Monday. July 26, 2010
The Cotswolds and Oxford

It apparently came down in buckets in London today…but I wouldn’t know. I was far away in the Cotswolds, one of the prettiest parts of England and one of my particular favorites, where it remained dry though overcast–perfect conditions for a drive into the country and for gentle strolling. And indeed there is so much to absorb–from honey-toned villages composed entirely of the famous Cotswolds stone to ‘wool’ churches created by wealthy wool merchants in the Middle Ages when the area was the center of English trading; from cute shops stocked with trinkets and edible goodies (I almost bought out the entire stock of Border’s Dark Chocolate Gingers–my favorite English biscuit–in Stow-on-the-Wold) to stately homes (Kelmscott Manor, home of William Morris, for instance) to spectacular gardens (such as Hidcote Manor, which is world-famous). Unfortunately, though Kelmscott was one of my targets, I realized before my friend Bash and I left London by car with him behind the wheel, that it is only open on Wednesdays and Saturdays. Faulty scheduling on my part meant that we had to keep this treat on hold for another day–but then I will take any excuse to re-visit the Cotswolds.

I met Bash outside Northhold Tube station which allowed us to zip on to the M40 Motorway to Oxford at a leisurely pace. Hard to believe it was just another manic Monday–there was no traffic at all, at least none leaving London. While the rest of the poor sods were making their way into the city to start their work week, we drove under overcast skies into the countryside. Good job I’d borrowed my friend Barbara’s UK Road Atlas which was very useful indeed as Bash has no GSP and relied on my navigational skills. Thankfully, I adore maps and map-reading and was fully in my element as I negotiated a way for the spunky silver Suzuki Swift to make its way around a network of leafy country lanes.

Stow-on-the-Wold:
Our first stop was the Cotswold village of Stow-on-the-Wold, renowned for its weekly market held on the square since medieval times. Since Bash had driven for almost 2 hours, it was time for a coffee break and we found a quaint tea room overlooking the square. Just next door, in a shop that stocked local Cotswold honey, home-cured cold meats, artisinal cheeses and pots of homemade jam, I spied my Border’s dark chocolate ginger biscuits and bought the lot–seven packages, one of which I promptly opened and bit into right after paying for them. So that’s one item off my ‘To Purchase List’ that I could tick off. We had a bit of a hairy time trying to find our parked car–all lanes look the same and we couldn’t find it but with a bit of asking around, voila, there it was–exactly where we’d left it!

I thought so much about Llew and Chriselle and ached for their presence as we’d first toured the Cotswolds as a family (with Llew behind the wheel), at least twelve years ago, on a driving trip around the UK when Stow-on-the-Wold (which simply means ‘hill’ in Old English) had been one of our stops.

Moreton-in-Marsh:
Next stop: the village of Moreton-on-Marsh which is the only Cotswold village that has a direct rail link to London and is a popular tourist destination. I exchanged dollars for pound sterling at a quaint bank where wood panelling probably goes back centuries (I was asked for my passport which I’d left at home but my Connecticut driver’s license provided adequate picture ID) before we took a “quick chuckkar” around yet another Cotswold town square. For me, one of the pleasures of visiting old villages steeped in history of this sort is the chance to nip into its thrift stores to look for vintage jewelery. Though I don’t always find a treasure, I love poking around other people’s cast-offs…plus serendipity has often led me to unique finds. Bash, who’d never been into such a shop in his life, found himself leaving with a big bag of finds after marvelling at the prices!

Meanwhile, I took a call from my London-based friend, Rosemary (Roz), who said, “I’m so sorry the weather is so bad today”, as if she were personally responsible for the rain in the city!

“No worries”, I responded, “I’m far away in the Cotswolds where it’s dry as bone”.

“Hahaha. Are you still cramming as much as you possibly can into each day?” she went, her voice muffled with laughter.

“You know me too well”, I responded. We made plans to meet for dinner shortly before I hung up.

Hidcote Manor Gardens:
It was only a short drive to the Hidcote Manor Gardens which, like Wisley and a great deal of National Trust treasures, seem to be squirreled away in hidden corners of the country and remain totally inaccessible if you don’t own wheels. That’s why I was so grateful for Bash’s chauffeuring skills. I always seem to find like-minded explorers who are content behind the wheel and willing to follow where I lead–the spirit of my friend Stephanie (now posted in Bangkok), for instance, was very much with me as I enjoyed the country vistas and I am ever grateful to my dear Llew (whom I miss dearly) for his own steering skills and his willingness to take me to tucked-away corners in the middle of nowhere.

