A nice thing happened to me in Oxford

 

It’s now 20 years since I qualified as an Oxford guide and there have been many happy experiences, however a recent Bodleian tour will stay with me forever. A teenage girl and her family were on the tour, and towards the end I noticed that she was busily drawing in her notebook. Later I asked her what she had drawn and, smiling, she said, “You”. She tore the sheet out of her notebook and gave me the portrait. I was touched and insisted on giving her one my books on the Rogues of Oxford which she asked me to sign. A creative exchange of sorts.

A Film Fuelled Birthday Celebration

 

My birthday is on June the 3^rd and since living in Oxford I have usually celebrated it with my wife by attending a few lectures in the city, a musical gig or two and hearty few pints of real ale. This year there was nothing on: no lectures of interest and no music – the only thing to be relied upon was the beer. Then I clicked on the film section of the local event guide and soon had my day sorted!

First off was a viewing of The Salt Path at our nearest cinema: the Phoenix in Jericho. This was our first outing to an actual cinema to view an actual film for years, and I hated it. Almost an hour of adverts and previews before the film actually started, and the two women next to me were eating, talking and spilling parts of themselves onto my seat, we moved.

Then the film started and I was transported. The big screen, the powerful sound system plus a film based on a true story that I could relate to: a mature couple walking the South West  Coast Path. They were walking to escape from the awful reality of losing their home. I could not of course relate to that, but I had walked part of the path myself some years ago. The film tells a tale of great hardship but has a happy ending. I did smirk at some of the details such as the lightness of their backpacks and choice of camping spots, but that, I suppose, was nit-picking.

After that we had a cup of tea then rushed over to the Beecroft Physics Building on the edge of the University Parks for something called Quantum Apparitions. It began with weird readings by a motley assortment of students/academics accompanied by equally weird sections of film. Then we were given coloured pencils (water soluble) and paper and encouraged to draw the person next to us! That was a great ice-breaker of course. My partner was a hirsute young post-grad from Greece (theoretical study of two-dimensional materials!) with long black locks and matching beard. Our drawings were then doused in water which apparently introduced us all to the concept of uncertainty. Here’s mine!

We rushed uncertainly to the Internet Centre of the University in St Giles to watch a film called Life in Oxford. The title was misleading; in fact we were shown a series of unconnected clips which centred very much on a seemingly shunned or neglected section of the city characterised by colour or poverty. There were interviews with people who originated from other countries who wanted a place of their own where they could celebrate their own culture and more with people who had dropped out of society and were now sadly on the streets.

We left early for a celebratory birthday pint in the Grapes where we met a stranger who was also celebrating his birthday. He wanted to buy us a drink, but we walked on to the Orange and Lemons for another nice pint of the real stuff.

Then up to the James Street Tavern on the Cowley Road, a road which must be one of the most racially diverse in the city. A man at this pub was showing short films, but he spent over an hour getting ready to do so providing an opportunity for more beer and casual conversation. First chat was with a lady from Austria who did not like her home country and had settled in Oxford. She had excellent English but told us that she was studying the language under the man who ran the films. Then a man that I know from the music scene came in. He has an unusual curly moustache and hails from Georgia. He insisted on buying me a birthday pint! Good man.

The short film finally ran. It was a close up, full strength, interview between a fictional female interviewer and someone pretending to be the President of America. Hmmm. The next film was of no interest so we left.

We had a nice tempura meal in Sushi Corner, a Japanese restaurant in the Cowley Road, then wobbled home. That was a really good way to spend my birthday – I was filmed-out by the end of it. I also lost my knapsack containing our umbrellas somewhere along the way. That’s a sign of a good birthday.

Pintless Science

 

I ventured out to the St Aldates Tavern last night for a scientific update! Sounds odd but I have enjoyed Pint of Science sessions over many years now. They are held across the country and apparently in many European countries too.

My first shock was that the session was sponsored by Oxford North, a monstrous ongoing development lining the city’s main trunk road that I have to traverse on my many journeys to the Cotswolds. The second was hardly a shock at all: I was probably the oldest person of the forty or so present.

