attire. Then they hope it doesn’t rain!
Leaving the pub, I visited a local art exhibition. I had the opportunity to have a chat with one of the artists. Next, I attended the Sunday evening service at the local parish church dedicated to St Edward. The exterior of the church was not particularly impressive but the bays of the nave immediately appealed to me. They were in my favourite style, Early English. The service itself was attended by not more than a dozen that included the church volunteers. Such is the dwindling influence of the Church in our lives. This is not necessarily a bad thing if people have learnt to seek their higher self without the aid of the Church. Lamentably, all evidence suggests otherwise.
At the service we prayed for the Diocese of Karnataka Central which is twinned with this parish. One of the members of the church even spoke to me in Tamil. He was born in Madras (now called Chennai) while his dad had been posted to Tamil Nadu. His dad was Irish and had learnt Telugu while in India. We have to begin to see this world as one unit, not as disjoint entities fighting for power and supremacy. At the grassroots, this is how many things operate, be it in the form of missionary activities, volunteering, village education, child sponsorship, and so many more. On a political level we continue to be divided.
The second important lesson that came from the service stems from the often repeated phrase which I quote here:
As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end. Amen.
We are only visitors to a world that will prevail beyond our little lives for all eternity.
Even at the end of a whole day of discoveries, the Cotswolds do not fail to surprise. This time it is to witness first hand the work of well-trained sheep dogs driving a flock of about 200 sheep from one pen to another. They obey every command of the farmer. No sheep is allowed to stray. There is much chaos and confusion that spring out of fear. If a terrified sheep runs the wrong way the dogs are upon it in a flash, grab it by its woolly coat and bring it to the ground with a scuffle. The farmer has to intervene with commands “let go” or “lie down, dogs”. The very presence of the dogs is enough to scare the sheep so much so that some start scrambling on top of others. I could say “penned like sheep” instead of saying “packed like sardines”.
By now the sun was dipping hastily. I left Stow-on-the-Wold towards Lower Slaughter. This walking path is part of four designated ways: Gloucestershire Way, Monarch’s Way, Macmillan Way and Heart of England Way. This network of public rights of way, regional and national trails, give ample opportunity to discover every inch of the country at my own pace. It is impressive that all these paths have been formed, mapped, named and maintained for the benefit of the public. Historically, the most interesting of these four paths, is the Monarch’s Way that traces the approximate route taken by Charles II after his defeat at the Battle of Worcester in 1651.
After an hour’s walk and darkness closing in quickly, it was time to find a suitable place to camp. Here lies the joy of tramping, in its uncertainty, in its freedom of care and concern, in its comfort in the most basic of what nature can provide. No strings attached.
Lower Slaughter, Bourton-on-the-Water, Northleach, Hampnett
It was a quiet night even with a sizeable herd of cattle just across the hedge in the next field. I awoke as before, with the sun and at the crow of a cock. My first village for the day was Lower Slaughter. At this early hour it was perfect in every aspect. It was like stepping into a fairy tale with lovely buildings, a quiet river, a watermill and an impressive manor house (now a hotel) which could be seen through the framings of verdurous trees. So early in the day there was none in sight. The village had not yet woken up to its own beauty; but on waking, will it find that beauty?
So by the time I reached Bourton-on-the-Water, the day had moved on quickly and this town was waking up to it. The charm of Bourton-on-the-Water is in the River Windrush which flows through it. Arching bridges span the narrow width of the river and their reflections add to the eye-pleasing highlights of town. As for the buildings it was now clear that they are all the same in the Cotswolds. Seeing one is seeing them all. The difference lies in the overall layout, the juxtapositions, the views across the junction where roads meet and the added interests created by specific village features.
I had a grand plan for the day: visit Northleach, Hampnett, Lodge Park and Cirencester. I waited for the bus that never came. The timetable said “Monday to Saturday” and mentioned no exceptions. Is not a Bank Holiday a Monday? Apparently not, and I was stranded at Bourton-on-the-Water without public transport. Fortunately there was a bus in the evening to take me back to Moreton-in-Marsh where I could catch the return train. As for the day, I had to once again take to the hills and leave the roads behind.
