I wrote this last year. My parents live in the Cotswolds, along with a lot of my dearest, nearest friends. It’s also the birthplace of the grand-dogs, Harry and Sally.
© Kenna Bourke 2010
Edward Thomas, the writer, poet, and friend of Robert Frost, was killed by a shell blast on the first day of the Battle of Arras, on April 9, 1917. Two hundred and sixty-four miles miles the other side of the Channel from that battlefield, in the tiny village of Adlestrop (population 150), the injustice of this makes tears spring to my eyes as I’m hurtled back to a childhood memory of one of Thomas’s most famous poems, born of an unscheduled stop on the Oxford to Worcester express –
Yes, I remember Adlestrop –
The name, because one afternoon
Of heat the express-train drew up there
Unwontedly. It was late June.
The steam hissed. Someone cleared his throat.
No one left and no one came
On the bare platform. What I saw
Was Adlestrop—only the name
And willows, willow-herb, and grass,
And meadowsweet, and haycocks dry,
No whit less still and lonely fair
Than the high cloudlets in the sky.
And for that minute a blackbird sang
Close by, and round him, mistier,
Farther and farther, all the birds
Of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire.
An hour and a half’s train journey, or a car trip up the M40 through the Chiltern hills, northwest of London, lie the Cotswolds, a range of rolling hills officially designated as an area of outstanding natural beauty that stretches 90 miles long and 25 miles across, from the dreaming spires of Oxford in the south, to the heart of Shakespeare country, Stratford-Upon-Avon, in the north. At their centre, where the counties of Warwickshire, Gloucestershire and Oxfordshire criss-cross and meander off again, is a mass of evocatively named villages: Stow on the Wold, Moreton in Marsh, Bourton on the Water, Upper and Lower Slaughter, Daylesford, Batsford, Oddington, Snowshill and the Rollrights – any of which make an ideal base from which to explore the area. Stick a pin on a map, toss a coin, select according to the quirkiness of a name: it’s impossible to get it wrong.
This particular journey started in Adlestrop, where a circular walk of around five miles through woodland and fields links Adlestrop to Daylesford and Oddington. Trains coming down the Cotswold line no longer stop at Adlestrop since its closure by the infamous Dr Beeching, once Chairman of British Railways. His report, The Reshaping of British Railways, often ruefully referred to as the Beeching Axe, resulted in the merciless sacrifice of 4000 miles of railway lines in 1966, with a further 2000 closed by the end of the sixties. While the railway bridge at Adlestrop survives, there’s no platform on which to come or go: the station stands abandoned and overgrown with vegetation, about a mile or so outside the village. Yet, happily and one hopes forever, the original station bench sits as a reminder of times past in the bus shelter, alongside a brass memorial to Thomas’s poem.
Yew trees and the honey-coloured cottages so typical of the area flank the narrow road leading to the church of St Mary’s Magdalene. The Cotswolds are rich in Oolitic limestone and have been quarried since the Middle Ages for building. The cottages, houses, farmsteads, churches and manor houses that make up the fabric of the Cotswold’s settlements are almost invariably classified as ‘listed’ buildings, protected from alteration forever more by law. And the stone is a sight that gladdens the heart – softly unassuming, warmly welcoming, time-befriended. As JB Priestley put it,
“The truth is that it has no colour that can be described. Even when the sun is obscured and the light is cold, these walls are still faintly warm and luminous, as if they knew the trick of keeping the lost sunlight of centuries glimmering about them.”
St Mary’s has strong connections to Jane Austen. Austen’s mother, Cassandra Leigh, was the first cousin of the Reverend Thomas Leigh, rector of Adlestrop, and Jane Austen is known to have visited on at least three occasions between 1726 and 1806. The church was rebuilt in 1750, and so has changed little since Jane Austen’s time.
It is notable for its 13th Century chancel arch, but also for its hidden treasures – the wooden box dated 1703 that stands on the chancel, intriguingly silent about its origins; the heart-shaped tombstone that is propped up on the south side of the nave; and on the exterior south wall of the chancel, an Elizabethan memorial dated 1594.
