Last year in Scotland we bought two cheap cell phones. The minutes had expired, so "topping off the minutes" was first on the list of things to do. The local post office provided the answer. And that, my fellow Americans, is the difference between them and us. The British post office will sell you butties, hand cream, cell phone minutes, AND stamps.
Second on the list was food. We had proper English breakfasts at the pub. For lunch we gambled on a tea room. Potato "jackets" and "cream" tea were right what the doctor ordered. Plus we sat in the sun-filled courtyard to eat. The weather, however, turned hot and cold on a dime. The Arctic wind would howl one minute, the tropic sun beat down the next. Obviously we will be carrying a lot of weather-related gear tomorrow when we start our walk. Today we kept taking off our jackets and putting them back on all day (when I wasn't napping).
One of the most charming scenes was the picture window of the local convenience store. The display was of cardboard castle creations by a primary grade at the local school. It was in marked contrast to the mostly tourist-oriented shops along the High Street. I took a lot of pictures of the castles.
The Cotswolds, being what they are, represent a time long gone. Thatched roofs, baa-ing sheep, 500-year-old churches, glowing Cotswold stone buildings -- you can imagine them existing in much the same form centuries ago. Of course sheep are no longer raised for their wool, being less expensive to produce elsewhere. There are subsidies for maintaining the tourist-friendly vision of quaint and cozy Cotswolds. I don't care how or why they do it, it's irresistible. I took a million pictures of the cottages and flowers.
One tiny garden we came across wasn't famous except in Chipping Campden. A local horticulturist made a name for himself decades ago by traveling to China to gather plant samples. He was so taken by the place that his nickname here became "Chinese." Ernest "Chinese" Wilson. He was earnest but not Chinese. He may even have been Will's son. Definitely one out of three ain't bad. This garden was dedicated to him in the 1980s and filled mostly with plants that produce tiny purple flowers. Or so it seemed.
After a desultory search, we found the stone that marks the beginning of the Cotswolds Way. Since we unknowingly had walked back and forth between the stone and the pub, which is just across the street from The Way, we don't feel the need to actually begin at the marker tomorrow morning. Hey, a hundred feet ignored is a hundred feet saved, and they may be just this side of the tipping point for sore feet. Do not judge us.
The skies were blue, then cloudy, then at the end of the day dark and stormy. Hmmm.
One final story. At dinner at the local Italian restaurant, the server diffidently asked me if I had eaten there last night. No, I said, but I was jet-lagged so, maybe. Did I enjoy myself? I asked. Ha, ha, she laughed. Later I figured out that she served us breakfast at the pub this morning. We had a joyful reunion. She's my new best friend. Maybe tomorrow morning I'll find out her name.
The rolling countryside, complete with mysterious structure, graveyard, and truck full of baa-ing sheep
Thatched roof "cottage."
Some strange ornaments on top of the thatched roofs. What the heck is that last thing? I thought it looked like an old man or woman climbing up the roof. Tom said it was an owl.
Hollyhocks
All kinds of tiny purple flowers growing in the tiny garden.
Lobelia growing in boots.
The fantasy castles!
The very old town market structure in Chipping Campden. (And, I should say, the not-so-old Tom.)
Marking the start of the Cotswolds Way. (By the way, that says "100M," not "Bath Room," as I originally read it.)
Beginning of the day.
End of the day. Uh, oh.
