June 20, 2002: Broadway to Winchcombe

I was up well before 8:30, when we met the breakfast room; our portly host now presided over the meal, which usually included only Alpen followed by an egg and bacon for me. Margie had abandoned breakfast ritual bran in favor of some white powder – which she sprinkled on her cereal to strengthen her bones. Tosh read the newspaper, which she had purchased across the street.

I was the first one down with my pack, which I had labeled for the benefit of Compass Holidays, a Cheltenham firm that would be transporting our packs henceforth. (This was another triumph of the Internet for I had located this firm on the web.) Each morning I erased the previous entry on the baggage tags that I had provided my friends, writing in the new destination for Compass. While I was standing near reception I overheard Tosh telling our host that his hot water tap provided water so hot that it was actually dangerous. I could hear him muttering to himself, “What a complaint!” for the next few minutes.

We left Broadway at 9:40 on what was to be our longest day, twelve miles to Winchcombe. We used a pelican crossing to obtain the west side of the high street and then turned past the Broadway Hotel to move east on Church Street. I took a picture of the church itself and some nearby topiary as we reached our first turnoff – a track that soon led us by the last of the houses and into the first of the fields. We crossed over several streams and approached a road, where another woman was being exercised by her dogs.

On the opposite side we could see the beginnings of our morning’s major ascent, a path along a hedgerow heading for the woods above. It was again a wonderfully warm and sunny morning, though there were cooling breezes too, and as we rose there were wonderful views of Broadway below and its tower opposite. After a pause for water and photography we entered Broadway Coppice, which provided some cooling shelter from the sun, and continued our climb. More open farm country beckoned at the end of the woods and we continued forward along a field edge, using several stiles to climb out onto a farm road – which we then followed toward Manor Farm. Burton says that jets alternate with larks on this stretch and he was right.

We turned right onto another rising track at the farm, but, in spite of the gradient, this was easy walking, with superb views over the Vale of Evesham on the right. Tosh was still trying to identify all the wildflowers and plucked one purple bloom, which I identified as an orchid. She didn’t believe me. There was no problem identifying the blooms on our left, a marvelous display of orange-red poppies sweeping over the wheat fields. We paused to take photos and Harold and I used the occasion to take off our pant legs so that we could walk in shorts; this was the only time on this trip that we did so. We soon reached a second roadway where we were startled to see a Royal Mail van hurtling around a corner; I noticed that that the mailman had a large Postman Pat doll perched in the passenger seat next to him.

Laverton Hill Barn seemed to have undergone a recent conversion as we passed a number of local quarries and continued forward on top of the plateau to the Shenbarrow Buildings, where our descent began. There was some ambiguity over whether to take a track to the right or continue forward but when we chose the latter we discovered a path hidden in a hollow and we used it to begin a steep toe-twanging descent as we headed down to the village of Stanton. I was following instructions in Burton carefully and was relieved to cross the top of a little reservoir and to find that a muddy patch he had warned us about was not too onerous today.

Horsewomen were now following us and people were out walking their dogs. A black Miniature Schnauzer would not be mollified over our invasion of his space – as we neared the village itself and started in on the photography again – for this was a lovely spot resplendent in its late spring foliage. I had been worried about getting to the pub too early for lunch but it was 12:15 and the tables on the balcony at the Mount Inn were already filling up. The others stayed behind to talk to some locals about the World Cup as I ascended a very steep hill to reach the precincts of the pub. Finally we got settled but Tosh then moved us all to a different table. A large brown Lab was sprawled in the corner.

I drank a pint and Harold and I had the chicken curry. Tosh showed her flower to the other pub denizens and got scolded – she had indeed plucked an orchid! Other than that we had a most delightful lunch in a charming spot, with Stanton laid out before us. The Lees had coffee as I used my sun block on the back of my neck (the only time this was necessary on this trip). I was starting to get antsy over our slow progress  – but after an hour we were ready to continue.

We rejoined the CW at the bottom of the pub’s hill and continued through the rest of the village and out into more open territory as we headed south. We were dependent on CW signs on trees, fences and posts now, and on several occasions we had to change our line of direction because these were not quite clear enough. (The CW had recently been promoted to National Trail status, but the waymarking was not quite up to snuff at all points.)

After a while, in more parklike surroundings, we crossed a few stiles and joined a road into the village of Stanway. A cricket pavilion, donated to the village by J.M. Barrie, was over on our right and the substantial Stanway House on our left. Several walkers were emerging from the path that took us through fields to the highway, where at 2:15 (thanks to Mark Richards’ map) I knew there to be a teahouse, the Old Bakehouse, which also served as a b&b and the local post office. This was soon located and after we had hunted up the proprietress we sat inside for cool drinks and baked goods – I had a piece of walnut and coffee cake. Then we all used the loo out back and hunted up the proprietress a second time, so we could pay.

