Third Garden's a Charm

Monday was the day I planned to get our money’s worth out of our National Trust memberships, by visiting at least two, maybe even three National Trust properties. Unfortunately, the morning did not bode well for a pleasant day out. My walk down to the Cathedral before breakfast was more of an endurance exercise than a pleasurable walk, as I tried to fend off the rain with my hooded coat, and felt my hands turning into icicles despite my gloves. When I got back, my mother said that she’d heard it was unusually cold today! I was not surprised.

Perhaps, we speculated optimistically, the weather would improve after breakfast. As she was serving our breakfast, Holly said she had heard the afternoon would be nicer. So we had some hope.

For breakfast I ordered poached eggs with kippers. Kippers are a kind of smoked fish (herring) which are characteristically English. I had expected two or three small fish fillets, perhaps the size of sardines, so I was stunned to see a large slab of kippers on my plate with the two poached eggs. They tasted just as you'd expect—smoky, salty, and quite tasty indeed.

While we were eating Marmalade, then Clementine, appeared at the window and requested entry. Because we'd seen Holly let Marmalade in earlier, we thought it was okay to open the window again so they could come in from the cold. Luckily, there were no muddy paws today.

Marmalade seems to be much more reticent than Clementine, but the smell of kippers must have taken away his inhibitions, because he stationed himself firmly beside my chair. Quietly, I broke off small pieces of my kippers and stealthily hand-fed them to Marmalade, who accepted with alacrity and ate them with little ado. We both knew it would not be wise to call Holly's attention to this little tete-a-tete. I didn't quite finish my plate of kippers, so we slipped the leftover piece into a ziplock bag (I never travel without a good supply), to save in the upstairs refrigerator for later visits from the cats.

Then off to our ambitious schedule of visiting at least two, and possibly three, National Trust houses and gardens. First on the itinerary—Barrington Court (National Trust Barrington Court) (in the village of Barrington). Our route would take us through Glastonbury, so we easily followed the signs for the A39 from Wells toward Glastonbury. Glastonbury, for a place that sounds so mystical and mysterious, is quite a large town with a number of roundabouts though it. Luckily the roads and roundabouts were well signed and we proceeded through without incident, changing roads as the map indicated.

Well, it was almost without incident. There was one rather amazing incident that occurred along the way! As we drove along toward a town called Aller, a car coming toward us flashed its headlights. We had learned that meant to watch out for something. And sure enough, there was something to watch for! Immediately after the car passed we saw cows in the road. But not just one or two cows—it was a small herd of cows and calves trotting in our direction, and they seemed to be pickup up speed! We had stopped the car and were just sitting there, waiting to see what would happen. The cows ran toward us in something of a stampede, then, just before they reached our point in the road, suddenly stopped and turned around and headed back in the direction they had come from. We slowly followed, as did the train of cars behind us. As the cows reached a curve in the road, they met up with one or two people who were apparently in charge of them, and who managed to herd them off the road and back into a field where they belonged.

The rest of the route to Barrington was smooth, until we got to the actual turn-off to Barrington and Barrington Court, at which point we had no idea where to go next! After a couple of passes through and around, I finally turned down a road I had thought went nowhere, and voila—it led us through the village and directly on to Barrington Court.

Barrington Court is a large country manor house which was acquired by the National Trust in 1907, the first manor house to join the National Trust. This year Barrington Court is celebrating its centennial with the National Trust. The gardens at Barrington Court are large, designed in garden rooms (a popular style) and inspired by Gertrude Jekyll's garden at Sissinghurst. One of the garden rooms at Barrington Court is, of course, a white garden! A large kitchen garden supplies produce for the restaurant located on the property. The house and garden are also surrounded by acres of parkland.

We strolled through the gardens, pausing to buy raffle tickets to support the renovation of Barrington Court (hoping that we might win the grand prize of £10,000), and then went on into the house. The interior of the house is let to Stuart Interiors, a design firm that restores, renovates, and builds traditional period paneling, doors, furniture, etc., as well as selling textiles and antique furniture, and designing traditional 16th and 17th centurty interiors. The design firm has furnished Barrington Court in period fashion, and visitors to the house can enjoy the historic interior as well as have a view of what Stuart Interiors has to offer.

After our lengthy tour of Barrington Court, we headed back to the car park and onward to our next destination, Montacute House. The weather had improved decidedly since the early morning, and now the sun was out, although disappearing periodically behind rather dark clouds that threatened the possibility of rain. It was so changeable that I spent the afternoon taking off my coat when the sun came out, then instantly putting it back on as the sun disappeared again!

Montacute was only a few miles from Barrington Court, and helpful signs directed us on our way quickly. Montacute House was also located in a village bearing the same name. We turned into the long drive to the car park, and were lucky to be directed to a parking spot right next to the entrance. (When you're trying to get to three gardens in one afternoon, every little thing helps!)