Anyway, I sat there sipping my pint of Prospect, a rather nice local beer at a rather excessive £6.15, and listened with interest to the hydrogen problem: it leaks. Worse still, because it is such a small atom it works its way between the metallic atoms of pipes and containers and wreaks havoc. They crack up.  The speaker told us of various solutions to the storage and transport of this wonderful fuel of the future, though without a single conclusion.

Then came the break. I was one of the first at the bar for a refill, after all this was a Pint of Science and all of its adverts, plus a little badge they give you on entry, feature a brimming beer mug. I need not have rushed, there was no queue before or after me. By far the majority of the audience were still in the lecture sipping at their first, and presumably only, drink of the two-hour session. They were waiting for the quiz, a science jamboree conducted through mobile phones.

The next session was an interesting one based on the use of ultra-sound. It included the use of sound to transform an injected liquid into a failed vertebra to transform it into a soft cushioning membrane. Also its use in removing plaque from teeth and monitoring the development of a foetus.

Both lectures were lively and used images which were themselves enlivened by embedded videos and animations, a far cry from the slides of my day as a presenter.

Plenty of questions and applause at the end so I rushed to the exit to avoid the inevitable rush to the bar. In fact there was no rush at all, so I took myself off to the Blenheim where the beer is more varied and much cheaper. There I met Richard who told me of his work in a company which supplied very simple diagnostic aids for diabetics. We were of a similar age and naturally our conversation led to the drinking habits of the youth of today and, of course, I told of my Pint of Science experience where the audience were so extremely moderate in their consumption. Of course neither of us  could censure the young for their abstemious ways, but we did think that the title of the event needed modification. Half Pint of Science perhaps?

I love pubs, or at least I did

My last blog focussed on pubs and live music, and thinking about that I feel I have neglected quite a few of my favourite drinking holes, including the Harcourt Arms in Jericho, Oxford, an energetic stones-throw from my flat. We were there just recently on Sunday night when Nigel Brown runs what must be the longest running open-mike night in the city. I reckon that I have been an irregular customer there for at least ten years and have experienced some wonderful musical interludes. Also on other nights of the week where individual bands play to an often-packed audience, so packed that the place sometimes runs out of glasses.

Anyway on that particular Sunday night two acts stood out. One was a young man playing a square bodied instrument somewhere between a guitar and a banjo which he claimed to have made whilst living in the Mississippi Delta. He played, and sang, a wonderfully evocative blues song. The evening ended with a young couple: he playing violin and guitar (not at the same time) and she playing that majestic, and so difficult to transport, instrument: the harp!  

On the way home we happened to meet the landlord of the Harcourt, Ian, who was on his way to another Jericho pub, the Victoria, for a nightcap and invited us along. There he told us the interesting story of how he came by his own pub and he bought us a pint!

There is another pub, the Rose and Crown, even nearer to my flat which also has live music, but the music is not to my taste – jazz. However, the beer is great: four handpumps of real ale one of which is an ever-changing guest: a beer drinker’s perfect combination. And the company is good, hosted by Andrew Hall who is a great raconteur and who’s main job seems to be to entertain his guests and facilitate their mingling. And he too buys me the occasional pint!

I have made videos of both these establishments for my YouTube channel, Robs Oxford and they have vied for viewing numbers. They are mostly neck and neck, but as I write both have passed the one thousand mark.

On top of these, and the many other musical pubs in Oxford, we now have good musical scene at our other base in Stow-on-the-Wold. Here the Talbot has live music at weekends and serves a decent pint of Wadworths. The musicians there do a paid evening session and are mostly excellent – and the atmosphere is near riotous with fervent dancing in a rather limited space, spilled and broken glasses having to be mopped up, and the antics of the drunken jockey who dances as if he is nearing the finishing post in a close race.

