The Cotswold Fringe

I'll say one thing for my teenage daughter - she gets me out of the house. This morning she was growling around the place like a bear cub with toothache. When she announced she would be late going to college that day - something about her teacher was off sick and anyway she had to do her make-up (a minimum of an hour for this), I abandoned any idea of getting some writing done and instead I donned my boots, left her to it, and strode off down the road. It was a bright and beautiful December day and I did want to test my new insoles after the agonies of Boscastle. Or so I reasoned anyway.

I had crossed three fields before I gave any thought to where I was heading. At that point I realised I had, in my haste to leave the house, forgotten to pack my OS map. Never mind, I decided to take a regular route up Kelston Round Hill, and one which I have completed many times before, but which I never tire of, the view is superlative. On a clear day like today I could see across the Severn to Wales and down to the ridge of the Mendips, the soft, green hills of Somerset rising and falling like a gentle quilt over the land.

Cotwold Way up to Prospect Stile

The wind however was fair whipping round the tump and so before too long I headed down the other side of the hill and joined the Cotswold way for a short stretch to four ways, just below Prospect Stile. Here the lane from North Stoke to Weston near Bath crosses the Cotswold Way. The former is clearly an ancient pathway, as there was a Roman Villa at North Stoke and this is the obvious route there from the Roman town of Aquae Sulis, it is possible that the path dates from at least Roman times. I decided to turn off the Cotswold Way and head down the lane as of the four routes, this was the only one I had never tried. Well I've done it now, but I doubt I will bother going that way again. The lane headed down the hill and came out in the upper part of Weston, necessitating a trek down to the village. I may as well have turned right off the tump, I would have ended in the same place and the route is more scenic and less muddy.

After yesterday's downpours the lane was something of a quagmire and I slithered and squelched my way down the lane, all the while collecting more and more mud on the soles of my boots. By the time I reached the bottom I felt like I was wearing leaded boots like my Deep Sea Diver Action Man  used to wear when I was a kid (handed down from my older, male cousin). I could barely lift each leg up as I stomped my way into Weston. I was also very hungry and was relieved to see that the bakers was full of people in wellies and boots so didn't feel too bad about stomping in there to buy a cheese and salad roll for sustenance.

Munching on the roll I wandered on down the main street. I spotted a sign for the ongoing section of the Cotswold Way  into Bath and on a whim I followed the sign. To my surprise, as I knew Bath was straight on, the path turned left at the church and started climbing a rather steep hill. The Cotswold Way is clearly determined to keep it scenic all the way. After puffing my way up a lane and a field or two the path signposted off the right. Now I was in something of a quandary. My home was about six miles west. Bath was two miles east. So, I could either follow the Cotswold Way all the way to Bath and then get on a train, I cold retrace my steps, or I could just keep climbing the hill and hopefully at the top get a fix on my whereabouts to strike out for home. I decided on the third option and kept climbing up the hill. After all the effort so far, it seemed like a waste not to at least try and get to the top. That way, I reasoned, it should hopefully be downhill all the way home.

On the way up I was treated to magnificent views of what I regard as the 'back' of Kelston Hill. For me the 'front' of the hill is the one I can see from my kitchen window although no doubt Bathonians would disagree. The path passed through Primrose Community Woodland from which I discovered that I was climbing Primrose Hill. The Woodland is run by a community trust. Judging by the signs around the place they seems to have a thing about dogshit, which is fair enough, I'm not keen either, but a long rant about it on the front page of their website doesn't exactly encourage one to visit:

The collection box is now in place, when you visit the wood just think about all the costs involved in this wood and empty your pockets and purses into the box. However, just after it was installed one selfish dog owner allowed their dog to foul the ground right by the collection box and didn't clear it up. There are just a few dog walkers who are determined to give all dog owners a bad name. Just remember that it is these same people whose lack of care resulted in dog walkers being banned from other sites around Bath. So, it is up to everyone to keep their eyes open to identify those who wish to foul it up for everybody else. If you see anybody not being responsible, please gently remind them of the bins. If anyone objects to this please send details of dog and owner to the trustees.

If I was a dog owner I would feel unwelcome and if not a dog owner, why would I want to go somewhere covered in dogshit?

