Day Seventeen

Monday 13 December – Cheltenham to Gloucester

Cheltenham has been a spa resort since the discovery of mineral springs there in 1716. The spa waters continue to be taken recreationally at Pittville Pump Room, built for this purpose and completed in 1830. The railway station (which my overnight stopping place was almost part of) is still called Cheltenham Spa. The city is also well-known for horse-racing – there is a friendly invasion of Irish racegoers every Spring for the Gold Cup meeting – and a clutch of cultural festivals. I had seen a little of the Georgian and Regency architecture in the Montpelier district the previous evening, but today I headed South West out of town.

The rush hour traffic was in full cry, and as soon as possible I escaped from main roads on to a back street leading, I thought, to a footbridge over the railway. When I reached the end of a cul-de-sac, no bridge. But the milk of human kindness flowed. As I explained my predicament to a chap having a fag in a front garden, and he tried to remember where he'd seen a footbridge in the vicinity, the disembodied voice of a woman carried across the road. Actually she had a body, or at least a top half. How she had overheard our conversation I have no idea, but she was leaning out of a first-floor window, giving me directions to the bridge. With this help I was soon on my way.

After a 15-minute skirmish with the semis of Up Hatherley, I turned on to a bridleway leading Westwards, my rough direction for most of this walk. The way was clear at first, then became indistinct. I blundered around for a few minutes but, as soon as I had worked out my position relative to the traffic noise (from the M5) I was able to find the exit from a field on to a road which went over the motorway. This was swathed in fog, as was the countryside beyond it.

The day was mild, and the sun had being trying valiantly to break through a pall of thin cloud over Cheltenham. But the fog was too much for it. Rugby posts loomed eerily out of the gloom. I had a few seconds' difficulty distinguishing the path from a bikers' dirt track, but I soon found the tunnel I was seeking beneath the railway.

Cheltenham and Gloucester are separated by a shared green(ish) belt of flat farm land. I had left the Cotswolds behind by now; I could see no hills in any direction.

Once I had followed a cycle track beneath the A40, I was walking around the perimeter of Gloucestershire Airport, a bustling place indeed. That bit is a lie; there was no sign of any activity whatsoever, let alone any actual flying. Distressingly, what seemed to be the wreckage of a small plane had been dumped a few feet from the fence, as an awful warning, perhaps, to pilots and passengers.

After crossing a road, I was walking alongside Hatherley Brook, across as golf course which straddled the brook. There was no getting away from it; despite some extensive tree planting, this was a very boring golf course, and not a very exciting walk. There were golfers out playing, making the most of the warmer weather, with another cold snap gleefully threatened by Carol for the end of the week. I was jolly glad to quit the course for a relatively thrilling stretch of path past a sewage works.

Interestingly (well, I was desperate), some two hours after quitting Up Hatherley on the outskirts of Cheltenham, I was now in the vicinity of Down Hatherley. Just past the sewage works, I turned left (South) for a first flirtation with the suburbs of Gloucester. Innsworth is just houses, and I left it again almost immediately, following a scruffy, unmade road, and hopping over a stile into my last few fields for the day.

I stopped by a kissing gate for a snack, and got into conversation with a woman walking her own dog and one belonging to her neighbour. We exchanged notes on our experiences of walking. She and her husband liked to go off b&b-ing, but found this more difficult because of the dog. My reference-librarian instincts prompted me to whip out the netbook and try to get a wifi connection so that I could help her find dog-friendly b&bs, but I resisted this temptation. We parted with mutual hopes for a happy Christmas.

Entering Longford, I set about getting to the city centre with as little time as possible spent on main roads. I accomplished this well, walking for nearly a mile along a quiet back street. As I rounded a slight bend, I was suddenly confronted by the sight of the absurdly-high tower of Gloucester Cathedral. I though how mind-boggling, intimidating even, this edifice must have been when it first started to loom over the house. But actually the buildings I could see around me were not much higher than their Mediaeval equivalents, hence the effect the cathedral still has.

I passed another place of reverence, the rugby stadium, before passing under the railway and into the centre. I had a little time for tourist activity (and lunch) before my train back to London, so I went past the Cathedral and made for the docks.

It seems rather strange to reflect that Gloucester, such a long way up the Severn, was a thriving port, thanks to the Gloucester and Sharpness Canal, which allowed larger ships to reach Gloucester's docks than would have been possible on the tidal Severn. At the docks, cargo was unloaded from the sea-going vessels and loaded on to narrow boats for onward transport using the inland waterways network. Like many dock areas, the buildings and infrastructure fell into disrepair when transport methods changed, and were renovated starting in the 1980s. One huge warehouse was destroyed by fire in the late 90s, and rebuilt using the original bricks. Today, the warehouses are host to the National Waterways Museum, a range of retail opportunities, and some cafes. one of which did well as a lunch stop.