Montacute House is an Elizabethan stone-built house, furnished in period style and featuring a gallery hall on the top floor filled with portraits from the National Portrait Gallery in London. Here at Montacute House we became most acutely aware that this Monday (May 28) was a Bank Holiday, that is a day when all the banks, government offices and schools are closed (but the National Trust sites are open to visitors). The house was filled with young children (and their parents) on holiday. They passed noisily through just ahead of us, chattering and giggling. Apparently historic houses are a big draw for English children—or at keast parents trying to find something to do with them on days off. Montacute welcomed children, providing a children's guide pamphlet to the house with information, quizzes and activities for the children to do as they traveled through the house. I took one of the children's guides and tried to fill in some of the questions as I walked (e.g. what is the date on the chest against the wall), but did not heed the directions to "draw a bit of the pattern of the fireplace."

There were some garden borders around the house, but most of the grounds at Montacute are sprawling parkland, planted only with lawns, trees, and shrubs. On a sunnier day (and one where we were not on a time-restricted mission), it would be lovely just to stroll about the grounds for hours, but that was not to be on this day. We took our leave of Montacute and struck out for garden number three, Tintinhull (National Trust Tintinhull Garden).

A signpost just outside of Montacute directed us on the road to Montacute. Luckily we appeared to be the only persons interested in traveling on this road, for it was extremely narrow and had very few pull-out spots along it. We did not have any problematic encounters, however, and pulled into Tintinhull some ten or fifteen minutes later.

We had arrived at our third National Trust property of the day, Tintinhull Garden, and it was indeed charming. This was a garden on a much smaller scale than either Barrington Court or Montacute's vast parklands. Tintinhull is a small manor house garden divided into seven garden "rooms" (modeled after the Hidcote tradition), divided by clipped yew hedges and walls. Though small, each garden room is serence and jewel-like, planted with colorful borders built around a decorative scheme, with lovely views from each garden to the next. The kitchen garden was





delightful, planted with vegetable just starting their summer growth, and bordered with a cheery rows of catmint.

Tintinhull House was not open for touring (although we passed through two pretty reception rooms on the way to the garden), but it is available for let through the National Trust (National Trust Cottages (Tintinhull House)). The four bedroom house overlooks the gardens and has an Aga stove in the kitchen!

We had finished our day's garden tour and it was not yet half past four. Even though we had done a lot, it didn't feel like we had bitten off more than we could chew—but we were a bit tired. We turned the car back toward Glastonbury and then onward to Wells.

Our reentry to Wells had only a little bit of a challenge as we abandoned the written directions from Beryl and decided to find our own way back through town. Our first effort was unsuccessful because we pointed ourself toward the wrong church as our landmark! Once we identified the proper Cathedral (and really, who could miss it), I easily circled around it, keeping it on my right, until I reached the intersection into St. Andrew's Road and then upward toward Hawker's Lane (the route I had walked several times already in our stay).

Before going too far up the road, we thought we might get fish and chips from a local take-out. But once again they were closed, and we had a dilemma—what to do for dinner? I said I could walk down to town to the little grocery store. For some reason, I thought I would need to park up at Beryl and then walk the mile into town. But my father cleverly suggested that we park right there on the road, then I would have a much shorter walk. (Duh!) So I left my parents in the car while I popped down the road, past the Cathedral and into Sadler's Lane, directly to the little store. I bought some Cornish pasties, rolls, cheese—and flapjack, because goodness knows we haven't had enough sweets yet—and hurried back to the car.

After visiting three public gardens, I could not leave Beryl without walking through our own gardens. Today, finally the weather had subsided enough to go outside and walk about. I strolled about the parklike grounds, taking a few pictures, and meeting up with Marmalade (probably hoping I had some more kippers on me). Then I went back inside and settled in for a final picnic tea in my parents' luxurious room. Before calling it a night, I met up with Clementine again, and invited her into my room for a secret snack of kippers. She was glad to oblige!

On Tuesday we are leaving for Bath, and I don't know what kind of internet access I will have there. I know there are a couple of internet cafes in town (I've been there before), but after having in-room internet here and on-bench internet in Chipping Campden, I don't know if I can handle the trip into town just for the internet! So we shall see—I may have limited entries until we return to London on Friday.

Well, well, Wells

On Saturday night before we all parted ways I presented my plan for our two full days in Wells (before leaving on the third day, Tuesday)—on one of the days we would go to two, maybe even three, of the National Trust houses & gardens in the area, and on the other day we would stay around Wells and allow time to just hang out at Beryl. I thought that Sunday would be the day for the gardens and Monday the day of rest.

But fate and the weather opted to change that plan. And, after all, isn't Sunday meant to be the day of rest anyway?

On Sunday morning I got up early and headed out around 6:30 a.m. to walk into town and then try my hand at a footpath route in the area. At that time the weather was just slightly damp and drizzly. The walk from Beryl down to the Cathedral was direct and easy, about a mile long. From there I planned to walk to the Bishops Palace, and then strike out on a path that would theoretically loop me back around to Beryl.

But once I got down to the Cathedral in the center of town, I decided to stroll about a little and have a look. There I saw two things that would change the course of my day. The first was Starbucks. I was slightly shocked, I admit, because I hadn't seen a Starbucks since London. But yet I was exited—I craved a latte fix.