Anyway, I managed to cross the woodland unscathed. As the path emerged into a hillocky field, there was a magnificent view of Lansdown (Beckford's) Tower, its gilded top gleaming in the winter sunshine. Born in 1759, William Beckford was the son of 'Alderman' Beckford who had made vast amounts of money on the back of Jamaican sugar and slavery and was one of the richest men in England.

Filthy rich, ridiculously eccentric and pilloried for being homosexual; William Beckford scandalised and fascinated Victorian society in equal measure. He made no money in his lifetime but was extraordinarily talented at spending it. He had Lansdown Tower built after he moved to Bath from the enormous gothic Fonthill Abbey, the largest private house ever built in the UK, but which unfortunately collapsed under it's own weight in 1825. Beckford had sold Fonthill in 1823 to clear his debts. He didn't stop spending though, and had the tower built to house his now somewhat depleted art collection. He died in 1844.
(A useless piece of trivia - Beckford was also the great-great-great-grandfather of Prince Rainer III of Monaco.)

Well, back on the top of Lansdown it was getting very cold so after admiring the tower I set off across the ridge across playing fields and then Lansdown Racecourse to rejoin the Cotswold Way at Prospect Stile.

Prospect Stile

Lansdown Racecourse

The lane to North Stoke

From here it was a pleasant trot down the lane to North Stoke and then Swineford. I did hesitate just before Swineford when I came to a sign on the stile which said "BEEF BULLS IN FIELD'. I know that beef bulls are not supposed to be aggressive but I could see one of them and it was a big bastard. But there was no way I wanted to go all the way round so I found a stick in the hedge, just in case, and strode across the field. The bull stood and stared at me for a while but didn't move. Nevertheless I was relieved when I vaulted over the stile at the other side of the field.

All the stress, I felt, justified a pit stop at the Swan Inn for a pint of Gem from Bath Ales Brewery. This is one of my favourite beers, it's just a shame it's always on the expensive side. I nicely asked the barman to fill it right to the top, no way I was going to settle for 90% full at over three quid a pint. From the Swan it was a short walk across the field to the railway bridge that crosses the Avon and then back across the fields to my home. A good walk although the bad news was that my new insoles had made no difference whatsoever, for the last few miles my feet were in agony and I kept letting out involuntary whimpers of pain. Only one cure for footache like that - give them a good soak in a bowl of water whilst simultaneously sipping a nice bottle of Old Speckled Hen. 

Cows on Lansdown

River Avon

My Route is Here

Dyrham Park Disaster

Yvonne, fit and strong from walking the Camino de Santiago de Compstela, suggested we go for a 'long walk.'
'Ok,' I said, 'how long? Ten miles?'
Yvonne looked at me in disgust. 'Ten miles? she said incredulously. 'No, let's do twenty.'
I shook my head. 'No, I can't manage twenty,' I protest feebly. 'Ten. Fifteen at the most.'
'Leave it to me,' said Yvonne. She texted me the departure point, at the back of Dyrham Park and I duly arrived in my car at the appointed time of half-past nine. Dyrham Park supplied most of the exterior shots for the film The Remains of the Day, although the interiors were mostly filmed at nearby Badminton House. Dyrham is also on the route of the Cotswold Way and it was a section of this route that Yvonne proposed that we walk for the day. This sounded good to me, and we strode through the village and then turned right on a footpath in the direction of Bath.



The day started well, albeit a little drizzly. The route was varied and pleasant, alongside fields and small ponds and passing through Dyrham Wood. In the wood a little box on a post had some usefuls in it, left by other walkers, including a couple of biscuits, a card with the number of a local B&B and a notebook for leaving messages, presumably for lost companions. 'Dear xxx, we're heading for the pub at Tormarton. Hurry up, it's your round.' That type of thing. We debated whether to eat the biscuits. Alfie (Yvonne's Westie) was in favour, but I was not so sure. There would no doubt be people passing this way whose need was greater than ours, after all we had only been walking for twenty minutes. We put them regretfully back in the tin and strode purposefully on.

We had speculated whether we would be able to get a coffee at the White Hart in Cold Ashton but when we got there the pub had closed. Permanently closed. There was, however a sign for a cafe along the road so we decided a small detour was in order. The cafe was a little gem, a small building on a walking farm. The play area outside was now being used to house a group of pigs, who seemed to like it, although I was disappointed to note that none of them seemed keen on using the slide or the little climbing frame.

