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.
Oh, Helen, I'm so sorry you missed out on doing this. I hope you get to do it next year, or the year after maybe. Also, I'm sure the Cotswolds would be beautiful in October too. I think I'm going to add this to my "To-Do List" for when we can explore the world once again.
ReplyDeleteAnd thanks for the entertaining link. The author has obviously watched far too many episodes of Midsomer Murders.
Our trip to Scotland this year has also been indefinitely postponed. :( I remember floating the idea of cancelling very early to Paul, suggesting I wasn't sure I wanted to be on a plane until the virus was under control. Never dreamed there wouldn't be a flight to avoid. Happy 60th. Surely, SURELY, we will at least be able to lift a pint to celebrate it around the actual date of this momentous birthday.
ReplyDeleteThat sounds like a lovely trip. Dean and I have talked about walking part of the Pennine Way or maybe just hanging out in the Dales. Or maybe going back to the Lake District. I loved that link. I read it a while back when it was being passed around Facebook.
ReplyDeleteSigh. Tears. This is a rough year. But what a perfect post (and what a wonderful link—is Maureen Johnson one of your noms de plume?
ReplyDeleteThis sucks.
ReplyDeleteI love walking trails and hikes and I think this one is one I could do at 60 for sure. I hope you can soon.