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.