But, there is a but. Part of my love of pubs has been to wander into them on my own, buy a pint of real ale and maybe, just maybe, just arbitrarily, get chatting to another drinker hanging around the bar. I have experienced some really interesting and even revelatory conversations that way. Sadly it does not seem to happen much anymore and I am less and less likely to do it. Perhaps it’s my age, or maybe society has changed, or could it be that drinking in a pub has become too expensive (Wetherspoons excepted of course). Whatever, I am venturing out on my own less and less, but still thoroughly enjoying a few pints of the real stuff backed by some live music.

Music and beer, north and south.

 I love live music, well at least most of it, and I also love beer, particularly real ale. And sometimes I get both together. Take a recent Wednesday evening at one of Oxford locals: the Bookbinders Arms. The session is run my Lee Bo, himself a very talented musician and singer and there is always a selection of ales at the pub. The place was pretty well packed by eaters, drinkers and musicians but we managed to squeeze ourselves into a space pretty near to the action.

Regular performers Julie and Mark gave a great performance of two of their own unique combinations of strings, percussion and voice. They had a hard act to follow. Two chirpy young girls of about eight years old gave a giggly but rather nice performance of a couple of songs accompanied by recorded background music. They were great and loudly applauded.  Next, an extraordinary young man called Luke gave his guitar a thorough beating whilst pumping out choice vocals. It was a most unusual performance and musically very exciting. He uses his guitar as a drum whilst striking the strings and sliding the notes. I found it quite thrilling. A group of three young men then gave a great upbeat jazzy number on keyboard, trumpet and guitar. That done the the smiling keyboard player vamped out a number based on an odd but infectious song concerning poisoning pigeons in the park! This was followed by a big man doing a solo on guitar whilst singing, very, very powerfully. He sang two songs that were completely new to me. Riveting. And the beer was good too.

Later that week we travelled up to Wick to visit Margaret’s ailing aunt (they are the same age) and broke the journey at Inverness. We had been there before, predominantly then to take our sons to Loch Ness. This time we arrived so late that the hotel called to say that we would have to let ourselves in – so we took a circuitous route searching for food, beer and music along the way, and we found it all. The place really throbs and is also rather beautiful especially near the River Ness. And yes, there was live music. Quite a few pubs in Church Street advertise it and the one we ended up at, the Highlander, featured a man playing the piano accordion and singing very enthusiastically whilst accompanied by an electric guitar. It was powerful stuff with a good admixture of Scottish folk. The beer however was awfully cold and fizzy. Quite a few of the Inverness pubs had decorative handpumps, but, disappointingly, very few of these actually dispensed real ale.

However, we liked Inverness so much that we spent another night there on our way back. This time we started in the Hootananny where a constantly expanding group of musicians played folk music on a selection of instruments. It seemed very Irish to me, but there are of course strong connections between the Highlands and that island. There we ate Balmoral Chicken, which is chicken breast stuffed with haggis, wrapped in bacon and served with a whisky or peppercorn sauce together with mashed spuds. Great, my sort of food. Again we finished off at the Highlander where there was frantic dancing which included crawling between women’s legs. I was not allowed to do that.

 

 

Spain and home again

My last blog left things pretty much in the air, as we arrived in Spain. Our arrival could have been a real come down after whistling through twelve countries in the motor caravan, but for various reasons it was not.

After happily leaving the ferry following a crossing which was both dull and without incident, we were thrown into the madness of the race track which is outer Barcelona, and it was getting dark. However, we survived and soon left the southbound motorway for Sitges. I knew little of the place so here’s a quote: “Renowned for its LGBT-friendly atmosphere as well as its world-famous horror film festival”. Yet we loved it, but not for those reasons. Rather for its attractive narrow pedestrianised streets near the beach, the beach itself, the nearby church and one of the best meals of the whole trip.

After Sitges, we passed over the coastal mountain range via L’Hospitalet de l’infant, then crossed the River Ebro where it makes its last surge towards the Med having traversed most of Spain, then on to our little village of La Fresneda in the province of Aragon.

That might have been a bit of a down-swing after dashing through twelve European countries, but it was not. We both felt happy to be there once I had carefully negotiated the narrow, steep and curvaceous tracks that lead to a carpark which is fairly near to our home. It is clearly signposted “No campervan” but we, after all, are locals and we both felt very pleased to be “home” again.  Here's a rather special view from the little terrace at the top of our house.

