The Cotswold Way

The Cotswold Way is a walking trail in England. It is 164 kilometres in length. One hundred and sixty-four kilometres of “magical walking, magnificent views, ancient sites, and beautiful villages.” This is a quote from a government website, which is not to be trusted. This link may provide a truer picture of what one is likely to encounter in those so-called beautiful villages.

If you do buy into the government’s propaganda and decide to walk the Cotswold Way, the most strenuous part of the trail, according to one blogger, is deciding where to stop for afternoon tea (i.e., scones with clotted cream. Shag the tea.). And it’s impossible to get lost. Or maybe it has that reputation because the people who got lost were never heard from again and had no friends or relatives to inquire as to their whereabouts, and so they never became a data point in the “people who got lost whilst walking the Cotswold Way” statistic. 

You may be wondering why I’m resorting to tactics like citing or directing you to others’ literary output and making uninformed suppositions about the Cotswold Way instead of describing, in mellifluous terms, my own experiences of walking the trail whilst evading vats, vicars and vile village greens. It’s not because I’m lazy or sheepheaded—like so many denizens of the Cotswolds*—although I don’t deny that I am both of those. It’s because I have never walked the Cotswold Way. 

I was supposed to, in a few weeks, to celebrate my 60th birthday (which actually isn’t until October, but I and my supposed-to-be walking companion bought into the government’s propaganda about spring being the best time to see wildflowers and to avoid a Wicker Man-like fate during the harvest season). 

Need I tell you why this planned celebration is no longer happening? 

I thought not. 

And now I am going to lay down my pen and weep. 

But there is a silver lining around what currently appears to me as a bloody dark cloud: this pandemic may have saved me from being done in, in notably gruesome fashion, by a rosemary and thyme of English villagers. And for that I am sure I will one day be thankful. But that day may be many, many days hence.

*This is not meant to be an insult. There are many sheep who call the Cotswolds home.

Hygge, Helen style

Like Mali, my version of hygge does not involve naked neighbours in any way, shape or form (statement subject to change if a fine-formed man moves into the neighbourhood). I’m sure they feel the same way about me. 

Instead, my hygge involves food and comfortable clothing. In fact, now that I think about it, my way of dressing could best be described as “hygge.” One of my favourite brands is Cut Loose. I have mentioned this before, but I once met a man who wondered why the clothing of women who travel a lot resembles drapes. I suspect he would now consider me one of those women.

And for me, the most hygge-ish food is grilled cheese. Or macaroni and cheese. Or lasagna. Or pizza. So, pretty much any blend of carbohydrates—and if it’s pizza, wood-fired carbs are best—and molten cheese. This is why, despite aspirations to become a vegan, I have never successfully made the transition. Cheeze or Sheese in any way, shape or form just isn’t hygge. 

And now I am going to contradict the statement I made at the beginning of the second paragraph, but I’m not worried about this because worry and hygge make poor bedmates. If hygge means enjoying simple pleasures, then my ultimate hygge is to wake up on Sunday morning with no plans until at least 2:30 p.m. and to sip my coffee, and then another coffee, and read the newspaper—not in digital format, but in real page-turner form—for as long as it pleases me. Which this morning was about two hours. Unwisely, I made plans for 1:30 p.m. today, and so I am rushing to finish this and to get ready to leave the house. Time to don some drapes, a hat to cover my hair, which with each passing day more closely resembles Phyllis Diller’s in the screenshot below, and burst my cozy (“cosy” for Mali) hygge bubble.