I wandered back through the city's not-unpleasant shopping centre to the railway station, bringing this short day's walk, and this year's East-West walking, to an end. Next up, all being well, in January I shall walk through the Forest of Dean into South Wales.

Below is the state of the walk at the year's end:

Day Sixteen

Sunday 12 December – Bourton-on-the-Water to Cheltenham

If you had handed me a menu of December days, this is the one I would have chosen. As I ate my breakfast, my shadow was pinned to the wall by the early morning sun. Outside it was cold, a degree or two above freezing, with almost no wind.

Bourton-on-the-Water looked stunning. The sun twinkled on the water as I walked over one of the little bridges, along the bank, and back over another bridge. The ever-present cast of feathered clowns did not disappoint, chuntering to one another, girding up their loins and charging under the bridges. The gift shops were being prepared for trading as I popped into the Spar for my lunch, then headed West out of the village along the road.

Soon I crossed the A429 and found a bridleway just above the River Windrush (the true identity of Bourton's stream). I crossed the river at Little Aston Mill, climbed briefly on the road, then headed South West on a footpath. Yesterday, late in the day, I had crossed from Oxfordshire to Gloucestershire, and the footpath I was following forms part of the Gloucestershire Way, a 100-mile long distance route with the rather twee motto, 'Forest and Vale and High Blue Hill'. I was planning to follow it for most of the day.

As I approached Cold Aston, a fox lolloped towards me in the middle of the road, regarded me unconcernedly, and hopped into the hedge. Cold Aston is a very attractive village, the main street lined with sympathetic buildings, and a nice little church tucked away behind the school.

I was now heading more or less due West, scuffing along the top edge of my map. After a short section of road out of Cold Aston, I turned on to a phenomenon. It was a bridleway, to be prosaic. But it was so much more. Three lines of trees ran dead straight, with two tracks between them. After a quarter of a mile, the whole edifice, lines of trees and tracks, shifted a few yards to the left and continued for another quarter of a mile. Why? Who? Somebody planned this and carried it out. It can't have been a grand drive – there was only space between the trees for walking and riding – and anyway, why two tracks? It was really quite intriguing and exciting.

Notgrove is another lovely village in a rather austere way. There is no show here, just good-quality buildings and roads between them. Beyond the village, the Gloucestershire Way uses a farm track to enter a beautiful green valley, dipping down and then up again, picking up an estate road through Salperton Park. The fine house (16th or 17th Century) is clearly visible from the footpath, as are some of the jumps which form part of the park's well-known eventing course.

A bit more tarmac led to a bridleway descending to the hamlet of Hampen, where I found a quiet perch on a tree stump to eat my lunch. It was still a glorious day. Some cloud was gradually building up on the Northern horizon, but the sun was still unobscured, and the breeze remained light.

Field paths led me a further mile into Shipton. Specifically, I first walked through Shipton Oliffe, still a village but bloated by a fair bit of new build. It was neither pretty nor ugly, certainly not unpleasant like some expanded villages. Leaving the main street near the attractive little church (with twin bells visible in the tower), I took a path which bypassed Shipton Solers, crossing a series of paddocks to reach a junction of two “A” roads. Having negotiated this, I walked alongside one of the roads for a few yards, turning off on to what clearly used to be the main road, past a mill converted into a hotel and restaurant.

Field paths led to Foxcote (some swanky cars lining the street), then I climbed quite steeply to a road. On the map here it says “St Paul's Epistle”. It doesn't say which one, and it doesn't say what it means in the context of the Gloucestershire countryside. The name of a house further along the road is my best guess.

I left the Gloucestershire Way, crossed a few fields, and briefly joined the Cotswold Way, a National Trail. I had a choice to make. To get as near the centre of Cheltenham as possible on paths, I would have to go round the edge for a mile or so, and do some more climbing. The alternative was to enter the City more straightforwardly along a main road.

The cloud had now spread across the sky and throttled the sun, so views were not high on the agenda. And looking down the scarp slope of the Cotswolds, I could see fog engulfing the trees on the lower ground. So I decided to descend quite quickly and take the road.

It wasn't as bad as it might have been; by referring frequently to the map I was able to take a few back roads and avoid the main drag. By the time I got near the centre, it was dark so, rather than go sight-seeing, I cut across the City to the South of the centre to find my billet for the night near the station.

