Cotswolds

Thanks to a last-minute opportunity with HomeExchange⁠, we departed bustling London for a much-needed dose of the English countryside in the Cotswolds, which I had visited only once before and then for just a weekend.

Often referred to as the Hamptons of London because of its concentration of wealthy and celebrity part-time residents, the Cotswolds somehow manages to live up to the thousands of travel books, magazine articles and blogs written about it. Honey-colored stone villages, rolling hills, ancient churches, sheep-dotted fields and pubs that look as though they have been serving beer since Henry VIII was on the throne are not occasional sights here. They are everywhere.

The Cotswolds themselves grew prosperous largely because of wool. Beginning in the Middle Ages, the exceptionally fine wool produced by the local sheep was exported throughout Europe, creating fortunes that paid for the grand “wool churches,” manor houses and market towns that remain today. Much of what makes the area so beautiful is the local limestone, which seems to change from cream to gold depending on the light.

Our temporary home was in Little Rissington, so small that it doesn’t even have a store. What it does have is St. Peter’s Church, and in an area with seemingly as many charming churches as sheep, this one stands out.

The church dates largely from the 12th and 13th centuries, but its most moving history is much more recent. Nearby RAF Little Rissington became an important flying training base beginning just before World War II, and St. Peter’s became closely connected with the airmen stationed there. Forty-nine servicemen are buried in a special section of the churchyard, and inside is a beautiful RAF memorial stained-glass window that even includes the Red Arrows, which were based at Little Rissington in their early years.

Because the house where we were staying was nearby, our nightly ritual after dinner became walking over to the church and wandering through its grounds. It was one of those unexpected pleasures of staying somewhere rather than simply visiting it.

Our closest major-minor town was Bourton-on-the-Water, inevitably called the “Little Venice of the Cotswolds.” The River Windrush runs directly through the center of the village, crossed by a series of low stone bridges and bordered by lawns, stone cottages, cafes and shops. It is almost impossibly picturesque.

Unfortunately, everyone else seems to have gotten the memo.

We had read that the secret to avoiding the crowds was to arrive before 11 a.m. or after 5 p.m. We arrived at 9 a.m. and it was already filling up, so the real lesson is to go as early or as late as you possibly can. It is a delightful place, but considerably less delightful when the occupants of several tour buses descend upon it simultaneously.

One amusing discovery was that any FOR SALE sign outside a cottage seemed to attract nearly as much attention as the river itself. Apparently we weren’t the only visitors fantasizing about chucking it all and moving to the Cotswolds.

Nearby Burford is equally charming but, at least when we visited, considerably easier to enjoy. It is an old wool town built along a steep High Street descending toward the River Windrush, lined with handsome merchants’ houses, crooked old buildings, small shops and lanes that seem to beg you to explore them. Less Instagram-saturated than Bourton, it felt like a place where you could actually slow down and look around rather than jockey for position for a photograph.

Because one of our houseguests was a William Morris fan, we made the pilgrimage to Kelmscott Manor, and it turned out to be one of the delights of the trip.

Morris, one of the central figures of Britain’s Arts and Crafts movement, was a designer, writer, craftsman, publisher, preservationist and social reformer who rebelled against the ugliness and mass production he saw accompanying industrialization. He believed that useful things could also be beautiful and that traditional craftsmanship mattered. Those ideas are everywhere at Kelmscott.

Morris first leased the 17th-century manor in 1871, sharing it for a time with the Pre-Raphaelite painter Dante Gabriel Rossetti, and he became deeply attached to the house and surrounding countryside. The house, gardens, river and village became part of his creative vocabulary. Kelmscott is still wonderfully atmospheric and relatively remote, which appears to protect it from the bulk tourism found elsewhere in the Cotswolds.

Two insider tips:

First, do not miss tiny St. George’s Church, tucked behind trees near where you park. The church is an extraordinary survival in its own right, with medieval wall paintings, a 15th-century stained-glass panel of St. George slaying the dragon and an early 13th-century bell believed to be among the oldest in England. William Morris himself is buried in the churchyard. (Kelmscott Village⁠)

Second, read a little about Morris before touring the manor. There are extremely knowledgeable guides stationed in the rooms who are eager to answer questions, but surprisingly little posted information explaining Morris and his pivotal role in British design and society. Knowing the basics beforehand makes the house infinitely more interesting.