There were things to be done to the house and the caseta, as ever, but they were jobs that mostly had a beginning and an end and that nursed a sense of achievement. We spent time with our old friends, Willy and Dolores, we drank in the bar and greeted and were greeted by other villagers. Strangers in the village smiled and said, “Buenos Dias”. The bakery had ceased operation, but a friendly young woman now sold bread there which was baked in a nearby town and was just as crunchy. Sadly Ramon, one of the characters of the village had died in a fire in his own home, a house stuffed with “antiques” most of which were flammable. There were also many items of less sad news to catch up with.

Though we were there for three weeks, it seemed no time at all before we were on the road again - this time crossing Spain with stops along the way but always heading for Santander where we would take the ferry to Plymouth. And, though we had to spend one whole day in the motor caravan because of the pouring rain, we were well away from the chaos suffered by the poor people of Valencia.

We left the ferry in darkness at Plymouth and had no wish to drive all the way to the Cotswolds in pelting rain. So, I found a pub called the Skylark to the north of the city and the landlord was happy to have us sleep in his car park – provided we supped and drank in his bar. And what a bar, the perfect English country pub serving perfect real ale – nectar. I had three pints before I could be persuaded to eat.

Home the next day, having had a wonderful two months of travel and adventure, I patted the bonnet of my aging motorcaravan. We had driven 7,500 kilometres together without a major hitch and my notes of the adventure amounted to 35,000 words. What on earth am I going to do with that lot?

The long way to Spain

 

The long way to Spain

For various reasons I am not too good at keeping in touch with family and friends: I suppose this blog is my main means of keeping doing so and quite a few of my previous blogs have been about Spain. This year I decided that it was about time I visited an old Swedish friend that I met through my work as a consultant, he lives in Stockholm. So, an obvious thought occurred: why not visit him on my way to Spain? A little out of the way of course, but this seemed like the foundation for an adventure. I had always wanted to visit those three intriguing Baltic States that border Russia and discovered that there was a ferry between Stockholm and Estonia – this journey was clearly meant to be.

The first time I visited Sweden was in the 1960s when my teenage friend William Lefebve and I decided to go there in search of the claimed availability of free love. In those days there was a ferry directly from Immingham to Gothenburg but sadly there are now no direct ferries so we made for the Hook of Holland. That ferry starts from Felixstowe where I have another neglected old friend so we visited him and his wife along the way. Talk about a trip down memory lane.

Naturally I wrote notes as we travelled the 3,000 miles in our motor caravan and one day I might write them up as a book or something, but here’s a few brief recollections. I had a travelling `companion, Margaret of course, but also Thomas Mann via his fascinating book The Magic Mountain.

We visited 12 countries in total and took the whole of September 2024 to do it. The most memorable part of our Dutch experience was crossing the Zuiderzee, driving over a 19-mile dam with salt water on the sea side and fresh on the lake side.

Margaret had a strong desire to visit Denmark inspired by her favourite Scottish aunt’s love of the country and its friendly people. So we went there and found that auntie was quite correct. Interestingly, the least friendly country in our experience was the Czeck Republic. In Sweden we made fours stop including Taaby where my friend Bjorn lives in that nice suburban town, so neat and well run, very Swedish, very Viking.

The ferry to Estonia was a highlight. Parking at the head of one of the queues waiting to board I glanced at the driver of the van at the head of next queue and saw the father of our Spanish grandsons!! This was one hell of a coincidence. We had not seen each other for years and there we were thrown together by fate. We had a great time on the boat, drinking and dancing (the entertainment was stunning), recalling old times and catching up with the current lives of Jordie and his Swedish wife Boodil.

The three Baltic countries were flat and pretty boring to drive through. However, the capital towns of Tallin and Riga made up for all of that and our accidental visit to a small impoverished village in Lithuanian was educational.

