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.