Day Fifteen

Saturday 11 December – Charlbury to Bourton-on-the-Water



On my way to Paddington Station, I saw a fox cross Praed Street. After I had popped into Tesco to buy my lunch, The fox trotted back across the road, swerving at the last second to avoid bumping into a chap walking along the pavement. Who needs the countryside?

I didn't see any foxes at Charlbury. Leaving the station, I crossed the railway by the road bridge, almost immediately turning on to a narrow lane leading to Walcot “only”, as the sign has it. Walcot is a few cottages in a single terrace, and some farm buildings. Beyond it, the lane becomes a field-edge bridleway. I was heading roughly North West, bending round Westwards above the River Evenlode.

After a prolonged cold snap, today the temperature was a few degrees above zero, and almost all of the snow had melted. The cloud was thick and leaden, the daylight seeming yet to arrive properly at nearly ten o'clock in the morning. At Shorthampton, I briefly joined a road, before taking another bridleway across fields to the hamlet of Chilson.

The countryside hereabouts is not at all spectacular or even particularly pretty. The hills are modest, but there are sufficient trees to break up the scene and keep it reasonably interesting. The walking was easy, if a little muddy. What was frozen a week ago was now gooey and clinging.

A mile or so from Chilson, I reached the start of a progress through villages known collectively as the Wychwoods, The first was Ascott-under-Wychwood. The Wychwood was a large area of forest which was gradually eaten away as grazing was need for those profitable chompers, sheep.

In 1873 (so Wikipedia tells me) “a farmer dismissed several men of Ascott-under-Wychwood because they had formed a branch of the National Union of Agricultural Workers. He hired labourers from the village of Ramsden to work as strikebreakers but group of women from Ascott-under-Wychwood tried to dissuade the Ramsden labourers from working. 16 of the women were arrested, tried by magistrates in Chipping Norton and given short sentences of imprisonment in Oxford Castle. Their convictions were met with rioting in Chipping Norton, questions in Parliament and a royal pardon from Queen Victoria. The 16 are commemorated as the Ascott Martyrs. In 1874 at least four of the women emigrated with their families to New Zealand, where they now have numerous descendants. In 1973 on the centenary of the women's ordeal a commemorative bench was erected in the village.”

They seem rather proud of their history in Ascott. The former village pound (for stray animals, a necessity before the enclosure of fields), is preserved and signed; within the pound, stones retrieved from a long barrow (burial mound) are laid out to give an idea of its proportions.

A bridleway, and then a delightful footpath through young trees alongside the Evenlode took me to the second village, Shipton-under-Wychwood. I saw little of this, as my route merely skirted its Northern edge. It is joined to Milton-under-Wychwood, of which I saw a lot more.

Outside the Co-op, a small group of local people were singing Christmas carols with instrumental accompaniment. A small girl was handing out cards giving (I think) details of seasonal services at the church, and chocolates. Nobody was making any attempt to collect money. I am a fully paid-up member of the Bah Humbug Society (E. Scrooge, patron), but I have to admit that it was charming. After popping into the shop, I had a quick chat with one of the group, who enquired after my walk.

I was just out of range of the music when I found a jubilee bench (George VI's jubilee, since you ask) in the recreation ground to have my lunch. Apparently "Milton stone" has been quarried in the area since the early 14th century. It was used at St George's Chapel, Windsor and Christ Church, Oxford. I walked along the sleepy High Street, past the Wychwoods Library (a tiny shop in appearance), leaving the village on a bridleway across fields.

Fifield is attractive in a low-key way, The only activity came from the postie in his van. The dips and hollows were becoming more pronounced by now, The path from Fifield to Idbury descended to a stream, and then rose again.
Idbury is a tiny hamlet with one large house called, amazingly, Idbury House. The engineer Sir Benjamin Baker, noted for his work on the Forth Bridge, Victoria Station and the first Aswan Dam, is buried in the churchyard. J.W. Robertson Scott moved to Idbury Manor in 1922 and founded The Countryman magazine there in 1927. In 1924 the novelist Sylvia Townsend Warner rented a cottage in Idbury form Robertson Scott. In 1934 the Canadian poet Frank Prewett moved to Idbury where he briefly worked as assistant editor of The Countryman (thanks, Wikipedia). Who'd have thought it? - all these interesting people in such a minute place.