Even more excitingly, just before I got to Starbucks I saw a banner promoting "Wells City Fun Run May 27"—today, of course. This was the first I'd heard of it—I hadn't thought of looking for races on this trip—but how could I resist this one, if it were at all possible to get in? I decided to look it up on the internet when I returned to the hotel (I was thrilled to discover that Beryl has free wireless internet—no more trolling the airwaves for random wireless connections).

Then I began to follow my walking path, beyond the Bishop's palace and entering into a wooded area marked National Trust, called Tor Hill. I followed the wooden trail markers through the park to the other side. Then I lost the nerve to go onward—I didn't want to lose my way too badly and end of late to breakfast! Although I had an ordnance survey map with all the paths marked, I didn't have detailed directions like I did with the planned walks in my various books... and I just didn't feel familiar with the area as I did up in the Cotswolds. So I turned back and traced my way back through Tor Hill, to the entry on what I believed was Tor Lane. I took a leap of faith and headed down Tor Lane, hoping that I would find the marked footpath that I believed would lead me back to Beryl, or at least in the right direction. There were a few minutes of confusion as I found myself in a section of a development that seemed to be all dead-end streets with no outlet—but a lady pointed me in the right direction and, blessed miracle, I came out at the intersection with Hawker's Lane, and headed back up the hill to Beryl.

I quickly found the Well City Fun Run on the internet, learning that it began at 10:30 and registration closed at 10:10. That would give me plenty of time to have breakfast and get back down to the Town Hall near the Cathedral for registration and the run. There was a 3-mile run and a 10K (as well as a Junior 1K for children). I decided to stick with the 3-mile run, in consideration of ten days of scones and clotted cream, and also because the 10K race repeated the 3 mile course twice, and that did not sound like double the fun!

Normally I would not want to eat a big breakfast before a run. But what was I supposed to do? I couldn't come back and have breakfast later. I decided to go ahead and have breakfast between 8:30 and 9:00, and hope that the hour and a half time would be enough to digest it. So I had a typical English B & B breakfast of fruit (they had a lovely fresh compote of berries and currants), poached eggs, bacon, toast and tea. Just a little something to get me going.

Then I quickly changed into running clothes and jogged the mile downhill to the Cathedral (my first warmup). After purchasing my registration and commemorative tee shirt, I spent the next 20 minutes or so running laps around the Cathedral Close and Bishop's Palace. It was still raining lightly, but luckily not so hard as to be an interference.

Shortly before 10:30 everyone gathered in the marketplace by the Town Hall (near the Cathedral) to wait for the start. First the 10K runners went, then, a couple minutes later, we were off! Down the High Street and into Wells, along roads and onto cycle tracks, to Dulcote then back into Wells up Constitution Hill (a pretty long stretch of hill), then to Tor Hill (a somewhat familiar area from early that morning), to the finishing stretch in front of the Bishop's Palace (see map of route). I could feel my breakfast heavy in my stomach as I pushed myself to run faster than my comfortable pace. As I slogged up Constitution Hill, I reminded myself I had run longer, steeper, and more hills in both the Portland 15K and the Whidbey Half Marathon—this should be a piece of cake in comparison (though perhaps cake is an unfortunate term, given all the cake consumption that was probably slowing me down!). As I neared the finish line I put on a final burst of speed so I could finish in a sprint, and saw my dad cheering me on at the finish line (so, apparently he had found his way down the hill). I crossed the finish line, feeling grateful that I wasn't facing the second loop for the 10K.

It was about 11:00 or a few minutes after, and by now the light rain had changed to a moderate rain. I was so warm from running that I didn't mind, and I had a hat on, so we wandered around the shops by the Cathedral while I recovered. Of course we found ourselves in the National Trust shop, where I picked up a couple of books on walks in the Somerset area. One was Somerset Teashop Walks, which seemed like something that might be fun to try on a future trip.

We were sort of passing time until both the races were done and the results were announced. At 11:45 we wandered back to the Town Hall just as they began to announce the winners of the 3-mile run. Somewhat to my surprise, when they got to Female over 35 (up to 45), the first finisher was me! Of course one might speculate that perhaps I was the only entrant in that category, but I have since determined (by looking at the list of finishers) that there were only a handful of women finishing before me (and lots afterward). I also noticed that the woman finishing first in the over-45 category finished before me (by 18 seconds). So I beat all the women age 36 to 45, but not the one who was 46+! Oh well, that should be quite pleasing for her, anyway. (My time was not too good, at 28:17 it was as much as 30 seconds slower per mile than my pace in longer races, but again, taking into consideration the clotted cream, the morning's breakfast, the cold weather, and just the reality that I never do as well in short runs as I do in longer runs, I'm not dwelling on the time! Really, I'm not.)

By then I was starting to get really cold. The body heat I had generated running had totally dissipated, and it was raining steadily. I was ready to head back. But first, I had been waiting since before 7 a.m.—Starbucks! I picked up my drink and it helped warm me all the way back up the hill.

