LETTER #7: GREAT VIEWS, GREAT FOOD, RUTTY ROAD WILDERNESS.

Shirley does not react well (significant gasps and spasmodic drawing in of breath) to driving on tiny side roads that seem to threaten that any minute they will peter out and we will plunge over an unseen cliff and not be seen by the odd car that passes by, or we’d be staring at a field full of sheep gazing with that ovine puzzlement at an intruder into their domain. I wax poetic again. Carried away.

I’m not quite sure why it happened, but as we navigated from home to Cirencester, we did not travel the broad M4. Instead, our Tomtom was taking us on the “scenic” route. For a short time we’d travel a reasonable two lane road where we could see the slopes of the Cotswolds rolling around us. But most of the time we were consigned to one lane winding roads, roads that would descend steeply with an abrupt turn at the bottom and deteriorate into a pair of wheel tracks – well almost. It is a times like this that my navigator, holding the GPS is going on about how stupid it is and that at the next layby we should turn around and go back. To where? She wasn’t sure. But she was sure that we were lost and our sun-bleached bones (impossible unless the rain stopped) would be all that rescuers would find. I thought of others who had been led by their GPS to strange places. There was the tragic story a year or two ago about the couple who found themselves on a muddy, unused road where their car became stuck. One of them had to leave to look for help. One of them, I don’t remember which one – died. This is the stuff that urban legends are made of.

I am impatient with her and our voices start to rise. Then we break free of the wilderness and turn on to a more hospitable highway with the prefix “A” attached. We are saved.

The upside of cruising the Cotswold back roads is that you get a wonderful view of these lush, rolling hills. There are surprises. We reach the bottom of a hill on a tiny road and there before us is a mansion. I don’t just mean a big house – I mean A MANSION!

An observation in passing: the Cotswolds are a tourist magnet. I was standing in a tourist information booth in,I think, Chipping Campden. A very agitated Chinese man was having a long and difficult (due to language) conversation with the tourist information woman. It was about finding a room. The “i” sign is what you head for most of the time. They will find you a place to stay. On this occasion she told the man: “It’s Friday night. The weekend. Prices always go up in the C otswolds.” In fact, as I will describe later, much of the “charm” of these little towns and villages is that the High Street is lined with antique shops – a magnet for the tourists. I wondered what the local residents did. I saw no evidence in these places, or snch other for that matter, of the convenience of a Mall.

Arrival at Cirencester. Took a while finding out to9 to pronounce the name. The opening two syllables rhyme with “siren” and the remainder pronounced as it looks. There may have been more but it appeared that the only things worth stopping for was thr massive (and under renovation) Parish Church of St. John the Baptist. It’s old. The nave was begun in the 12th century, the tower in 1400, the Lady Chapel in 1240. Old and big but not memorable. By this time I am getting “Cathedraled out.” We moved on.

Up the route designated by the most incomplete guide I have ever read (see this – see that – but where?) We push on to Stow on The Wold. (never got to see thre Wold.) The guide, for once being helpful, points us to a B&B called “Limes,’ an exquisite six bedroom cottage set in a lush garden. It is owned by a young couple with two little girls, one barely a toddler. (Later they will confide to Shirley that they will soon sell and get lout from under the hectic life of raising a family and running a major B&B.)

A comment about food. We ask our hostess for directions to a decent restaurant. In the old town square - this used to be a big market city - we choose the dining room in The Old Stocks Hotel. It is far beyond “decent.” The procedure is unusual. We are greeted at the bar. We are offered a small table and something to drink while our table is being prepared. . They take your order and call you to your table when the meal is ready to be presented. It was one of those succulent surprises: As good as the best meal we have had since leaving New York almost four weeks ago. I have ordered a salmon filet, Shirley a chicken breast. The salmon arrives on a bed of fettuccini Alfredo laced with spinach right in in the sauce. It is perfect, The salmon flakes under the fork. It has a sweetish tang to it, perhaps a honey marinade. There is a jardinière of fresh vegetables served on the side. Shirley’s chicken is perfect. I tell the wait person that this is as good a meal as have had, not only in England but on the QM2, where the meals could be either dazzling or indifferent.