In Poland the highlight was Warsaw where it rained, no, poured. We had a pretty lousy campsite but with easy access to the city by bus. There we were impressed by the traffic free centre with its grandiose churches and castle. So difficult to countenance that the Nazis destroyed 75% of this place. I thoroughly enjoyed a visit to the Marie Curie museum and to a simple church with a pure white interior nearby.

Next day we entered the Czeck Republic and were roaring along at the usual 60-70mph regularly overtaking lorries and being over taken by cars when something odd happened, the road emptied of traffic and then suddenly was blocked by a barrier and we were forced off it. The cause was the flooding that affected much of central Europe just then and that finally landed us at Frydek Mistret where we were greeted by avoiding eyes and downcast faces. Still the beer was good and the food served in overly generous quantities.

We moved on to Olomouc which we both agreed was our favourite city with its two connected ‘squares’, wonderful buildings and spirited street art. We passed on to stay the night at a highly commercial campsite alongside Lake Musov then, next day, we entered our favourite country Austria. There we found the small town of Illmitz next to the beautiful Neusieder Lake, a town surrounded by nature parks. I cycled out to one and met a man from near Witney in a hide, and he shared his telescope with me. More bird watching and an overnight stay in a small Hungarian village whose only restaurant was fully booked for a private party, then continued along that country’s van rattling roads to Sofron where we enjoyed a view of this Hungarian city from its tall fire tower.

Then we were back in Austria and were brought to tears by the wonderful buildings and courtyards of the city of Graz backed up by the pealing of many bells from its many wonderful churches. As we travelled south blue mountains appeared on the horizon and grew to dominate our journey. We were much taken by our stay in the long lakeside village of Portschach until we discovered that almost all of the lake’s edges were inaccessible, privately owned. So we moved to Villach where the camping ground had its own lake into which I dived after a long and somewhat scary walk in the adjacent mountains.

After this we entered Italy spending one night in a small village parked within a line of rotting camping cars, a graveyard we will never understand. We followed this with the seaside town of Caorle just above Venice, a pleasant place with boats parked almost alongside cars in the centre of the town. Next the big one, Florence, and our largest and most expensive campsite of the whole journey. I believe we had become over churched by this time and the Duomo struck me as being somewhat over the top, excellent as it is, so we were glad to divert to the pretty seaside village of Le Grazi on the Mediterranean side of the country followed by the lakeside town of Marta where we had a smashing spot beside its small port and spied rather rare red-faced pochards. I took my longest bike ride of the trip there alongside the lake, claimed to be the largest volcanic lake in Europe.

Next day we visited the stunning town of Tuscana on our way to Rome’s ferry port and then, after a disappointingly boring crossing of the Med, disembarked at Barcelona. From there it was just about four hours to our second home, La Fresneda.

 

Cotswold Way, August 2024: Cheltenham to Winchcombe

 

This was to be my final leg in the 100 miles trek, and I had three days in which to do it. More of a home country leg this one and I started by taking the early morning 801 bus from Stow on the Wold. The driver dropped me off close to the old Reservoir Pub near Cheltenham. It is now a foreign restaurant of some sort, and, to my relief, when I crossed the road there was the fingerpost to the Cotswold Way

This was to be my final leg in the 100+ miles trek, and I had three days in which to do it. This was more of a home country leg for me and the weather was good, though very hot in the sun. However, the ascent from the reservoir was mostly through well-wooded slopes so not too bad. Unfortunately I lost the usually plentiful Cotswold Way signs somewhere so I had to ask advice from a young lady with six dogs (not her own apparently). Over the barking of those dogs as they strained on their leads towards me, she said that this was not the Cotswold Way but I could rejoin it via a road at the top. I took her advice and headed west along the road and soon arrived at the place she had suggested where the Way crossed the road.  Full sun for a while as I crossed a path at the edge of field and hence very open. That was where I met Richard going in the opposite direction, he was a camper like myself but did not have a GT. He told me that he wished he had one. I reached a road and then looked down onto Cheltenham to my left and Leckhampton Hill on the other side of the town: the site of my recent wash out. I had that view for a very long time and was soon able to see beyond Cheltenham towards Gloucester. the Severn valley and the Malvern’s.