The rest of the day was a relaxing day at the hotel. My mother had spent the time we were gone alternating between her luxurious room and the sitting room downstairs. We came back bearing a few groceries from a store down in town, and after I had taken a long, hot shower and dressed, we set out a lunch of rolls, cheese, sliced ham, and apples. I came to my parents room just in time to hear the story of how Clementine (the black cat) had just come through the bathroom window from the second story ledge outside! My mother speculated that she had gotten trapped in the room next door (she likes to wander into the rooms) and was making her escape. Now she was in the room demanding milk, which my mother got from the refrigerator down the hall and poured into a saucer. After her milk, Clementine was ready to leave.

I decided to take my computer downstairs and work in the sitting room. I started out in a chair in the bay window, looking out at the garden. Holly came in and turned on the fire, and when my mother appeared later, I moved to a sofa by the fireplace, a much toastier spot. Throughout the afternoon the weather had turned progressively rainier and windier, even stormy. Through the bay window we saw little Clementine sitting outside, her mouth open wide in a silent demand. Though the window muffled her miaows, the message was clear—"Let me in!" We struggled to open the big window, then after the cat slipped through, struggled even more to get it shut. Then I heard my mother say "oh no"—and I turned to see a trail of muddy pawprints across the creamy carpeting. Of course we should have known better. It was a rainy day, the garden was muddy, and I had made some dirty footprints of my own in my room before I realized I'd better take my outdoor shoes off before going in. I ran for some towels and we dabbed and rubbed at the marks until they disappeared.

That was probably the most excitement we had for the remainder of the day. I spent the afternoon writing, and my parents read and rested. Clementine, all dried off, joined me near the fire. It was really








quite lovely, and a luxury after all the busy days so far.

I tried to order takeaway fish and chips for our dinner, but the shop had the answering machine on, so perhaps it was closed. Instead we just ate the rest of our leftover rolls and cheese. Funny how you can think of bread and cheese and biscuits (cookies) as a "light" dinner! I haven't even tried to seek out vegetables and salad since we left the cottage. At least I ate a couple of token apples with the bread and cheese. And it was definitely cheap eats, if not the most well-balanced meal!

Goodbye, Chipping Campden (Hello Wells)

Saturday already, and the end of our week in the Cotswolds...and time to say goodbye to our little Spring Cottage in Chipping Campden.

Of course before the farewells comes the always challenging task of packing up and moving ourselves and our possessions out and onward. This wasn't horribly difficult here, since we hadn't bought too much (except for food), and after all we were traveling by car, so for now I could just pull out a couple of PVC shopping bags for the detritus of our week.

One bag I filled with all my travel and walking books, maps, and various brochures and pamphlets I had gathered and was not willing to discard. (I did leave a number of pamphlets to enrich the collection at Spring Cottage, including a copy of the Cotswolds Garden Guide that had seemed so helpful, and a printout of the Yellow Book Open Gardens Guide for Gloucestershire. I also left our extra copy of the National Trust Handbook, since it seemed rididulous to be carrying two copies of the same rather heavy book!) I also threw my magazines into the PVC shopping bag—the same magazines I have been carrying around since I left Seattle (at least my parents have been reading them, even if I have no time), plus a couple more English magazines I've picked up and am not yet able to part with. (I don't seem to have a lot of time to sit around reading magazines—I hadn't realized how much I depended on my time at the Y to get my daily quotient of People, Us, etc.!)

I used another bag to pack up the leftover food that we were going to take with us. (Luckily the remaining lettuce and spinach had gone slimy, so I felt no obligation to take it along, and into the bin it went!) I used my Harrods insulated bag with two frozen water bottles as icepacks for perishable food—cheese, hardboiled eggs, leftover sliced chicken, a packet of four "snack size" Cornish pasties, a bag of vegetables I had cut into sticks, and of course, the clotted cream. Into the PVC bag went some apples, scones, and all our remaining snack bars (luckily somewhat diminished by now). I had some thought we could eat part of this for lunch on the road.

We left behind (with no regrets), the remainder of our bag of Scottish oatmeal, the flour (white and wholemeal) we had bought for scones and pancakes, a packet of sugar, baking powder, baking soda, and olive oil. I also left in the refrigerator a very large unopened tub of Flora margarine (Enjoy a healthy heart with Flora), which I had bought solely to get the commemorative Flora London Marathon water bottle and shoelaces that accompanied it. We had restricted ourselves to butter, and had the remainder of our second packet in the cooler bag.

My father was busy trying to cram all our rubbish into the bin. He found this rather frustrating as (1) we had too much garbage, and (2) we kept adding more. In the end he left the lid weighted down with a large rock.

Even after eating breakfast (homemade meusli made with uncooked oatmeal soaked in leftover milk, cream, and yoghurt, plus chopped apple and wonderfully sweet English strawberries—I had bought a pint at the greengrocers early that morning, and we ate the whole thing), we were finished packing, cleaning up after ourselves, and in the car by just a little past 9:30 a.m.

