Remembering The Cotswolds
Brambles and itch weed and thistle
Mud squeeching up the sides of our shoes
Trails beside streams, beside meadows, between hedges
Made of earth and rock and bits of quarry stone
Tired feet, sore backs, a fall or two
Magical forests with sun filtering through, transforming the leaves to impossible greens
Hills that burned thighs and calves as they were climbed with the reward of magnificent vistas
Hills, forests, rivers, terraced fields, some golden and others green, a jigsaw puzzle of fields and pastures
Hating the rain and the wind driving it into your face
Loving the mist and the wind driving it into your face
Standing atop hills with an exhilarating wind so strong it could nearly knock you over
Escaping both rain and sun while hiking through long arcades in woodlands
Emerging to be caressed by the sun
Hundreds of ancient houses made of the warm Cotswold stone...some of it creamy and some of it more yellow, some looking a little dirty but most of them little masterpieces with gardens that just set them off
Ancient churches surrounded by cemeteries whose memorials span centuries
Stones tipped, cracked, identities of most of the dead no longer discernible
Ivy climbing each stone even as it does the trees in the forest
Moss topping stones and crosses even as it does the rocks and logs in the forest
Hours uninterrupted by traffic or other hikers, sometimes chatting, sometimes playing games to pass the miles, more often silent except to say, “Wow!” or “Look at that!” or “This doesn’t seem like the right way.” or “Do our cards say anything about that?”
The sweet interruptions of conversations with cows, sheep and the occasional horse or goat
Lots of locals walking their dogs winding their ways in and out of our route
The occasional, happy surprise of meeting other hikers or reuniting with those like Chris and Tony from Yorkshire
The pubs, the cider, coke, delicious suppers
Those who greeted us with accommodation for each night; from young to old and from sweet to mad as a hatter