And so, on to Daylesford, an estate now owned by the Bamford family of JCB tractor fame, which has unexpected connections to the making of the British Empire, India, impeachment and corruption. Warren Hastings, grandson of the rector of Daylesford spent much of his childhood at Daylesford Manor until debt forced the family to sell. It was then, in 1750, that Hastings joined the British East India Company as a clerk. By 1773, he’d become Governor-General of India. His task was to eliminate the corruption that was rife among the British and Indian ruling classes, a challenge he approached with wily, dogged determination and controversial methods. Returning to England in 1784, he was charged with ‘high crimes and misdemeanours’, impeached three years later, but finally acquitted by the House of Lords in 1795. Despite the personal turmoil, in 1788 Hastings spent his savings on buying back the Daylesford Estate, where he remodelled the mansion with the help of architect Samuel Cockerell, using classical, Indian and Moorish decorations. The house still stands today, though catching a glimpse of it is tricky – the 18th Century fashion being to conceal buildings behind ornamental parkland in an effort to preserve privacy.
Pure indulgence awaits those who’ve walked their socks off and soaked up enough history for one day. There’s no other way to describe the Bamfords’ Daylesford Farm Shop except to say that it’s a corner of Chelsea, London, bizarrely but lovingly dropped into the middle of the Cotswolds. A gourmet’s dream come true, founded on the philosophy of protecting and nourishing the land, this set of former farm buildings and barns bursts at the beams with organic produce, cheeses, meats, wines, bread, pastries, and flowers. The footsore walker can sit surrounded by the box and bay trees of the courtyard and satisfy any fancy – from coffee and cake to oysters and champagne. And if that’s not quite enough to restore the soul, there’s even a spa that offers massage, Ayurvedic therapy, reflexology, and Japanese REN facials for the diehard ‘my body is a temple’ type. Just bring a fistful of pounds.
Continuing on, with the promise of a gastropub just a mile or so away, Oddington awaits. Exit through the gate to the left of the farm shop on to a footpath that leads through a woodland area called Lower Oddington Ashes. Sheep, squirrels, birds of prey, songbirds and dog-walkers are the only other creatures sharing the walk. The footpath emerges alongside the 11th Century village church, St Nicholas, and a few paces from there, is the Fox at Oddington, wrapped in a resplendent Virginia creeper that metamorphoses from green to copper between spring and autumn. Inside, the open fireplace, flagstone floors and wooden beams scream archetypical England, as indeed they are in this most English corner of the British Isles.
Locally sourced ingredients make up a concise but tempting menu – leek and gruyere tart, pan seared scallops with rocket and ginger dressing, Oddington asparagus with Hollandaise, guinea fowl with mushrooms and Madeira, individually baked steak and kidney pie, and Colston Bassett stilton, or bread and butter pudding to top things off. The pub’s owners flit about with smiles as wide as that of the children’s toy reclining on an armchair by the fire – a fox, clad in dark green tweed jacket and beige riding trousers. Another pint of Hooky, anyone? English ale from the local brewery, Hook Norton, served tepid, of course.
Triple-cooked chips at the Kingham Plough
Once replete, retracing steps to St Nicholas isn’t arduous. This Norman church is one of the Cotswolds’ best-kept secrets, and it’s no exaggeration to say that it’s a magical place. As a friend of mine put it: “I too remember our visit as one of those points along life’s journey that stand out as marker points, moments in time that hover in the air at all times.”
A local in the pub told me that on Christmas Eve, Midnight Mass is celebrated there, by candlelight, there being no electricity in the building. And so I make a silent promise to be there one Christmas, to breathe in the scent of pine and watch the candlelit faces of the choristers – ten centuries of community: cause for celebration.