Our first destination was Snowshill. Well, actually our first destination was a brief stop on Dover's Hill—by car this time—so I could take a couple pictures of the newly identified triangulation point (I hadn't been able to the day before because my camera battery had died and I didn't have the spare). Funny how I had taken so many long trips on foot to, from, and around Dover's Hill, but yet it seemed like a long walk from the car park to the triangulation point at the other end! I think when you get into a car all your self-sufficiency disappears, and you expect to be able to drive to each destination without setting a foot on the ground.

That task complete, we returned to the road to head on to Snowshill. Snowshill is actually only a couple of miles outside of Broadway, but somehow in our convoluted route involving a couple of missed turns (what else is new), we made it seem much further away. Still, we pulled into the car part at 10:30, half an our before the National Trust site even opened.

I had originally had big plans for Snowshill (which had been modified over the week and were even then in flux). The first walk I had identified in my books as one I wanted to do was a 6½ mile route from Snowshill through Stanton and Stanway and back. As the week passed I realized that wasn't going to work out—there wasn't enough time and I really couldn't subject my parents to an even longer walk, after their brave ordeal at Kelmscott.

I did however find another Snowshill walk, a 4 mile loop from the National Trust car park, through the village and nearby countryside and returning to the car park, and I thought I might try that on Saturday morning. But somehow it seemed impractical to leave my parents dangling at the car park while I walked, especially with the risk of losing my way (a very real possibility) and taking longer to finish than I planned. Had I thought about it, I guess I could have sent my father on the tour of Snowshill Manor while I walked (my mother was very happy to wait in the car), but we'd been through the Manor in 2001, and I didn't think he'd want to go again. (I was wrong about that, but the Snowshill Manor tour remained off the itinerary anyway.)

Instead we browsed through the National Trust shop (I love the National Trust shops, and visit every one I can find), and then took a walk down to the Manor to look at the garden (about half a mile away from the car park and entrance, down a nice path with lovely views of the surrounding countryside). Snowshill Manor is actually situated in the heart of Snowshill village, but there is no public entry between the Manor and village, only a locked gate where you can peer out into the village. (Our visit to the village would come a little later.)

Once at the Manor and gazing into the beautiful garden, I realized I had left my camera in the backpack in the car, in preparation for a long walk. I couldn't just leave without pictures—the garden looked lovelier than I even remembered from 2001—so I zipped back to the car as fast as I could to collect the camera and return to meet my father back in the garden.

The Snowshill Manor garden is impeccably laid out and planted with lavish perennial borders in purples and whites. It is embellished with various bits of art and bric-a-brac, in character with the motif of Snowshill Manor (which is crammed full of the eccentric collections of Charles Wade), and edged with stone walls and hedges, shrubs and trees. When we had made our way through, we exited through the bottom of the garden directly onto the path returning to the entry, and encouraged an elderly couple to ignore the "exit only" sign on the gate in order to take a shortcut through the garden to the manor.


While we had been amongst the first cars to arrive at 10:30 (though not the very first, even though nothing was open yet), by the time we left some two hours later the car park was quite filled. Unfortunately one of the vehicles filling it was a very, very large coach (bus), who held us up (along with a number of other cars) while maneuvering along the narrow entry road, then parked on the side of the road taking up so much room that it was all we could do to squeeze by!

In contrast, when we drove into Snowshill Village a few minutes later the streets were startlingly empty, only a few cars, likely belonging to locals, parked along the streets. We easily parked in the center of town and hopped out of the car for a stroll about this lovely village.

Snowshill is one of my favorite small villages. It is not just because there were a few scenes from Bridget Jones's Diary (Collector's Edition) filmed there (although that adds an additional appeal). It is just a lovely, simple, perfect little village, and I think that is likely why they picked it to represent the peaceful village where Bridget's parents lived. Last year I came to Snowshill with Jenifer, Jennifer & Pam, and spent some time wandering about trying to find the filming sites, even asking in the pub. I think I got some directions from someone in the pub, but as is typical with English directions, I really couldn't follow them further than "go out the door and go up to the Village Hall." Luckily the Village Hall (when I finally identified it) was in the process of being roofed, and one of the roofers recognized my gawking behavior and kindly pointed out two houses that were used for filming (as well as, of course, the view over the church and cemetery). He told me how the movie was filmed in the summer, but the scenes were meant to be winter (just after Christmas, of course), so the filmmaker paid the townspeople not only to use their property for filming, but to cut down all the flowers so it would look properly wintery when they brought in the fake snow. (I believe he also said there were scenes filmed in Lacock and Broadway, but I haven't been able to confirm that or identify anything.) When I went home again I rewatched the movie especially with an eye to spotting the Snowshill scenes. I definitely recognized the churchyard and one of the houses (with simple topiary shrubs changed to swans), but couldn't place the second (so I have ruled that one out).