(If one wanted to give an example of the versatility of the English language one need look no further than the pig. Pigs have been around for a very long time, domesticated from the wild boar, and English words for pigs are plentiful. The animal itself could be a pig, a swine, a hog, a sow, a grunter, a squealer, a shoat or a piglet. A group of pigs, depending on the type, the age and whether or not they are on the move could be called swine, a drift, a drove, a herd, a sounder, a farrow, a flock or a doylt. )

The proprietor of the cafe was lovely, and she had no problem with us bringing either our muddy boots or Alfie into the warm room. I was unable to resist a huge piece of carrot cake and Yvonne, who was suffering from a pre-existing blister, managed to scrounge a couple of plasters. After our refreshments we pressed on through the village of Cold Ashton itself and then along a long, long lane before once again crossing fields.

The route started to climb up to Lansdown and we arrived at the site of the Battle of Lansdown Hill in July 1643. (That's the date of the battle, not when we got there.) The field in front of us was apparently the site of a significant skirmish between the Royalists and the Parliamentarians in the English Civil War or if you're a fan of Christopher Hill, the English Revolution. (Personally I think Professor Hill was rather pissed off that the French and the Americans, let alone the Russians, had all had their revolutions, and so determined to make this one our very own 'English Revolution', so claiming that we were the first.)

As we followed the course of the path around the hill, it was not so much the English Civil War that struck me, it was much older history. We passed the site of a Roman Villa,although nothing remains of it now, and an Iron Age fort and although I am not prone to superstition I caught something in the atmosphere which was hard to define, the ephemera of long dead people who had walked this route over the centuries.

More prosiacally, the path also marches through Lansdown Golf Club, 'a traditional private members club', and we sternly informed Alfie that this was not the place to stop for a pooh. 'As if I would,' he muttered.

Finally we reached Prospect Stile which gives, as Jane Austen would say, A Fine Aspect over all of Bath and the surrounding countryside. We sat on the bench and ate our lunch. I was by now getting a little concerned as it was gone three o'clock and at this time of year the nights were drawing in. It was time to turn around and head back. In view of the time we decided to head back straight across the race course and the golf course. I was starting to worry about the dwindling light and suggested an alternative route back. This proved to be a mistake.

It looked straightforward enough on the map, a shortcut down to Langridge and then through a few fields to rejoin the Cotswold Way. We stopped for a quick look at St Mary Magdelene Church, Langbridge, a beautiful little twelfth century building with a magnificent norman arch before heading up a steep lane. Three or four fields on we would rejoin the proper path and then head back.

What the trusty OS Map didn't show, however, were the horses and cows. Yvonne was worried about taking the dog through fields of cows and horses. And, if I'm honest I wasn't too keen either. But we made a run for it though a field full of young horses, during the course of which Alfie slipped his lead. Ahead of us was a field of full cows and another one of horses. We dithered for a while  and eventually we decided to backtrack up a lane.

By the time we reached the proper route again it was dark. I dug out my headlamp and we peered at the map. Suddenly mooing up in front brought my companions to a halt. Yvonne suggested we traverse the field next door and try and pick up the route at the other end. This was not as straightforward as we hoped, we were reduced to crawling through brambles, under barbed wire and stepping in unseen cowpats in the dark. I don't think it's pushing it to say we were all getting a little bit pissed off. Eventually, god save us, we reached a lane and stayed on it until we reached the A46. We traipsed down here for a while but I knew a decision awaited us. Go through Dyrham Woods in the pitch dark or make a massive detour along a busy road, in the dark, with no footpath.

'It'll have to be the wood,' I said, wearily. We had no choice. Why are woods so creepy at night? I blame The Blair Witch Project. We managed to get through it though and trudged disconsolately on. When we were almost at the end of the path at Dyrham I slipped and fell down hard on my right buttock. 'Damn, fuck and bollocks!!' I said. Which I think under the circumstances was quite restrained.

By the time we finally reached our cars, eleven hours after our jaunty departure, we were tired, dishevelled, and stinking of cow shit. Only Alfie who had earlier been complaining he was tired seemed undaunted, jumping for joy as the car came into view.

'Errm, that was lovely, Yvonne, we must do it again sometime,' I said, unenthusiastically.
'Uh, yes, we must,' she responded, with even less enthusiasm.

I'm sure we will go for another walk. Sometime. Maybe.

Our route