So I walked to Northleach and Hampnett by Monarch’s Way and returned to Bourton-on-the-Water by Macmillan Way. The walk was not in vain. From Bourton-on-the-Water the path climbed steeply. The exhilarating climb was in itself a reward. This was further crowned by a splendid view of the Cotswolds. All that I had seen in pictures was here stretched before my eyes, an unending beauty of farmland, rolling hills dotted with sheep and straw rolls. As I continued towards Northleach the chores of harvest were to be observed first-hand: collecting grains of wheat; then packing the straw that’s left behind; then putting the grains through sieves; then packing them into white sacks that bulge with the bounty of nature. All these are done mechanically by only a couple of workers. Machines have made their lives so much easier. We may lament that the spirit of cooperation and country lifestyle are no longer with us, but all is not lost. Human spirit and collaboration of human efforts are today to be found in cities, behind office walls, concrete corridors and closed doors. They are extinct on these farms but they continue in other places in other forms. There’s one thing for certain about such a walk as this: I will no longer sit down for dinner as if it is my god-given right; I will no longer leave the table without picking my plate clean.
Arriving at Northleach at 1 pm, I stopped for a quick lunch at a local restaurant. By now I resembled a tramp in every sense and it was impossible to walk into the restaurant without making heads turn. The boast of Northleach lies in its magnificent church of St Peter and St Paul. It is a spacious church that has much light. One reason is the lack of pews in the nave. To me, the sole captivating feature was the collection of memorial brasses on the floor. The artistry and keen execution of detail invite a close study. In all cases, the feet are rested on sheep and woolsacks, a tribute to the source of wealth in the Cotswolds. One brass plate of John Forley dates as early as 1458.
The last notable village of the day was Hampnett renowned for its old church. The Norman chancel with its low ceiling is so different from the imposing cathedrals of the land. While cathedrals rise loftily in praise of the forces above, at Hampnett spiritual discovery is a matter of introspection, a questioning and searching from within. Stylized decorations fill every possible space in this church: on the chancel walls, the arches, the vaulting ribs, the spandrels and the ceiling. Together they build on a feeling that point inwards, not outwards. The narrow windows too do not open the view but only let in the light. The decoration came as a relief against the plain Cotswold stone, so common that it had ceased to interest. No inch has been spared. Motifs of flowers, stars, geometric patterns and medieval art surround the four angels that demurely adorn the ceiling. Yet in this old church these decorations are fairly recent. Some people have not liked them. The decoration in the nave have been either stripped or plastered over. Others were spared the trouble when the community ran out of resources. I feel the removal of decoration from the nave is a good thing. With their presence it would have been distracting. The current balance of a plain nave and a decorated chancel agrees well with the disposition of my own nature and I like the church for it.
Yet another 10 km of walk back to Bourton-on-the-Water was not an inviting prospect but it had to be done. Thankfully the return route was far easier on the feet. The villages of Turkdean and Cold Aston were passed without even a pause. I made it back to Bourton-on-the-Water in good time to catch the bus.
At Moreton-in-Marsh I had dinner at a Bangladeshi restaurant. The cuisine is really Indian but the place is run by Bangladeshis. When I asked the waiter why this was so common, he informed that when Indians left the restaurant business to control the more lucrative supply chain, the spice trade, the Bangladeshis moved in to fill the void. It is an arrangement that benefits both. The credibility of his interpretation remains doubtful. I had samosas, vegetable daal balti, rice and chappati. It was part of my exploration of Britain, for in India there’s no preparation that’s called a balti.
Thus my tramping in the Cotswolds came to an end. The essence of travelling is to be on the move. It is to come and to go as a silent observer. If anything is changed it is only the traveller’s experience, an understanding of birth, living and death. A couple of days at Stratford-upon-Avon, I had become familiar with the buildings, the streets and the shops. A couple of hours in each village of the Cotswolds, the same sense of familiarity creeps in. For the traveller there is no joy in settling down in one place. The road is open and welcoming. There is no return. Travelling is progressive. There is no idleness. This is no idle pursuit. Where will I sleep tonight? Where will I be tomorrow? Who will I meet? What will I see and what will I learn?