The heart of Snowshill village is a central triangle with the church and cemetery and a bit of park. We




walked around the perimeter, admiring the pretty views and the houses that surround the center, snapping numerous photographs. Looking toward the gate to Snowshill Manor, we marveled that so many people swarm to Snowshill Manor but yet so few make the additional trip into the village. Of course the village has much less to offer in the way of amusement and entertainment, but it is so delightful it is absolutely worth a visit. I have always thought that the lack of entrance between the Manor and the village was to protect Snowshill Manor from non-paying visitors (which is probably the case), but it occurs to me that it also protects the village from hordes of gawking visitors.

We rounded the top of the central triangle and approached the Village Hall, roofing long completed. I immediately noticed a number of signs posted on the fence—"Village Hall Teas Today." Another read "Cream Teas/Coffees Village Hall NOW." I think the message was clear and I, for one, had no intention of ignoring it. I announced that we were going to the Village Hall for tea, and the others readily complied.

The Village Hall lawn was set with several tables occupied by a number of people. We took the remaining open table and went inside the hall to see what was on offer. The menu listed cream teas at £2.50 for a scone with jam and cream, plus tea or coffee, and cakes for £1.50 a slice. The kitchen was staffed by a friendly woman and a young boy, probably her son. She fixed our scones, splitting them and spreading them lavishly with strawberry jam and whipped cream, while the boy made our tea and coffee. She said that she was the baker of the scones, but the cakes were made by someone in the village. I selected a piece of iced coffee walnut cake for me and frosted lemon cake for mother to go along with the scones and tea. My father declined cake, preferring to spend his cake-eating time chatting with the hosts. He learned that they do these teas most weekends to help raise money to renovate the Village Hall. This weekend they would have tea on Saturday and Sunday, as well as the Bank Holiday Monday, as long as it didn't rain. (I'm afraid that their plans would be ruined on Sunday, at least, if the weather in Snowshill was anything like that down in Wells, some 60 miles away!) By that time the gentleman who had been posting the "tea today" signs had joined the kitchen workers. He seemed to be a leader in the Village Hall renovation project, but I never learned exactly what his role was, other than putting up signs and organizing the teas.

The scones were absolutely scrumptious, among the best I've had, so light and fluffy. The cake, also, was delicious. We lingered, drinking many cups of tea, despite the increasing clouds in the sky and threat of rain. Finally we had to move on, knowing that there were still many miles to drive, and 60 miles or so in England seems so much further than the same distance in the U.S.—especially if it involves misdirection and correcting mistakes. It was already mid-afternoon, and we still had to navigate through Cheltenham, avoid getting on the M-5 by mistake (although it would certainly provide a quicker route), and get through Bath.

We actually passed through Cheltenham like a breeze, not even delayed by traffic obstructions as we had been just the day before. Apparently roadworkers have Saturdays off. I always fear getting lost in Cheltenham (I must have had a bad experience once), but after coming in on the B4632, I successfully followed the signs onto the A46 to Stroud with nary a missed turn!

I think Cheltenham is such an elegant city, so different from the typical rustic stone buildings of the Cotswolds, with its Regency buildings and townhouses painted pale tones of creams and yellows. Cheltenham is actually Cheltenham Spa, with mineral spas discovered in the 18th century making it a popular destination for posh travelers of the time to come and "take the waters," socialize at balls, concerts, and fetes, and "promenade" along the tree-lined walks and gardens. While the spas are gone, Cheltenham is now a center for National Hunt horse racing, and attracts crowds of people on race days. Cheltenham is also the home of several schools and colleges, including Cheltenham Ladies College, a secondary school for girls, famous in fiction as a destination for proper young ladies, and now a respected institution which sends a large proportion of its graduates to England's finest universities.

From Cheltenham we continued south on the A46, passing through many of the towns we visited in 2001, including Painswick, Stroud, the road which leads to Minchinhampton, and Nailsworth (where I am always confused about which road to take, always guess, and always pick the right one).

After Nailsworth the narrow, twisting road straightened and widened, turning into a swift path towards Bath. Bath would be our next challenge. We knew we had to stay on the A4 (which passes directly through Bath) until we could get on the A39 to Wells. Of course there were (as usual) a number of other possible routes, but I preferred the one which seemed most simple, if not direct. It didn't quite work out that way. We did manage to find signs which directed us toward A39, although we were heading suspiciously out of our way, and I suspected there was a better plan, but when we got to the roundabout to actually get onto A39, I somehow took the wrong turn, despite thinking I was following the signs, and ended up on the Frome Road (heading in the direction of Frome). Correcting this error took us (guess what) somewhat out of our way, but we eventually made our way back to A39, into Wells, and up the hill to our bed and breakfast, Beryl (Wells Accommodation, Luxury Bed and Breakfast - Beryl : Wells,Somerset).

The road to Beryl took us through something of a subdivision, so it was a lovely surprise to turn down Beryl's long driveway and emerge at a country estate. Beryl is a large Gothic Revival house set in 13 acres of parkland. The house is furnished in elegant country house style, with antique furniture and richly coloured fabrics and walls, and there is a beautiful garden which we have yet to explore.




After the long drive we were just happy to get out of the car and be shown to our rooms by Holly, the owner who runs the hotel with her daughter Mary-Ellen. My parents were in Butterfly, a large spacious room decorated in blue and yellow floral wallpaper and fabrics.