Having temporarily run out of footpaths, I followed a lane West out of Idbury, soon reaching Nether Westcote (unremarkable) and then Church Westcote (much more characterful). I could have left the lane and taken to a footpath at this stage, but there was next to no traffic, so I kept on the tarmac for another mile, until I reached the main A424 (Swindon to Stow) road. Luckily, I only had to walk about 100 yards along the verge of this before I could turn off on to a lovely bridleway between hedgerows.

After a brief walk along a much quieter road, I was back on to field paths, descending now quite steeply. Wyck Rissington is a rather lovely Cotwold village. There is a wide grass verge on either side of the trafficless street, lined by some handsome houses. An old pump on the green stood in juxtaposition to a portaloo serving some building works. Between the two, I could see a van advertising a Dial a Dog Wash service, no doubt a necessity with all the mud about.

In the early 1890s composer Gustav Holst, at the age of 17, was the resident organist for the church. The organ that Holst played is still in use. But not just at the moment – the church is a no-go area for organists and worshippers, being surrounded by scaffolding and white plastic while it is refurbished.

I now had just a little way to go, by bridleway and footpath, to my goal for the day, I crossed some water meadows which are part of a nature reserve. I could have found out much more about what is being done to restore this neglected habitat, but the device on a post which gave audio information had to be hand-cranked to generate its power. My arm quickly got tired, so I skipped the lesson and completed the last mile into Bourton-on-the Water.

I'm sure that Bourton (the “Venice of the Cotswolds”, as it is described in all guide books) is overrun with tourists in the Summer, it's many-bridged stream running along the main drag being the subject of thousands of snaps. In December, the only snapper I noticed was me. I did the tourist bit myself, starting with the Model Village. The 1/9th scale model of the village in which it stands is lovely, the small buildings being allowed to age as gently as the originals in the surrounding streets. There is even a model of the Model Village although, disappointingly, this does not include a model of the model of the model of the village (if you follow me).

Then I had a cream tea (substituting coffee for the tea), probably putting on most of the calories I had lost during the day. Later, after my supper I had a short wander around the centre of the village, looking rather magical as Christmas lights twinkled on several of the buildings. The village Christmas tree is not on the grass by the stream; it's actually in the stream. The tree was the focus for disturbing scenes as hooligans surrounded it, splashing through the water and calling raucously to other ducks.

Day Fourteen

Saturday 4 December – Oxford to Charlbury

It wasn't as cold in London as it had been during the week, but I took no chances. I was wearing several layers of clothing, starting with my very efficient Japanese thermals (made in China, of course, Japanese label). Topping off the natty ensemble, I had my Benny-from-Crossroads beany hat.

I didn't see much of Oxford. Within about 100 yards of the station, I was on the Thames towpath, heading North. The path was properly constructed, shale on rubble, but lethally slippery. This path construction provides a great walk in most circumstances, but it retains water, and becomes like a nobbly skating rink in cold weather.

I picked my way along the grassy margin, where there was a bit more grip. Several joggers passed me, some jogging normally (they obviously had stickier soles than mine), some teetering hesitantly (they didn't have the magic fotwear). Whenever the surface changed to concrete or tarmac or almost anything other than shale, the going was much easier.

After Bossom's boatyard, the riverbank widened out, and there was plenty of grass to walk on when the path itself looked slippery. Fishermen stood mournfully on either bank of the river. To my left was the unceasing low roar of traffic on the ring road, while to the right all I heard was the occasional parp from trains. Port Meadow opened out across the river, green round the edges and white in the middle. An impromptu game of ice hockey was taking place on what, I guess, was frozen floodwater. Behind me, the sun was trying hard to penetrate the gloom. The cloud obscured it like a thick net curtain.

I reached the ruins of Godstow Abbey. Dating from the 12^th Century, the abbey was built for benedictine nuns on what was then an island surrounded by arms of the Thames. Suppressed with all the rest by Henry VIII, it was converted to a private house, but fell into ruin after it was damaged in the Civil War. The ruins became a compound for farm animals, but remained picturesque enough to appeal to the Victorians, including Lewis Carroll, who brought the Liddell girls here for picnics. It remains an atmospheric place.

I left the Thames towpath to walk through Wolvercote, first passing the famous Trout Inn, popular for three centuries with boaters, students, townies and tourists, although I expect they've let a few locals in when there has been room to spare. Being built of biscuit-coloured stone, The Trout was for me the harbinger of the Cotswolds.