The next day we enjoyed Stow-on-the-Wold, the highest of the Cotswold towns and for centuries an important center of the wool trade. Its enormous market square is a reminder of the days when thousands of sheep could be brought here for sale.

Today, Stow may be best known for something considerably smaller: a wooden door.

At St. Edward’s Church, two ancient yew trees have grown around the north doorway, their gnarled trunks framing it so perfectly that it appears to have been designed for a fairy tale. Legend has it that J.R.R. Tolkien, who knew the Cotswolds from his years at Oxford, was inspired by it when imagining the Doors of Durin in The Lord of the Rings. It is a wonderful story, although apparently no one has ever actually proved it.

Our insider tip for Stow: antique shops. Guidebooks mention antiques throughout the Cotswolds, but in our two weeks here, Stow had by far the greatest concentration we encountered, ranging from inexpensive bric-a-brac to very serious furniture and art.

After taking a day simply to wander the country lanes around our temporary home, we headed on Sunday morning to Blockley, the village made famous as a filming location for Father Brown.

I had stayed in Blockley during my only previous visit to the Cotswolds and found it equally charming this time. Built into a hillside, with narrow lanes, terraces of golden stone cottages and gardens tumbling down toward the valley, it feels less manicured than some of its more famous neighbors. The village church, St. Peter and St. Paul, doubles on television as Father Brown’s fictional St. Mary’s.

I attended the church service that morning and, just as on my previous visit, was surrounded afterward by welcoming locals encouraging me to stay for tea and biscuits, cookies to us Americans, at the back of the church.

From them I learned that Blockley is considered to have an unusually engaged village population, with clubs, activities and community organizations that make it particularly attractive to retirees from London who want the peace of village life without giving up social engagement.

From there we trotted off to Hidcote Manor Garden, fascinating not only because it became the first garden-only property taken into the care of the National Trust, but because one of the most celebrated English gardens was created by an American.

Major Lawrence Johnston was born into a wealthy American family and began creating Hidcote after acquiring the property in 1907. Rather than one enormous formal garden, he created a series of outdoor “rooms,” each with its own personality, divided by hedges and walls and connected by openings that constantly reveal another view. Johnston was also an obsessive plant collector who traveled the world searching for unusual specimens. In 1948 he gave Hidcote to the National Trust, which had never before taken on a property consisting primarily of a garden. (National Trust⁠)

Another unexpected discovery came in Sherborne.

We wandered into the nearly deserted church and encountered Dr. Diane Lovell, an American history professor who has divided her time between Texas and Sherborne and spent years digging through local archives.

That chance meeting introduced us to the wonderfully improbable story of Sherborne’s Russian princesses. Frances Dutton, daughter of the first Lord Sherborne, defied family opposition in the early 1800s to marry Russian Prince Ivan Bariatinsky. Their daughter Elizabeth became Princess Bariatinsky, whose complicated and ultimately rather sad life Dr. Lovell reconstructed through family papers, archives and the monuments in the church. Dr. Lovell has lectured on the Bariatinsky women as well as on other extraordinary discoveries she has made in Sherborne, including more than 100 letters revealing a real-life Regency love story that she has compared to the world of Jane Austen.

More on why meeting her mattered later.

To complete our Sunday, we stopped for a Sunday roast at a local pub near the Rissingtons. Plaques proudly announced that it had been voted one of the best Sunday roasts by an organization we had never heard of, perhaps run by the owner’s mother.

Nevertheless, we tucked into a delicious meal and participated in a ritual that seems almost compulsory in Britain.

A traditional Sunday roast generally means roast beef, lamb, pork or chicken accompanied by roast potatoes, vegetables, gravy and, particularly with beef, an enormous Yorkshire pudding. It is less a meal than a weekly institution. Pubs fill with families, dogs sleep under tables and everyone seems to settle in for the afternoon. We happily did the same.