I was in Edward, a much smaller room at the end of the hall, but also pretty and comfortable with a cream and burgundy decor. When we checked into our rooms Holly told us of a small confusion about my room—the guests in the neighboring room and turned up with their son, who they put in the Edward room, but he had left in the morning before it was clear whether he knew that the room was not available for another night. So they posted a note on the door telling him not to go in because the room was let to someone else! It must have worked out all right, because I didn't have any intruders in the night.

Beryl is a true country manor house, and we immediately felt at home, as though this is exactly where we should be. Forgotten was our quaint country cottage—we were now lord and ladies of the manor, accustomed to reclining on elegant velvet settees and sipping tea out of bone china cups. As elegant as it is, Beryl has a warm and








homey air, helped by the presence of two friendly cats, Marmalade (a ginger cat) and Clementine, a velvety black princess, who wander in and out of the house and are more than willing to visit the guest rooms. (Clementine's sociability would be the source of much amusement on Sunday!)

Before we all retired to our lovely rooms for the evening, we took out our packed-along food and had a nice evening tea with Cornish pasties, eggs, cheese, and scones with jam and clotted cream. It was as tasty as any restaurant meal we could have had, and our surroundings were much nicer!

May 25—Happy Birthday, Anne!

And I might add, happy birthday to Ann back home as well!

What do you do to celebrate your mother’s birthday in England? You make her climb Dover’s Hill, of course. With a cottage virtually on top of the footpath to Dover’s Hill, it would be a travesty to leave without going up there (never mind that there is also a car park right on the edge of Dover’s Hill as well). She really wanted to go, anyway. (Really, I’m quite sure she did!)

Although the distance is not far, the first part of the walk (which eventually becomes the Cotswold Way) is a long uphill road, probably about three quarters of a mile long. After crossing the B4081, a rather busy road, the Cotswold Way picks up on the other side and follows a hedge all the way to Dover’s Hill.
Walking onto Dover’s Hill for the third time, I noticed for the first time the actual triangulation point, or trig point, that is referred to in all my books (for which I had mistaken another monument, that now appears to actually be the mysterious topograph that I had been unable to locate). It only took three times to finally get it right (or close enough).

The triangulation point has something to do with the ordnance survey system. The other monument that I earlier incorrectly thought was the triangulation point (see Walking the One-track Paths) is in fact the topograph, evidenced by the map pictured on top of it!

We had left the cottage around 7:30 a.m., to get an early start and also avoid the heat of the day, which had been so difficult on Wednesday. But although the sky started out blue and sunny, clouds quickly began to roll in and by the time we were atop Dover’s Hill, the surrounding valleys were lightly blanketed in a grey mist and excessive heat did not appear to pose a problem. I even pulled out my gloves, which had stayed in my backpack for several days now.

After walking along the escarpment, enjoying the view (even though it was not clear), and admiring the sheep and lambs in the field—and also reevaluating the landscape based on my new landmarks—I even saw the “missing” markers for the beginning of the nature walk I had go on yesterday—we headed through the car park to follow my planned alternate route back to Chipping Campden.

Once again I slightly misread my map and led us too far down the B4081 (much to my mother’s dissatisfaction as the fast moving cars whizzed passed us), but luckily we soon came to another footpath signposted “Chipping Campden” and veered onto it. This path led us through several fields of sheep, then into town between rows of houses, eventually terminating at the back door to Spring Cottage! So in the end my “mistake” seemed like exactly where we wanted to go.

I have a travel theory that says when you have to skip something you really want to see because you run out of time, you should put that item on the top of your next agenda, otherwise it will probably end up getting bumped day after day—because there is never quite enough time. (Like, for example, Temple Church—right Pam?) On Wednesday I had planned a stop at Cerney Gardens in the afternoon, but the walk to and from Kelmscott took too long. Cerney Gardens was closed on Thursday, but I put it back on for Friday. Originally I was going to keep it on Friday afternoon, but I realized that this would probably lead to running out of time again, so today it is first on the list. I had no particular reason for choosing Cerney Gardens over, say, Mill Dene or Sezincote (two gardens that were also on my list but would have to be ruled out due to lack of time), but something about the description in the Cotswolds Year of the Garden pamphlet just appealed to me. So Cerney Gardens it would be.

Distances in the Cotswolds are not far on paper. But on narrow, winding roads those few miles seem to stretch much farther, and take much longer to drive, than you would ever expect. So a middling length trip from Chipping Campden to, say, North Cerney near Cirencester, might seem like a quick hop but in fact end up to be a rather extended skip and a jump as well. It doesn’t help when you miss your intended turn through Broadway and go almost to Evesham before tracing your way back along a slow country road. Once we made our way properly onto the B4632 past Winchcombe toward Cheltenham, we managed to stick to our route and were really only delayed by slow moving traffic in Cheltenham. From Cheltenham, the A436 was to take us directly to North Cerney, and so it did, until we missed North Cerney altogether and had to retrace our steps backward. In the confusion, we could not see the sign for Cerney Gardens and managed to drive all the way through North Cerney and all the way to Calmsden on a one-track road until we turned back and finally spotted the sign, right in plain view on the main road.