I went outside just to take a photo of this establishment and Harold and Marge duly followed me – even though we were heading in the wrong direction in doing so. I got them turned around and we soon found our turnoff to the south, following overgrown field paths and a number of stiles as we approached Wood Stanway. We had covered only half of our distance and it was almost 3:00 and Tosh began to worry about arriving too late for any dinner, though I wasn’t much concerned at this point – I knew we had exhausted most of the places for trailside refreshment this day.

A magnificent copper beech greeted us as we turned left on the road at Wood Stanway and continued on a track up past the pony trekking center, heading uphill. The next stretch was again very steep and it was just as well that I spotted an isolated waymark post in the grass off to the left of our track; if we had continued to use the latter we could have headed off route rather quickly. The post, soon followed by others as we struggled up the green hillside, lead us toward Lower Coscombe Farm and there were quite a few stiles, some protected by curious grazing horses, to surmount on the way.

A path then led up diagonally to a patch of woodland where things leveled off a bit. I found the others resting on some fallen tree trunks but I persisted, perhaps as a gentle sign that we were behind time, and reached, in this fashion, the next highway ­– where the stump of a cross (hence Stump’s Cross) lay hidden in the undergrowth beneath the exit stile.

When the others caught up we turned onto a track heading southwest. Some grey-haired West country good-old-boys were parked here next to their van and one of them said, as we marched stolidly by, “Don’t any of you know how to drive?”

Gradually we reached the top of the crest, our serious climbing over for the day, and turned right at a farm gate to round a field and head for a distant stone pillar – though we were unable to determine exactly what was being memorialized here. Then a steep descent began, with views of Winchcombe below, and again we followed waymarks through the fields in the direction of a track that would take us to Hailes Abbey. I promised Tosh that she would find a loo here, but it did seem to take a long time to clear Hailes Fruit Farm (with orchards on our left) and reach the comforts of tarmac again.

It was well past 5:00 now, but English Heritage kept the Cistercian ruins of Hailes Abbey open until 6:00 so we decided to have a look (and a pee). I was able to use my National Trust card to enter, but the Lees had again forgotten theirs (for which I was blamed) and only reluctantly agreed to part with the £2.10 needed for entry. The place was deserted and we had a nice quiet time sitting in the late afternoon sun amid the ancient walls. Surprisingly, no one bought an ice cream in the shop, though Tosh did buy a throwaway camera which she used to take pictures of crops, flowers and rusty cars.

When we pushed off again I promised that there was only an hour to go, and even Tosh could see that there would be no problem making the dinner hour in Winchcombe. We used some field paths and some roads and then began a long trek through a mystery crop (there were many of these) as we had our last bit of uphill on an old Pilgrims Way track. Once again we had to right ourselves when the signage failed us – but soon enough we were arrived at a suburban lane whose surface gradually improved as we reached the road into Winchcombe.

There was pavement here so we trudged forward into the town itself, keeping an eye open for our hotel. At a major crossroads we paused to ask someone for directions; we were only a hundred yards or so from The White Hart Hotel, which we could soon see across the street. It was 6:40. The place had been taken over by the Swedes recently and most of the help were young Swedish girls, one of whom was detached to show us to our rooms (Marge’s was named The Gustavian). Our bags were in the Lee’s room – which they soon changed anyway because their window had been painted shut and it was very hot. I had a nice room facing Castle Street and here I took a shower.

We met at 7:30 for drinks in the bar (Tosh was sure they had been more generous with the Jack Daniels in my drink than in hers) and then we went into the dining room to eat at 8:00. I had a not very interesting steak; the food was slightly offbeat but then no one has ever offered a course in Mastering the Art of Swedish Cooking.  Each night I had ice cream at the end of the meal and I got good marks from our waitress for demanding my dessert in Swedish – one of the three sentences I still retain in this tongue.

Tosh was worried that breakfast might take place during the Brazil-England World Cup match but she was reassured that there would be TVs around. I went out in the street to try my telephone but neither it nor the one in the bar would cooperate here and eventually I had to use a BT kiosk to talk to Dorothy.

In the darkness we took a stroll up the main street and looked into windows (including a teddy bears’ hospital) and then returned to our rooms for an early night.

To continue with our next stage you need:

Day 3: Winchcombe to Dowdeswell