I lost the Way again later but was fortunate in spotting the Surveyor. He was busy taking photos of butterflies but offered to take me to a path that rejoined the Way. It turned out that he was not a Building Surveyor but an opinion collector for the likes of local government. This surprised me since he was definitely a one-way act. If I did manage to interject something like “I own a field” but he just carried on with his stream of thought concerning the growing of garden produce, the shortage of butterflies, problems with runner beans and so much more. His interest in my background or views was zero, so odd in a surveyor. But I must thank him for setting me back onto the Way.

After passing through a golf course where I managed to avoid the balls, I entered a cooling treed area at the exit of which I ate my lunch beneath a tree and there discovered that I had lost a sandal.  Following that I entered a gruelling stretch through steep wooded areas that wandered to the south before finally swinging back north where I emerged onto a flat hayfield where I met a couple from Tasmania, probably about my own age. She was particularly interested in the GT and wanted her husband to see how it attached to the haversack. Their travel agent had sold them a trek from Stratford to include the Way. Why he did that, they or I did not know.

I reached Bellas Nap burial mound which was not particularly impressive apart from its vast age and location. After that some more woodland and two steeply sloping fields towards Winchcombe where the Way then edged along the town to the south with good views of the attractive church. I took a diversion to follow the River Isbourne to the lane which led to my old camping spot from my Berkeley trip.

That spot was further up a lane off the Way and the farmer had kindly left the gate open for me and the field had been recently mowed: a piece of machinery was still within it. It was a perfect camping spot, secluded and in a corner which was not farmed, yet not far from the town centre. I soon had the tent up and retraced my steps before taking the main road into the town. I passed the White Hart which looked busy and then ended up my previous drinking hole, the Plaster’s Arms. It was closed (Mondays and Tuesdays) but notices suggested it still had a life. I had a few excellent pints in the other two Winchcombe pubs and a fairly interesting conversation with a local about university life in one of them. However food was either at a premium or unavailable so I ended the evening by consuming a couple of mini pork pies beside the river as I returned to my secret camp site.

I felt happily intoxicated as I walked up the dusky lane, but a was a little surprised to find the field gate now locked. I climbed over and walked around the corner in the growing darkness and increasing drizzle to find that my tent and everything else had vanished! No sign of my camp at all. I could not believe it, yet had to do so. Clearly the farmer had removed all of my stuff and presumably dumped it somewhere. I stood frozen for a while trying to think what I should do. My only option seemed to be to walk back into Winchcombe itself.

As I walked dispiritedly past the entrance way, I saw a pile of stuff on my left which I had not noticed as I entered. This untidy pile contained my stuff: the tent, the GT, and who knew what else. It was all very wet of course and I was getting wet too. I had no idea whether the tent was usable, it seemed in a terrible state. Besides that my chances of finding an alternative wild camp in the dark and the rain were remote to say the least.

I spent an age untangling the tent and its various poles, so that I could stuff it and the rest of my belongings into the GT bag and my haversack. Apparently, everything was there, even my Kindle. I then walked sadly back to the centre of Winchcombe to endeavour to get transport back to Stow. I stopped near the main T junction of the town and took out my phone. Everything I tried: Uber, local taxis, whatever all met with failure.

Despairingly, I walked along to the White Hart. It was closed of course. but there were people inside: the staff having a last drink, I supposed. Also the window onto the street was open and a young couple sat within the pub on the sill beside it. I explained my dilemma to them, and the young lady of the pair took over my phone and after some time managed to contact a taxi company based in Cheltenham. The charge to Stow would be £65, ridiculous but I had no choice. I booked it and those two kind youngsters invited me into the pub to wait.

The taxi driver was from Bangladesh and had little English so most of the journey took place in silence. It seemed a very long way and I arrived around midnight. I had no keys and though I could see that our bedroom light was on I could not make Margaret hear my knocking and ringing, so I retrieved my secret key entered the house and went up to our room. As I opened the door Margaret looked shocked and perhaps frightened and for a short while I was struck dumb. Then I briefly explained my reason for being there and she was wonderfully understanding, even making me a rum and coke which I sorely needed, and so to bed in the comfort of my own home!