My diversion was necessary because the Thames Path swings round to the West at Wolvercote, while I need to head more or less North West. To pick up the necessary paths, I had to cross the river and (three times) the railway. For a brief interlude, I followed the towpath of the Oxford Canal. The usual low puttering noises came from the engines being used to heat the occupied boats. One very right-on boat had three solar panels mounted on the roof; sadly, they were probably delivering precious little power today, although the temperature had risen a degree or two above freezing.

I turned from one towpath on to another, alongside the Duke's Cut, the Duke being Marlborough, and the cut being the only route between the Oxford Canal and the Thames until the lock at Oxford was built. I soon left the cut to head Northwest across fields, frozen ground turning muddy as the temperature rose. Still no breakthrough by the sun, though.

I was now on Shakespeare's Way. The waymark signs bear the legend (I kid you not) “twixt Stratford-upon-Avon and the Globe”. Twixt, forsooth! This route might possibly have been the one taken by young Will as he commuted between Stratford and London. On the other hand... Never mind, it provides an agreeable 150-mile walk, and does no harm. It took me to Yarnton, a village which, its local website records, is possibly the oldest village in England, though the wesbsite admits with admirable candour that this is a claim shared with several hundred other villages.

I entered the village opposite Yarnton Manor, an imposing house dating from the 17^th Century, with the parish church in matching stone just over the hedge. I saw little more of Yarnton, as I turned away to the West to find the splendidly-name Frogwelldown Lane, an ancient track running between trees and hedges, now just a path. Emerging from the trees, the track went downhill along field edges.

Where Shakespeare (allegedly) turned Northwards towards Stratford and home, I continued Norhwest on a remarkably straight path. A stile, standing beside a gap in a hedge, was therefore unmuddy, so I sat on it to eat my lunch (with no wind, it wasn't necessary to find shelter).

Moving on, I joined a quiet road for half a mile, then turned on to a busy main road, luckily with a pavement, leading into Long Hanborough. Since this is a linear village, strung out along the “A” road, I wasn't bothered about walking through it, and there was an alternative, a pedestrian by pass, starting with a road which, on the map, has green dots on it. If you put the dots under a microscope, they would probably turn out to be miniature pictures of the Ordnance Survey washing its hands. The symbol indicates that the legal status is uncertain, and “it ain't our fault, guv.”

The road led to bridleways and footpaths which loop right round Long Hanborough, sometimes along field edges, sometimes through woods. The landscape was becoming more rolling as I penetrated the Cotswolds. Mostly in Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire, the Cotswold Hills are about 25 miles across (the way I was walking), and 90 miles long, with a spine running from Southwest to Northeast.

I next reached a road at the curiously-named East End. East End of what or where? To the West of this linear hamlet there are just fields. I followed the road Northwest for a few minutes, looking for a bridleway heading North. In fact it was well marked, not for my benefit but because, just a few hundred yards along what is in fact a farm track, there are the remains of North Leigh Roman Villa.

This was the “home of a Roman aristocrat”, the sign said. I wondered if he was a genuine Roman or a local recruit like the chap who owned Fishbourne in Sussex. If the former, what did he make of England on a day like this, snow lying on the fields and a mist hanging over the River Evenlode? Admittedly, he had central heating – the hypocaust system can be clearly seen – but even so, he might not have enjoyed a winter among the savages! Just a fraction of the floorplan has been exposed, a few courses of stone at the most, but still somehow exciting and full of atmosphere.

At one end of the site, a modern building protects an almost-complete tile floor. The building was locked, but generous windows provide a glimpse. Nuisance drizzle had turned to rain. I put waterproofs on my rucksack and myself, and spent a few minutes whipping out the camera, snapping the ruins, and pocketing the camera again before it took on water.

Resuming my walk, I soon reached the pleasant village of Stonesfield. A string of fairy lights, hung along any ivy-clad fence, blazed in the gloom. A board offered information on local fossils, but I kept walking in the now-steady rain, intent on completing the last three miles to Charlbury. But I was wrong to hurry, since this was the best bit of the walk. A farm track led to another ancient lane, enclosed between hedgerows, passing across high ground between large fields, with occasional views down iinto the valey of the Evenlode.

The path became a residential road leading into Charlbury, a small town rather than a village, with a pleasant central street, climbing gently and then dropping sharply downhill. Charlbury is shut on Saturday afternoons, only the pubs being open for business. I could probably have got a coffee in one of them, but I wasn't in a pub mood, so I walked on to the station.

I was hoping for an inter-city train with a buffet car, but a miserable three-car job turned up. Disappointment loomed, but – hurray! - a trolley lurked at one end of the carriage I got into. The coffee was not very hot, but it did the trick, helped by a KitKat. Simple pleasures.