WALK. WALK. WALK.

If there is one thing I would emphasize about the Cotswolds, it is this: not to walk here is to miss much of the point.

There are thousands of miles of public footpaths crossing fields, farms, woods and villages, including portions of the famous Cotswold Way. You can walk for an hour or all day. There are endless guidebooks and increasingly good walking apps, so the paths are remarkably accessible.

And everywhere there are mud scrapers.

You soon understand why.

Walk into almost any country pub at lunchtime and sooner or later a couple will come sauntering in wearing backpacks and carrying walking sticks, often considerably older than you expected serious walkers to be. Boots come off, dogs collapse underneath tables, pints appear and everyone looks immensely pleased with themselves.

Some of our happiest hours were spent simply walking from one postage-stamp village to another, discovering places like Icomb and other tiny settlements we would never have driven somewhere specifically to see. You stop for ten minutes, wander through an ancient churchyard, admire the stone cottages and ridiculously lush gardens and continue on.

The walking is not what you do between attractions here.

It is one of the attractions.

TWO DAYS WITH BRITAIN’S GLORIOUS PAST

We devoted two major days to exploring Britain’s glorious past: Blenheim Palace and Sudeley Castle.

Blenheim is staggering.

Built in the early 18th century as a gift from Queen Anne and a grateful nation to John Churchill, the first Duke of Marlborough, following his victory over the French at the Battle of Blenheim, it is one of Britain’s grandest country houses and the birthplace of Winston Churchill.

But Blenheim also offers a fascinating lesson in what it takes to keep one of these places alive.

We arrived on a Tuesday in mid-September assuming the summer crowds had peaked. If they had, there was little evidence of it. Restaurants, cafes, gift shops, special tours and events make it clear that a great historic estate today must also operate as a very sophisticated visitor business. Maintaining a palace and roughly 2,000 acres does not come cheaply, and Blenheim makes no apologies for turning its history into an economic engine.

A few insider tips:

Go early or later in the afternoon and avoid weekends if possible.

We booked the self-guided tour of the State Rooms because we had been unable to find a guided tour on the website. When we arrived, a guide casually mentioned that there was a noon guided tour that did not require an advance reservation. We joined it and were very glad we did. Having someone explain the paintings, furniture, family scandals and personalities makes the rooms come alive.

Even better, reserve the tour of the Duke’s private apartments in advance. This was the true behind-the-scenes experience, taking us into rooms still used by the family and by important guests.

And finally, if the weather is good, bring a picnic.

There are several perfectly nice cafes, but few dining rooms can compete with sitting outside overlooking a landscape largely shaped by Capability Brown. His sweeping lawns, lake and carefully manipulated vistas were designed to appear completely natural, which of course means an enormous amount of work went into making them look that way.

Sudeley Castle offers an entirely different experience.

Where Blenheim is monumental, Sudeley feels romantic.

Its history stretches back roughly a thousand years and touches an almost ridiculous number of famous figures: Richard III, Henry VIII, Anne Boleyn, Lady Jane Grey, Elizabeth I and Charles I among them. Most famously, Katherine Parr, Henry VIII’s sixth and surviving wife, lived at Sudeley after the king’s death and died there in 1548 after giving birth. She is buried in the small church within the castle grounds, making Sudeley the only private castle in England with a queen buried on its grounds. (Sudeley Castle & Gardens⁠)

The castle was badly damaged following the English Civil War and remained largely a ruin for nearly two centuries before being rescued in the 19th century by the wealthy Dent family, whose descendants remain connected to it today. Parts are romantic ruins, parts are restored historic rooms and parts remain a family home. That layering is precisely what makes it so appealing. (Sudeley Castle & Gardens⁠)

And do not just tour the castle and leave. Walk. The gardens, ruins, church and surrounding countryside are as important to the experience as the rooms themselves.

THE FAMOUS VILLAGES — AND THE ONES THAT AREN’T

No Cotswolds trip seems complete without Bibury and Arlington Row, perhaps the most photographed row of cottages in the Cotswolds.