I think I attempted to go to Cerney Gardens in 2001 and was put off by the long, narrow, (single track) road up to the gardens. I’m made of sterner stuff now, and chugged bravely up the steep, narrow hill drive into the car park in a field. I was, however, relieved not to meet another car on the road. In fact, we were the only car in the car park. This was no Hidcote, swarming with mobs of visitors. Cerney is not only off the beaten track, it is off the radar of most travelers. It’s a smaller, more homegrown operation, described in the Gardens Guide as a “classic, romantic, secret garden with Victorian features.” The garden is enclosed by a stone wall and features old-fashioned mixed borders and plenty of roses. Apparently it also contains the national collection of Tradescantia, which I did not realize at the time (how could I have missed it?), nor did I know what that was, but it turns out it is spiderwort, which I believe I have had growing as a volunteer in my garden at times. (Volunteer, weed—it's all in your perspective.)

Cerney Gardens is a do-it-yourself garden—we paid for our entry at a box in the garden. Their little shop and tearoom are similarly self-serve. There is a small pottery—workroom attached—with a jar to pay for your purchases.
In the kitchen you can make your own tea and help yourself to cake—several varieties to choose from—and also purchase homegrown eggs, honey, and an unpasteurized goat’s milk cheese made by Lady Angus (the garden owner’s mother).

Anne's birthday photo.

After strolling the garden, refreshments were clearly indicated, so we made our way up to the shop and put on the tea kettle. Although it was a cloudy, cooler day, the little patio was pleasant, so we set up a table and tucked into tea and cake.

We were still the only visitors to the garden, but we had a fourth guest at our table—“Tom,” one of the garden cats who makes a habit of hanging out near the tea room and joining visitors’ tea parties.

We were quite charmed by Tom and offered him crumbs of cake and eventually a saucer of milk from the refrigerator (meant for guests’ tea and coffee), all of which he happily accepted.
We left our money for the tea and cake—as well as a hunk of cheese and half dozen eggs—and headed on our way.

By the time we left Cerney Gardens much more time had passed than I originally intended, and it was already mid-afternoon. I began to reconsider my plan of driving back to Chipping Campden by way of minor roads, in favor of getting back quicker and having a little more free time at the cottage. We still managed to unintentionally deviate from the main road, however, and took a little bypass through Naunton, Upper Slaughter, and Lower Swell before reaching Stow-on-the-Wold and our familiar route back to Chipping Campden.

Back in Chipping Campden I made a quick stop at the Bantam tearoom to buy some scones for us to use with our remaining clotted cream. Then it was free time at the cottage, which I took as a rare opportunity to read and rest. We put out a pick up supper of our remaining food—chicken, cheese, raw vegetables, and the bread I had bought the day before, to make sandwiches, and we all went our separate ways until our next activity.

Which was, unusually for us, an evening activity—a showing of the film Miss Potter in the Chipping Campden Town Hall. I’d seen it advertised in the shop windows and bought us tickets at the Tourist Information Center a few days earlier. Which was a good thing, it appeared, as the small Town Hall auditorium was quite full and it seemed to be sold out. This monthly event seemed to be quite popular with local residents, as they greeted one another and bought glasses of wine for £1. Before the film started, someone announced the movies for June and July—The Last King of Scotland (Widescreen Edition) and Notes on a Scandal—and appreciative gasps arose from the audience.

I was rather pleased at this opportunity to see Miss Potter, as I had wanted to see it when it came out but never had the opportunity. Of course I could always get the DVD and add it to my stack of never-watched movies—but this way I would actually see it.

I’m a long-time admirer of Beatrix Potter’s work, but never really knew much about her life except that she lived in the Lakes District. From now on, I will always picture Beatrix Potter as Renée Zellweger. Or, to be more precise, Renee Zellweger as Bridget Jones as Beatrix Potter. In some ways, Beatrix Potter was the Bridget Jones of Victorian England. Beatrix was a famous spinster for much of her life, and despite living a sheltered life for her first 30 years or so, became quite independent as a successful published author. This allowed her to escape the ties of her parents—who wanted her to stay home as their housekeeper. Instead, she became engaged to her publisher against their wishes (although a tragedy prevented their marriage), purchased her own home in the Lake District, and became involved in sheep breeding and land conservation, buying up a number of pieces of land in the district. She married at the age of 47 (so you see, Bridget, there is still hope). When she died she left her land, cottages and farms (4000 acres) to the National Trust.

The Town Hall is a building in the center of Chipping Campden which I had passed frequently but never known was the Town Hall. In fact, the bench I sit on to use my laptop is at the end of the Town Hall. So right after the film—though it was almost 10 p.m. and rather dark out—I plopped onto my bench for the last time and quickly posted my final blog entry from Chipping Campden. I felt quite regretful about leaving my little office on a bench, as I shut down the computer and walked back to the cottage.