Next day it rained all day so I could not examine my hastily packed camping kit. But the following day was fine and I was surprised to find that there was no obvious damage to my stuff. I had presumed that the farmer had angrily ripped the tent from the ground and threw it outside the field. In fact he had unzipped the door presumably to remove my stuff, then removed the pegs and placed them inside and only then collapsed the tent. Given that, I resolved to return to Winchcombe sometime to continue my journey, wild camping and all.

 

The perfect tour

I’ve been guiding in Oxford for nearly 20 years now, not continuously of course – it has always been a part-time activity. In that sense it has fitted well with my lack of commitment: I could spend long periods in Spain, or working on our regreening project at Stow on the Wold, or travelling the world. It also fitted well with my other activities, including writing, walking and such. It was never a big earner, you need to be very committed to make it your only source of income, and events can easily result in no income at all: both winter and lock-down are examples. I haven’t finished guiding yet, but I reckon the end is somewhere in sight which made me think of the perfect tour. It might not be what you expect.

The ingredients are pretty much as follows: the participants, the theme, the weather and the guide. By the latter I mean, in this case, the guide’s mental attitude. None of these are truly in a guide’s control. Mostly you have no idea who the participants are going to be beyond nationality or sometimes age. Take a recent day when I had an emergency tour to deliver. The organiser, based in London. wanted the tour delivered on the following day for thirty -three people. I only take nineteen and even that is quite a crowd on the streets of Oxford. Negotiations via phone and email were not complete until the group were on the train and on their way to Oxford! The organiser agreed to split the tour and we agreed on a price for each tour. I quickly showered and rapidly pedalled down to the railway station. I like a challenge.

They were from Wako University in Texas and when we finally found each other I was greeted with enthusiastic, but undeserved, Texan whooping. The split was agreed outside the Said Business School and the afternoon lot wandered off towards the centre. My first lot, mostly young and female, had a thirst for knowledge about the workings of the Uni and, as often, tried desperately to fit this to the US system. They do not, of course, fit. But, the long trek from the station aside, it was a good, though challenging, tour which evinced many demanding questions from my enthusiastic audience. The tour for the remainder of the group was at 1.30 pm, meeting at the Weston Library. No one came. I waited for a while then a couple with two very small children turned up – that was all. What happened to the other nine I shall never know. And here’s a problem: a seven and a three-year old have little interest in the workings of the University and their parents’ main interest is the welfare and happiness of their kids. Even conjuring up Harry Potter does not help in these circumstances. Nevertheless, I did my best and dropped them off to meet the rest of their group at Christchurch where they could take their prearranged audio tour with their colleagues at the “Harry Potter” college.

Of course, there is no perfect tour. But a state of perturbation in the guide and enthusiasm in the guided nudges things that way. I suppose one of my best was with an audience of one: a Harvard professor. At the end of the tour, actually more of a spirited conversation than tour, he thrust a $50 tip into my hand. This I heartily refused saying that I had enjoyed the tour just as much as he claimed to have done, but he insisted.

Me and my golf trolley do a bit more of Cotswold Way

 

Actually it was not supposed to be a bit more, it was supposed to be the rest of it after completing the Bath to Stroud section last year.

I started out from Stow on the Wold at around 10am on 12^th June 2024 having completed some necessary mods to the golf trolley, now called the GT. Most important was a fast release connector to detach the thing from my haversack. This latter worked well, and eased the problem presented by the bloody kissing gates. Bus to Merrywalks in Stroud then managed to reconnect with the Costwold Way at Ruscombe. That was not easy. I had to stop at a pub called the Star Inn on the way to ask for directions, then finally managed to rejoin the Way which I have now renamed the Dogswold Way since there are so many of the four footers exercising their owners up there nowadays.