A visit by King Henry III (1207-72) led to the addition of an Early English nave and chancel alongside the original Norman ones. But what of that, when inside, in the gloom of an afternoon, the gargantuan wall painting, the ‘Doom’ (Last Judgment), robs the unsuspecting, Hooky-fuelled visitor of breath? This painting was added to the north wall of new nave in about 1340. 32 feet long and 15 feet high, it’s now faded, and harder to decipher, having been whitewashed over during the Reformation, but still, 670 years later, who can blame it for looking as jaded as those who’ve just had Sunday lunch at the Fox?
The leaflet at the church door helps – the painting is a depiction of Christ resting his feet on a shape that might be ether the sun or the moon, angels trumpeting to wake the dead, the dead rising from their graves to be judged … But no, wait! There are the wicked being driven into hell by a truly evil-looking devil complete with spiked tail and horns, while the trees of heaven bear luscious fruit for those of us who’ve ‘behaved’ and will inherit the earth. Oh, yes, and then there are people being boiled in a cauldron. Lovely. Medieval worshippers coming to St Nicholas must have been terrified. But today it’s a place of unsurpassed serenity, calm, and peace. Primroses poke their delicate heads up to smile at the ancient and not so ancient tombstones, and all is well with the world. It’s the sort of place one would welcome being married or buried in, in equal measure.
St Nicholas, Oddington
April 2010. No weddings, no funerals, no christenings, even in Oddington. Iceland’s volcano brings everything to a standstill. The ghost of Edward Thomas floats above the Cotswolds in the form of a poem written by Carol Ann Duffy, the current British Poet Laureate, and all I can think is – how opportune, how appropriate. Yes, I too remember Adlestrop, and Oddington, and all the birds of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire.
Silver Lining
Five miles up, the hush and shoosh of ash,
yet the sky is as clean as a wiped slate-
I could write my childhood there. Selfish
to sit in this garden, listening to the past-
a gentleman bee wooing its flower, a lawnmower-
when grounded planes mean ruined plans, holidays
on hold, sore absences from weddings, funerals,
wingless commerce.
But Britain’s birds
sing in this spring, from Inverness to Liverpool,
from Crieff to Cardiff, Oxford, London Town,
Land’s End to John O’ Groats; the music silence summons,
that Shakespeare heard, Burns, Edward Thomas; briefly, us.
Where to sleep and eat
Money no object? Stay at a luxury hotel such as the 17th Century Lower Slaughter Manor or Lords of the Manor at Upper Slaughter, a 17th Century rectory. Feeling peckish? Get a room above a gastropub: The Kingham Plough or The Fox at Oddington are both good bets. Want to meet the locals? Cosy up and be treated to full English breakfasts at B&Bs like the 1854 former schoolhouse in Little Compton or Number Nine in the old sheep town of Stow on the Wold. Saving money? Try the Youth Hostel in Stow on the Wold or pitch a tent at Fosseway House in Moreton in Marsh. Want to pretend you live there? Rent a cottage from the National Trust or volunteer to rebuild a drystone wall.
Accommodation
Luxury:
www.lowerslaughter.co.uk
www.lordsofthemanor.com
Gastropub:
www.foxinn.net
www.thekinghamplough.co.uk
www.theoldschoolbedandbreakfast.com
www.number-nine.info
Kedgeree for supper – an Anglo-Indian dish 
This is the 20 minute version. Sweat off the onions in a drizzle of olive oil or olive oil and butter until translucent. Add the curry powder (and bashed up spices if you feel like bashing something). Leave on the heat for a few minutes to soak up the flavours. In the interim, cook the rice according to the instructions on the pack. Drain, cool under the cold tap to stop it cooking further. Also heat up or cook the kippers according to the instructions. Boil the eggs and dunk immediately in cold water to avoid that nasty grey ring effect round the yolks when you quarter them. Flake the fish, discarding all bones and skin. Peel and quarter the eggs. Now combine the whole lot in the same frying pan you used for the onions. Add peas if using, check for seasoning, heat through, and scatter over fresh parsley or coriander leaves to serve.
Munchies In Manhattan 