June 21, 2002: Winchcombe to Dowdeswell

Again I got up long before I needed to, reading more articles from the New Yorker and the New York Review of Books until it was time to put on the England-Brazil match at 7:30 – when I began to shave and brush my teeth. England had a 1-0 lead when we went down to breakfast, an odd affair that seemed to feature lots of cold meats. Brazil soon equalized and went ahead for good with a free kick that demoralized a large crowd of pub-goers who were already into their ale even at this early hour of the morning.

We placed some enormous baguettes prepared by the kitchen staff into our daypacks and I re-addressed the backpacks for the Compass company. Then we walked up to Winchcombe’s chief shopping street again and in an Alldays we purchased more snacks and drinks and Tosh bought a newspaper. Then the lady tried to use a cash machine at a nearby Lloyds Bank, got confused over which numbers she had punched – and held up the rest of the queue while she had the bank staff confirm that she wouldn’t be charged for what she had actually wanted, but failed to get.

I suggested that we have a look at the marvelous gargoyles of St. Peter’s church, so we headed here first. On the way back we met a woman who was pushing an ancient Yorkie with a sprained foot  – in a makeshift trolley. All of these diversions took time and it wasn’t until 10:05 that we turned down Vineyard Street and began our eleven-mile day, one less than day two.

Our route lead us across the Isbourne and toward the entrance gate to Sudeley Castle, a famous local attraction that seemed to be at war with Winchcombe itself – if the evidence provided by the anti-Sudeley signs in many a front window were to be believed. We walked only as far as the gatehouse, hoping for a view of the place, but we were disappointed. Our route followed the tarmac road around the perimeter of the property and there was some confusion over whether or not the nearby public footpath sign and an iron kissing gate actually represented the Cotswold Way. A local lady confirmed that they did not – and so we persevered on tarmac for a few more minutes. Such an ambiguity was typical of Burton’s text, which also failed to mention all of the fields that had to be traversed before crossing the next footbridge.

I was able to judge our progress, however, by relying on the OS map and Richards’ drawings, and in this manner, with views of the castle now available on the left, we began our morning climb along hedgerows up to Wadfield Farm, an ascent slightly more agreeable than some of yesterday’s gradients. Opposite the farm we encountered the tall mystery crop again and so, just as we pulled even with the Humblebee cottages, Tosh flagged down a farmer in a truck, one that was being accompanied by a panting sheepdog, to ask him for some identifications. He said that the first crop was a kind of bean used for cattle feed. He was also able to tell us the difference between barley and wheat – which I immediately forgot again.

Much satisfied by this explanation we continued on a track uphill and turned right, downhill, on tarmac. I protested that I didn’t like to lose hard-won elevation in this fashion but before long a footpath sign signaled a left turn into woods and so we started up again. A left turn (after various pee stops) at the top of the woods put us at the bottom of our final hill of the morning, a path up the field edge.

When, near the top, woods appeared on our left, I noticed that the path actually used the shelter of its outstretched limbs but the Lees, ahead of me, had kept to the open grassland, where there was also a thin trod, and in this fashion we reached at last the famous Bela’s Knap, a neolithic burial chamber of impressive proportions. Here I had a circumnavigation of the place before settling down with the others for our first assault on lunch. It was 12:15. I unwrapped my prawn and mayo baguette, a messy affair since the Swede’s idea of mayo was a watery white concoction featuring bits of apple. And they had charged a fortune for it.

It had been sunny most of the morning but now the sun was pretty well hidden by high clouds as we left the barrow behind us by climbing a stile that admitted us into a large field gone to seed – from which I took a sideways picture of Bela’s Knap. We walked west for quite a distance and then turned south, still on top of this world, to follow a farm track down to the buildings of ruinous Wontley Farm.

Here we turned off, climbing to the west and entering the extensive precincts of Cleeve Common, which the Cotswold Way follows along its perimeter – heading first back to the north for final views of Winchcombe. I warned the others that we needed to be very careful in following our guideposts as there were many rival paths crisscrossing the grassy common. This was easier to do than I imagined and we turned north, dodging the occasional jogger, and gradually descending toward the valley of Postlip Warren.

Tosh was charging along relentlessly, having convinced herself that it would soon be possible to reach some off-route pub in order to see the second half of the U.S.A.-Germany match. I told her I didn’t want to see the walk disfigured by a mad rush just to see ten minutes (if any) of a football game on some distant pub TV – and Harold agreed with me.

We made our way beside the stream at the bottom of the valley, passed the Wash Pool, and began to guess which of the many ascending paths was meant for us. A post was sighted on the heights above us so we began another steep scramble, regaining all of the recently lost elevation and emerging, panting, on the second green of the Cleeve Hill golf course.

