A twee little village in the Cotswolds...

August 1, 2010

It's hard to believe that we've already been traveling for five weeks. Looking back at everything I've written, it occurs to me that we've been moving, seeing, and doing the whole time. We've toured London and Sawbridgeworth. We've flown to Dublin, run through the whole city, and hiked 46 miles through the Wicklow Mountains. Then, we hopped a flight to Sevilla, toured Cordoba and Granada, hiked Mulhacen, and then spent three days partying in Alicante. We had one night back in London, and since then, we've biked 430 miles through the southern half of England. In the past two days we've hiked 18 miles, and tonight, we're going to go see Othello. Tomorrow, we're going to go punting down the river. And, judging by my fields of entries, I've written nearly a hundred pages to boot. (I don't actually know how many pages because the blog won't allow me to copy and paste documents from word. Instead, I'm writing in notepad which is annoying for a couple of reasons: 1) every time I paste my document in, I have to go through and separate each of the paragraphs, and there is no spell check, and 2) there is no page count which, for a notch-on-the-belt person like me, is absolutely infuriating.) So, I guess if you look at it that way, it's hard to believe only been gone for five weeks :)

At Joshua's request, we woke up yesterday and drove to the Cotswolds. I heard the drive was very pretty, but curled in my little fetal position to avoid motion sickness, I saw none of it; instead, I snoozed and half listened to our tour of Northamptonshire and Gloucestershire. At Moreton-on-the-Marsh, we parked in the village center to find walking maps and purchase cheese, and then we drove a few more miles to park in Bourton-on-the-Water, the start of our Cotswold walk.

I've decided to become Ruth's apprentice, and among the many things that she has to teach me are the names of English flowers (campian, hollyhock, fuchsia, gardenia, hosta, hydrangea, speedwell...), how to stand up for myself, and the meaning of "twee." As far as the flowers go, I've revealed my proletariat tastes by proclaiming a deep and abiding love for poppies. I picked one and stuck it in Ruth's hair, where it promptly wilted. So much for a bouquet of poppies. Standing up for myself and finding the power to be rude when a little rudeness is needed seems to be an ill-fated task as well. Both Ruth and I are convinced that the apprenticeship might take years. The meaning of "twee" though, THAT I have mastered.

The villages of the Cotswolds are twee. Our best translation for the word is "cute." Twee may be a compliment, but it could also be an insult, depending on the intonation that is used. People are not twee. Single objects are not twee. A village may be twee. A painting of a village may be twee (in which case, the adjective, twee, is an insult). Twee may be nauseating and self-indulgent and sentimental (Ruth's words, not mine), or it can be the kind of village you would like to move into because it's just so damn cute. As I said, the villages of the Cotswolds are twee, and although this comes with the hazard of "too many loud and obnoxious Americans" (Ruth's words, not mine), it also comes with a large degree of house-envy. Around every turn, Ruth and I would point towards yellowy stone cottages with bursting flower pots near the door and sheep milling about, and claim, "mine."

One thing about the Cotswolds is that they like their hyphenated names. I'm not talking about the advent of feminism and Johnson-Smith or anything like that; I'm talking about Stow-on-the-Wold, Moreton-on-the-Marsh, Ipswich-in-the Valley, Twee-on-the-Knoll, and Bitter-in-the-Pub (I made the last three up). Although I'm not sure that Ruth would approve of this word usage, I have decided that the names are also twee, and if we ever stop traveling long enough to buy our own little farm, I shall call it something twee, and twee it shall be.

A few miles out of Bourton-on-the-Water, we passed over hills and valleys filled with sheep and scary cows with big-ass horns. We escaped unscathed over turnstiles and across little footbridges, and in Naunton, we stopped at a 16th century Dovecote. Although I read the little fact sheet, I'm still not sure I really understand. Pigeons and doves volunteer to live in these buildings with little slots inside for nests and a ton of bird poop on the floor, and in exchange for agreeing to populate the building in the hundreds, they are killed, cooked, and served in the pub. Apparently, it was a sign of wealth to own a Dovecote and eat doves. Sometimes, I think the English are very strange creatures. I did enjoy walking in, looking up, and listening to them coo and gurgle.

Down the road (past twee cottages), we entered The Black Horse and selected our desired meals, only to discover that they were no longer taking orders. They were still serving though, and we watched enviously as our table-neighbors were served massive plates filled with pigeon and vinegary chips. Instead of food, Ruth, Paul, and Joshua drank bitter, and I drank water (cuz I don't like beer or bitter). Ruth's drink was actually a "top" or maybe a "dash" or maybe a "shandy." Every time I ask what something means, I feel like I get three synonyms and four different definitions. Anyway, tops and dashes and shandies have lemonade in the beer. Some have more and some have less, and that's how you know what to call them, but I've already forgotten which is which. I do know that they taste nice, and I think that I might like beer a little bit more if it were disguised as lemonade :)

To tide ourselves over, we ate crisps with the cheeses we had bought in Moreton-on-the-Marsh. One was stinky, and Paul would have none of it, even though it was cured in Mead. Another was coated in hops, and another was a bright yellow Jersey Brie. We devoured them all, eating them with salt and vinegar, tarragon and chicken, and cheese and onion crisps. Lunch of champions.

After a few more hills and a few more twee cottages, we reached Upper Slaughter, and although the name is decidedly NOT twee, the village is. With a huddle of very old, very cute buildings and a stream running through, the village was very, very cute. Unfortunately, there was not a pub to be seen, and although Paul was intrigued by a very posh hotel and its offer of tea, the helicopter pad in the front yard and the people playing croquet on the green were a bit too intimidating for my tastes. We plunged on, and in Lower Slaughter, we tried for tea at a more modest cottage on the canal. It was closed, and by this time, we were all a little bit cranky from hunger.

Cranky or not, Lower Slaughter was just as cute as its Upper neighbor, and to exit, we passed an old mill and a few old footbridges crossing a clear stream. Within 30 minutes, we arrived back in Bourton-on-the-Water, and after 10 miles of walking, we found our first open pub serving food all day. Ruth and Paul ordered Coronation Chicken sandwiches on Ciabatta, and Joshua and I ordered Bacon and Brie. All of us had sides of chips, and within the half hour, our plates were spotless.

On our drive back, I slept the whole way with my head in Joshua's lap, and back at Wharfdale, we snacked on pita bread and humous while we watched England's version of Big Brother. Before I went to bed, I got on the Internet and ended up staying up way too late, posting on the blog and looking through the images that Ashlee had posted of our trip on Facebook. Reading through the comments on my blog and my e-mails, I got a little homesick for the first time. For my cure, I went to bed and snuggled up next to Joshua to fall asleep.