A note in passing. It took some getting used to that in most restaurants we visited you did not take a seat and wait for table service. (Available sometimes) You order at the bar, sometimes carrying your drinks back to the table and waiting until a server arrives with your dinner. As often as not, you return to the bar to pay the bill. In every restaurant where we used our VISA card, there was no place on the machine to add a tip. It has to be done with cash. In some places they accept credit cards but put a surcharge on your bill. (I’m sure VISA frowns on this kind of discrimination.)

Something is happening in the culinary world. I would doubt that a place like Thornbury, say twenty years ago, would have had a really good restaurant. As TV shows for “foodies” proliferate, as celebrity chefs become stars, and as the wine lists grow larger and more discriminating – the food gets better and better. England is no exception. In an earlier blog I mentioned fish and chips at Rick Stein’s in Falmouth. Only later did I realize that he has become a “brand” – perhaps like the over-exposed, over-valued Gordon Ramsay who has made a career out of being a celebrity. Stein may be the hottest chef on British TV shows

In Thornbury there is Ronnies, which was named the best new restaurant in the UK I wouldn’t go that far, but it was pretty good. Also in Thornbury a hotel restaurant called “Mezzes.” By the name you would presume Greek. It was a sort of hodge-podge of Mediterranean foods from shishkabob to spreads. I have never, ever had “hummous” that compares with “Mezzes.”.

We head north for Stow and enter the realm of the everything in the Cotswolds for tourism. We stop every time but continue to find more and more antique shops and places to buy local crafts and cunning little tea rooms.. We ;pass from ?? to ?? then we come to a sign that points to “The Roman Villa” at Chedworth. We sometimes forget that the Romans were masters, occupiers, and long time residents of England for about 400 years. This “villa” first discovered on the 19th century, has now become the site of continuing archeological investigation and re-creation. For a villa presumed to be occupied by two families, it was remarkably large and luxurious. Occupied for 200 years, it included such quintessential Roman luxuries as baths, hot ones and cold ones, radiant heated rooms, spacious kitchens and latrines. The Romans brought that culture of progress with them.

If you read Bernard Cornwell, best known for his “Sharp” series, but wonderful on medieval times in England, he writes that the far more primitive people of Britain who followed the Roman departure understood little about Roman technology. Where the Romans had heated stone floors in their homes, the British lived kin huts with dirt floors. In the Cornwell books there is always some reference to a Roman wall or road that had fallen into disuse and ultimate decay.

The Cotswolds were pretty enough, but after a while everything starts to look the same. We finished our excursion in a town called Broadway, stopped for lunch, and pushed on with our search for access to the M5 and return to Thornbury.

Luck was on ojur side. A sign pointed to Sudeley Castle. We took the turn and drove endlessly. Often there are no signs giving distance. It was father than we thought,. But would bring us near Cheltenham and access to M5.

Sudely was a treat. A monument to nearly a thousand years of English history. Henry’s last queen,. Katherine Parr is remembered there. The chapel’s stained glass windows show her and Henry and other dignitaries. I was a little startled that when we entered the chapel there was a reminder that a contribution would be welcome. After paying 12.40 pounds (about $18) just to wander the grounds, we were asked for more!

The castle was occupied by permanent residents so the interior was completely closed to visitors. We paid the price to see – and it was worth it – a classic garden with topiary that rivals anything I have ever seen, Not the gargoyle-like figures in some pasrks, but yew trees trimmed to dozens of enormous shapes lined the gardens. Sheep (the ubiquitous ones) grazed in the fields. Had we not seen the sign and continued to depend on our “Country Roads of England (a great disappointment) we would have missed it completely.

We have one more week. Having joined the National Trust we now have a comprehensive book showing the location of dozens of castles and palatial estates. We hope for Wales. And soon I will take you to one of the great surprises in the west country – the re-invented city of Bristol. Remarkable!

Correction: thanks to my friend and historian Helen, ”The Lion in Winter” – played by Peter O’Toole, was Henry II not as I wrote Henry I.
Shows what name-dropping can do to your ego.