Bibury and neighboring Arlington are tiny, and Arlington Row is tinier still: a line of ancient stone cottages beside the River Coln that has become one of the defining images of the English countryside.

This means everyone wants the same photograph.

Parking is severely limited, so once again, early morning or late afternoon is the secret.

You may also notice a surprisingly large number of Japanese visitors. The Cotswolds have had a particular following in Japan for decades, and the connection is often linked locally to Crown Prince Hirohito’s visit to the area in 1921. Whatever the reason, the fascination has endured.

One delightful discovery nearby was Bibury 11, the sort of tiny coffee stop that makes you wonder why anyone bothers planning every meal in advance.

But here is perhaps our biggest Cotswolds tip:

Get lost.

Getting lost on the country lanes constituted a surprisingly large percentage of our favorite moments.

One day the GPS on our phones simply stopped working, not an uncommon occurrence, and we stumbled across Windrush and Sherborne, two villages that seemed almost entirely removed from the tourist circuit.

Windrush is little more than a cluster of beautiful stone houses gathered around an ancient church and the River Windrush. Sherborne, surrounded by a great estate and countryside now cared for in part by the National Trust, feels equally removed from the Cotswolds tourism machine.

There were no tour buses. No lines for photographs. No stores selling Cotswolds tea towels.

Just England.

Many travel writers have lists of their “Ten Best Cotswolds Villages,” and amusingly, most of the lists contain essentially the same ten villages. You can therefore be assured that those will also be the places containing the most tourists.

These villages, much like those we visit so often in the Luberon in Provence, were never designed for cars, much less tour buses. In summer, at midday and on weekends, traffic jams and impossible parking can quickly drain the charm from even the prettiest village.

Visit the famous places, certainly. But go early, go late, go on weekdays and then deliberately seek out the places you have never heard of.

There really is no public transportation system practical enough for the kind of exploring we wanted to do, so you will probably find yourself driving as we did.

GPS can be spotty. We eventually learned simply to keep driving until we encountered a road sign pointing toward a village we recognized.

Even the major roads are generally only two lanes wide, while the lanes leading into smaller villages sometimes appear barely wide enough for one car, never mind two. You will quickly become familiar with the little turnouts that allow one car to pull aside while another squeezes past.

If your goal in life is to slow down, this will do it.

And there is almost no relationship between mileage and travel time. Fifteen miles can easily require 45 minutes. When planning your day, pay attention not just to distance but to actual driving time.

AND FINALLY, TALK TO PEOPLE

Perhaps our favorite lesson from the Cotswolds had nothing to do with castles, churches, gardens or villages.

Take the time to speak with people.

At a cafe, we met an owner who had placed a small laminated prayer on one of the tables for a son who had died by suicide. What began as a casual conversation became one of those brief, unexpectedly personal encounters you remember long after you have forgotten what you ordered.

And then there was Dr. Diane Lovell in Sherborne.

We could easily have entered the deserted church, taken a few photographs and left. Instead, we said hello to the woman standing there and asked whether she was local and knew anything about the church.

That one question opened up the extraordinary story of an English aristocrat who married a Russian prince, their daughter who became Sherborne’s Russian princess, decades of archival research, Regency love letters and a history professor from Texas who happened to be standing in a tiny Cotswolds church at exactly the moment we walked through the door.

Had we not spoken to her, we would never have known any of it.

And perhaps that is the best advice I can give anyone visiting the Cotswolds.

See Blenheim. See Sudeley. Photograph Arlington Row and the Tolkien door. Wander through Bourton and Burford and Stow.

But then put away the list.

Take a footpath whose destination you don’t recognize. Drive down a lane even though the GPS has given up. Open the door of a church that isn’t in your guidebook. Admire someone’s dog. Ask the person sitting next to you in the pub where you should walk tomorrow.

Because after two weeks in the Cotswolds, we discovered that its most memorable places were often the ones we weren’t looking for.

And its most memorable stories came from the people we met along the way.