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!