The first stage was a walk to Painswick providing some great views of the Severn Valley along the way. In Painswick I spent my first night under canvas in a wood opposite the town’s Rococo Gardens. Didn’t sleep too well: female foxes screaming, I think. Found a pub of course. It was the Royal Oak which a man on the street told me was the best pub in the world! It was not half bad. Good food, great local ale and an excellent lady publican plus a few friendly locals to converse with. I was short of water for next day and the landlady gave me a bottle, “No charge, because I admire what you are doing”. Wow.

Woke at six and, after the usual hour de-tenting, I rejoined  the Cotswold Way which passed right next to my corner of the wood. It led through a golf course which was lightly populated by early morning dog walkers often with 2,3 or 4 dogs, plus a few early golfers who, I thought, eyed my GT with some perplexity. I was directed by helpful walkers towards Painswick Beacon but I did not see it.  Very poorly signposted. Weather was still good with sunshine though chilly. Then a long trek mostly through steep sided beech woods (eg Pope’s Wood, Upton and Brockworth) with limited views due to the trees. Rounded the steep sided Cooper’s Hill before coming to a roadway and then along wide and often muddy farm tracks chewed up by tractors. There I had long views towards Gloucester and could see Witcombe Reservoir. Met a few people: mostly women walkers or dog walkers. One woman was from Holland and had her whole trip organised by Cotswold Walkers who transported her luggage from stopover to stopover. She eyed my GT with something between curiosity and distaste.

There is a pub at Birdlip Hill, but I arrived at about 11am and wanted to reach Cheltenham where I planned to overnight so carried on rather than having a bite of lunch there. Plodding on I began to see and hear a very busy road which turned out to be the A417 heading up the hill to the old Air Balloon Pub - recently deflated. This is the place where, as I told anyone who would listen, I had my first pint of bitter, aged 15 years (me, not the beer).

Had my lunch, a scotch egg, at the car park near the crest. Wonderful views towards Gloucester and the Malverns, but marred by the noise of the A417 then on each side of me. The area around the flattened pub was like a war zone. Heavy lifters crushing and moving rock for some new road layout, same machines that destroyed the Air Balloon, I suppose. Leaving that behind me I entered the strange diamond of road and path which sits atop Crickley Hill, home to two stone-age occupations and then an iron-age one. Though redolent with ancient history there was little to see of that, but those old ‘uns did have a great and expansive view from up there.

Getting out through the northern point of the diamond was tricky, high gradient slopes plus a narrow track and I was quite confused by it all – didn’t seem to line up with the map. I struggled on through strengthening drizzle to Leckhampton Hill, part of my upbringing in Cheltenham, and headed for the strange natural limestone tower known as the Devil’s Chimney. I did not see it, the drizzle had become a serious rain storm. I donned my waterproof trousers and struggled along hardly able to see much through the rain and also battered by strong winds. I felt like an arctic explorer, but managed to find the Way to Hartley Hill with its misty views of Cheltenham to the north. After that the Way made a dog leg south towards Seven Springs where I had to take the very busy A435 road. It was horrendous, no pavement and the grass on the verge so long that I could not drag the GT through it so kept to the very edge of the road itself with cars and lorries within inches of the wheel of the GT. Very relieved to turn off onto a proper path that led up to Ravensgate Hill and which then turned back in the correct direction making for the reservoir to the east of Cheltenham.

I had planned to camp near Cheltenham for the night but the rain came back and the whole area on the upper slopes became very slippery, not good when you are towing a GT. The downward path edged along a steep decline where I had to push the GT in case it might drag me down the slope from behind. I did slip once in fact, but managed to save myself and the GT from falling. Having lost the Cotswold Way, I was forced to enter Lineover Woods which eventually led me to the A40. However, before I reached the road, I had decided to abandon the walk. It was just too wet and the forecast was grim. I checked the bus times to Stow on my phone and found that the very last bus was due at the Reservoir Inn at 18.48, I had ten minutes or so to get there. I could just make it. This was an amazing and fortuitous coincidence. I could not believe my luck, but the bus did arrive and I clambered aboard with all my stuff.

Disappointing. I had only covered about 26 miles, consumed 3 pints of ale and visited just two pubs. But the walk was good and I will continue on to Chipping Camden sometime this year.