Harold wanted to know, now that we were not racing for some distant pub, if we could have round two of lunch, and so we settled down in a bunker beneath a bench and braved a chill wind that even led to the donning of my maroon sweatshirt. I startled the good liberal Lees here by suggesting that they had misplaced their Middle Eastern sympathies in seeing things only from the perspective of Palestinian suicide bombers.

No one wanted to linger in the cool breezes of our hilltop – so before long we packed up and followed more guideposts in the direction of the clubhouse. Here we obtained a view of a new valley, with one smaller town below us and the large sprawl of Cheltenham on our left. We asked a gent what the smaller town was called and he told us it was Cheltenham – only to be contradicted by his wife, “That’s never Cheltenham; that’s Bishop’s Cleeve.”

Our route now followed the escarpment, climbing up and down over uneven grassy terrain, with more golf greens and radio masts on our left. There were many people about – and their dogs. Indeed, with all this activity on top and urban sprawl beneath I was beginning to learn that the Cotswold Way, which has a rural ring to it, is disturbingly cheek by jowl with civilization for much of its march south, a direction we at last resumed in earnest.

Many people stopped to comment on the nice weather, and the latter was improving as the afternoon wore on. We passed Castle Rock and stumbled about on the competing paths, searching for the true Cotswold Way, passing beneath the margins of a wood (with many more orchids) and climbing up to a bench where two local gents were sitting with their binoculars. One of them knew the hotel we were aiming for. Then it was through the undergrowth of Happy Valley and out to a quarry.

A chap on a motorbike was roaring about in an area that had actually been set aside for this sport, and we had to jump out of the way several times as we puzzled out our next move. There was a Cotswold Way sign pointing to a track heading southwest and downhill but there weren’t any reassuring waymarks as we strolled down and I was a bit worried until we reached the bottom and found the entrance to Piccadilly Farm. In the meantime Tosh had cornered a man walking his dog and obtained from him the intelligence that the U.S.A. had also lost to Germany in the World Cup, 1-0.

We continued forward on a field path to a roadway, where beech trees provided a canopy for a steep climb up the hill. Tosh was fascinated by the rust of an abandoned car on this stretch, but by this time she was out of film. At the top of the rise we turned south on a second road and had some mostly level walking before a turn off onto footpath again. After crossing another road we passed Colgate Farm and turned half left to walk down through a field and thus reach the precincts of Dowdeswell Woods.

The route now began a steep descent, sometimes with steps, along the margins of the wood – with no views of the Dowdeswell Reservoir available from any angle. We reached houses again and used a few rural tracks to climb up to the London Road, the A41. Here I intended to bring our walk to an end at the Reservoir Inn across the street. Unfortunately this hostelry had disappeared!

In its place, so I surmised, was something called the Waterside Carvery (still no evidence of any water) and we marched disconsolately into its parking lot where a chap sitting alone at an outdoor table briefly raised our hopes that some refreshment might be available. Indeed the place was open and it was still mostly a pub (the waitress confirmed that, indeed, this had once been the Reservoir Inn) and we were soon supping ale as I used my mobile to summon a Starline taxi (whose number had been another Internet gift). Having failed to secure any accommodation adjacent to the route, I had decided that we would now spend this and the next night off-route. In fifteen minutes we could see Simon Wilson, another bald taxi driver, pulling up outside, and we were soon on our way to the Montpellier district of Cheltenham.

The ride cost only £6.00 and didn’t take more than ten minutes. As we neared our site we quizzed Simon about places to eat and he recommended an Italian near our hotel. The latter, on Parabola Road, proved to be the Wyastone (not the Waystone as Tosh had reported and I had told the folks at Compass) but our bags had arrived anyway and we were expected.

The hotel proved to be a very nice and accommodating place, fairly modern, with all of our rooms at the end of a long hallway and thus removed from the traffic of the nearby streets. I had a shower, dozed for a few minutes, and met the Lees in the bar at 7:30 for drinks. Then we walked into Friday-night Cheltenham, which was buzzing with young adult hormones.

They had a table for us at Pizza Piazza, but this was upstairs on a floor that slanted to the right. Huge braying parties of young people were at nearby tables and service was slow. I had a quite indifferent Caesar salad and an unsuccessful lasagna, practically dozing off again while waiting for dessert.

It was close to ten when we got up (Tosh falling over in her chair in the process), returning to our hotel amid a few raindrops. I lasted only a few pages before falling off.

To continue with our next stage you need:

Day 4: Dowdeswell to Air Balloon Inn