The Hidcote Manor Gardens were the dream creation of an American horticulturist named Lawrence Johnstone who, in the early 20th century, fashioned gardens surrounding his Cotswold stone manor with a truly unique vision–he envisaged his garden as a series of ‘outdoor rooms’, each area superbly demarcated through the use of towering hedges. This concept was so creative that it inspired other passionate gardeners such as Vita Sackville-West and her husband Harold Nicholson, who at their home in Sissinghurst in Kent, replicated the idea in a garden that was one of the highlights of my stay in the UK last year. Though not as immaculate as the gardens at Wisley, Hidcote Manor is lush though smaller-scaled and, therefore, more intimate. Again, unlike Wisley which provides the visitor with glimpses into a sheer variety of botanical species, Johnston had a fondness for certain flowers that he planted profusely in a repeated pattern–he seemed particularly partial to phlox, for instance, and day lilies, cannas, hydrangeas and roses. In fact, his garden could belong to any one of us–there is nothing fancy to be found in it and I was easily able to identify most of the plantings.

Like Wisley, Hidcote Manor offered plenty of wrought-iron benches and bowers in which to sit and absorb the vistas. We ate a picnic lunch on one such bench before twirling around the circular pool (such a pity its fountain was not playing), entering a Mediterranean-style patio complete with tiles set into the walls, admiring a typical Elizabethan Knot Garden filled with fuchsia and plucked some of the leaves from more unusual herbs (lemon verbena, for instance) in the Vegetable Garden. The water-lily pond was in full bloom (Monet would gleefully have reached for his tubes of paint) and on the outskirts of the garden, we watched enchanted as recently-sheared Cotswolds sheep jumped awkwardly to grab a mouthful of low-growing branches from spreading oak trees.

It was idyllic, it was bucolic, it was paradisaical. I was thrilled I had finally reached a place I had long dreamed of visiting.

Oxford, City of Dreaming Spires:
It was with reluctance that we left Hidcote but I did want to have some time in Oxford where I offered to give Bash a walking tour. We coursed through more picturesque Cotswold villages such as Chipping Campden and Broadway, revelling in the uniform structure and color of each of these settlements before we arrived, an hour later, into Matthew Arnold’s City of Dreaming Spires where I have only ever arrived by coach and found out that parking was a nightmare. We circled the city before we gave up finding a parking spot and since it was time for a drink and dinner, I recommended we drive to Wolvercote to park ourselves at the famed Trout Inn, one of Inspector Morse’s favorite watering holes.

The weir was not in operation–it usually creates a striking aural backdrop for one of the riverside meals the ancient pub offers–so we were not too disappointed to find a table indoors (the wait for outdoor seating was 45 minutes). Hearing of my fondness for perry (pear cider), Bash introduced me to an alcoholic ginger beer called Crabbies (which I found to be very nice indeed) and over a shared starter of superb Devilled Mushrooms on Toast and then Pasta Carbonara for me and Ribeye Steak and Chips for him, we had ourselves a very delicious meal. Once again, the spirit of my other fond friends washed over me in this space, especially my dear Italian buddy Annalisa and her sons Giovanni and Giacommo with whom I’d once shared a drink at this venue after traipsing for miles through adjoining Port Meadow and Godstow Lock along the banks of the Thames.

On our way back to London, we did find parking at St. Giles (just as I’d expected) and I could not resist living up to my promise and playing walking tour guide as I took Bash around the most significant buildings such as the Christopher Wren-designed Sheldonian Theater, the Bridge of Sighs, the Clarendon Building, the Radcliff Camera and the Church of St. Mary the Virgin. Back on the High Street, I pointed out several colleges (though we couldn’t enter any of the quadrangles) and the Examination Hall before I ducked into the tiny Wheatsheaf Alley to take him to Gill and Co, Ironmongers, that have been in the same family since before the birth of Shakespeare. It was while I was in Bombay, last week, that my Mum pointed out an article to me in The Times of India, saying, “Here, take a look at this item. Do you know this hardware store? It is older than Shakespeare himself and is closing down at the end of August.” Gill and Co. was one of the favorite stores of author Colin Dexter who lives in North Oxford and is the creator of the beloved Inspector Morse. He would often pop in to hang out with the owner and decided, therefore, to write the place into one of his murder mysteries. The producers of the TV series actually used it as a location for one of their highly-rated episodes. So much history, so much folklore has developed around an ironmonger’s shop. What a crying shame it will be to see it disappear. “We simply can’t compete with the B&O warehouses,” says the owner, who will close it down next month after five centuries! Now in Southport, I am sure the local residents would have clubbed together to find a way to ‘save’ it, if not as an ironmongers, then as a local landmark!

Anyway, dusk had fallen over one of my most beloved cities in the world (together with Florence, Paris, Prague, Jaisalmer and Bruges) so it was time to get back to London. I was dropped outside Amen Corner a little after 11.00 pm after what had proven to be another very tiring but truly productive day.