A week of solitary sightseeing in the Cotswolds takes me back to my English roots

The United Kingdom is caught in the grip of a collective case of cabin fever.

Last summer, everyone embraced “staycations” with a Blitz spirit. We were all doing our bit in the battle against the pandemic, felt virtuous injecting some cash into local attractions deprived of foreign tourism, and actually had a bit of fun discovering British locations that could rival continental hot spots.

More than 15 months after the first restrictions, patience is running out. One summer of local holidays was charming, but nobody expected a second. The closer summer came, the more confused the travel picture grew as regulations shifted back and forth with little notice. The only dependable option is getting in your car and staying local again, if you can manage to stay clear of the NHS’ increasingly notorious Test and Trace app surprising you with your own personal quarantine. (As I write, the app had pinged half a million people in just one week, with rising numbers ignoring its advice because the overwhelming majority of the population is now fully vaccinated and precautions are starting to feel pointlessly excessive.) Every news broadcast features disgruntled holidaymakers, British-owned businesses on the continent facing bankruptcy without this summer season to refill their coffers, or frustrated owners unable to get to holiday homes in France and Spain.

The Bencards aren’t attempting to break our island shackles until September (and I have no real confidence that trip will take place). For a much-needed summer pause, we headed for the Cotswolds.

Regular readers will know this is familiar territory for BencardsBites. We spend at least two weekends a year at the Longborough Festival Opera near Stow-on-the-Wold. Thanks to both being able to work remotely, we thought we would mix things up for our second opera of the year by decamping to Stow for a whole week. We’d work during the day, enjoy someplace different in the evenings, and get a feel for what living in the Cotswolds might be like. (One of my long list of retirement fantasies.)

It didn’t go quite as planned. A 10-day COVID quarantine as June turned to July knocked me out of my annual girls’ trip and forced my husband to reschedule some important appointments into the week scheduled for our Stow residency. The result: I took the whole week off with the unused girls’ trip time, but was on my own for the first four days and solo sightseeing for the whole week.

It was an unexpectedly pleasant trip down memory lane. On my earliest expat assignments in England, any moment I wasn’t working or sleeping I was exploring on my own. Unencumbered by the interests of others I threw myself into historic sites and wandered miles down country lanes in search of some much-lauded view or quirky ruin. Often the only conversation I had across a whole weekend was with guides in historic houses about some interesting artefact or architectural nuance. And that’s exactly how I spent much of my week.

With no-one’s patience to try but my own, I could drive almost two hours just to see one garden. (Of that spectacular visit to David Austin’s headquarters, stay tuned for my next article.) I could indulge my love of the Arts and Crafts movement with a lingering visit to Wightwick Manor and savour every layer of history at the beautifully curated Sudeley Castle. Many might find Broughton Castle too similar to do in the same week, but not me! I could take the long and winding route to wherever I was heading, down tiny lanes, regularly pulling over to take in a view or let traffic that actually needed to be somewhere hurry by. I could linger unbothered in the seconds area at Whichford Pottery, debating how big a flaw I was ready to accept in exchange for a proportionate discount. (With no one to question whether or not I actually needed new pots.)

One of the great delights of this trip was aimlessly strolling around some of the smaller, particularly picturesque villages. Places like Bibury, Upper and Lower Slaugher, Great Tew and Lower Swell have made the Cotswolds famous the world over. Golden-walled, slate-roofed, rose-covered cottages of mellow antiquity gather around tiny village greens or line little streams crossed by ancient stone footbridges. Wrought iron gates offer views of  gabled and pinnacled manor houses that might have welcomed Elizabeth I. Fields of golden wheat, hello rape, blue flax, sheep and cows extend up the encircling hillsides. 

For years, these little slices of heaven have been partially destroyed by the worshippers who travel here to drink in their atmosphere. Rural charm is hard to preserve in the face of busloads of tourists alighting to photograph every angle and stick their noses against people’s windows. At their worst, foreign crowds can make these places feel more like the British pavilion at Epcot real communities. This summer, with foreigners mostly absent, these idyllic villages retained their original charm. And I made the most of it, strolling slowly to take in architectural details and picturesque scenes, or finding a comfortable spot from which to draw or watercolour for an hour or two. (My attempt at the famous row of cottages in Bibury called Arlington Row is below.)

I even indulged in the takeaway curry that used to be my staple on those long-ago sightseeing weekends. Now that I am married to a man who is allergic to tomato and doesn’t like spicy food, an Indian takeaway has become a rare and solitary indulgence. A Sunday-night order from Stow-on-the-Wold’s excellent Prince of India kept me going until the husband’s arrival Wednesday.

While I have no desire to return permanently to the solitary travels of my 30s, I enjoyed the self-indulgence of my week enormously. You, dear reader, can look forward to a stream of articles in coming weeks as a result.

Our home in Stow-on-the-Wold was called The Little House, and little it was. In square footage, it was about half the size of the flat that we rented at The Unicorn up the street when we came up for Wagner last month. Just a small kitchen, sitting room and loo downstairs, and a snug double, single and bathroom up. Basic rather than luxurious, but excellent value for money at £540 for an entire week in contrast to around £300 for two nights at the  boutique hotels we’ve typically used for weekends.

The Little House is in the lower part of Stow-on-the-Wold, just up a lane from The Bell pub. It was only a few hundred yards beyond the main circuit most tourists take around the little market town, and yet the “neighbourhood” felt more local. It was quieter, parking was easier, we discovered new restaurants and pubs, yet we were still within easy walking distance of all of our regular favourites.

Despite my celebration above of the lack of foreign tourists, I am happy to report that those visitors … particularly Americans … are missed by the hospitality industry. In several conversations with locals I heard the same refrain. Local tourists are different. It’s not as simple as Brits spending less money than the foreigners. (Though I was assured most of them do.) The big differences came down to research and appreciation.  People who invest in plane tickets and spend a week or two in the country put effort into preparing for their holiday. They plan what they want to see and often read about things in advance. They research comparison sites for hotels and restaurants and generally have set their expectations accordingly. In summary, foreigners are coming for a heritage and cultural experience, while Brits are looking for new places to kick back, eat and drink. (I suspect what heritage sites are losing in revenues, pubs are making up.) I was both delighted and saddened when one of the guides at Sudeley Castle volunteered that the Americans who visit almost always have a better grasp of British history than the natives wandering through at the moment.

There’s plenty of history to come. And gardens. And one particularly fine new restaurant tip. Read on…