I awoke in my Tamworth pub room to a grey, drizzly morning. Not what I ordered. The day was due to improve, but not yet. I didn’t really fancy getting wet if I could help it. So I faffed around and took my time leaving, and then made it just a few doors down the street to a larger pub that was trying really hard to be a Wetherspoons in everything but name. And that meant a breakfast menu. By the time I finally got away, it was closer to eleven than ten in the morning, I’m afraid. But this should mean that the good weather was now just around the corner, right?
In fact, things did improve enough to enjoy cycling, if not quite enough to remove my waterproof jacket just yet. Tamworth didn’t detain me long as a tourist. It has a castle in the town centre, of which the motte remains intact, up on its raised mound. The bailey area below is now a large and pleasant park. These are the highlights of the town. It also has a large church that deserved a photo if only for the impressive size of the pinnacles on the four corners of its large, square tower.
I escaped on cycle paths over an old bridge across the river and then toiled for longer than I would have wished to clear the unmemorable hinterland of more modern dormitory estates. Eventually I reached fields and rode south as far and fast as I could through the gap between Birmingham and Coventry, which is just about big enough to keep them apart and make it still feel a bit rural. Route finding was critical in these parts, but with care a cycle friendly corridor was there to enjoy.
I paused when I reached the large village and road junction of Meriden. There is a broad village green here, with shops and monuments. One of them is an old cross that, according to tradition, marks the centre of England. Except that it doesn’t and never has. I don’t wish to burst their bubble; but that honour (according to the calculations of the OS) goes to a field at Lindsey Hall Farm, near Fenny Drayton in Leicestershire. There are various other claims; but if you tried to balance a cardboard cutout of England on the end of a pencil located in Meriden, it would tip over.
The other notable monument here is a large obelisk that commemorates all of the cyclists who lost their lives in service to their country. It is a simple but striking memorial and, for obvious reasons, I was pleased to see my kinsmen honoured. It’s not a thing you hear much about after all.
I pushed on a few more miles to the larger village of Balsall Common, where I stopped for a quick coffee and cake. It was still trying to rain on and off, so I took the chance to dry off a bit. After that I managed to avoid all precipitation, although I think that was as much luck as judgement. It seemed like everywhere I went, right until the evening, had been subjected to sharp downpours not long before I got there. There were large puddles everywhere. But it didn’t fall on me. It pays not to be in a hurry sometimes.
I was now closing in on Stratford upon Avon, famously home to William Shakespeare, and a town of some antiquity, as well as having a pretty riverside location and the large RSC theatre dominating proceedings in the middle of town. The villages were starting to take on the appearance of middle England, with an increasing number of large, half-timbered and thatched homes. I had left the boring bit behind and was heading for the Cotswolds.
Stratford was heaving with tourists and a large artisan market, but it was still nice to see all the boats coming and going on the River Avon and the adjacent canal. The sun came out and it was tempting to stay for a while. I walked about a bit but felt a little out of place among the crowds, so decided to carry on for a while longer. I wasn’t hungry yet and it felt too early for the Shakespearian ice cream that I could have bought from a canal boat. So I headed south for the hills.
The Cotswolds rise like an island from the flat land to the north. Atop the first of the hills stands Hidcote Manor and garden, one of the country’s finest and most famous gardens, cared for by the National Trust. The small hamlet of honey coloured, thatched cottages outside the garden walls is called Hidcote Bartrim, and we once lived in one of them. Well, Jenni did, for a year. I used to be a regular weekend visitor. She was here for the final year of her National Trust careership in horticulture, in the year before our twins were born. It was a lot of fun while it lasted. We had free access to the acres of garden after all the visitors had gone home, and I remember playing stomp rocket up the grand beech hedge avenue one evening!
It always feels odd going back to a house where you once lived. Less so here for me today, because we never owned it or expected to stay very long. But still, it was a privilege to call it ours for even a short time, and I hope whoever is now there feels as fortunate.
Having not eaten in Stratford, I needed to find somewhere soon before it got too late. That all fell nicely into place with the discovery of a lovely little cafe and village shop in beautiful Blockley a few miles later. The sun was now shining brightly in a blue sky, so I found a dry chair outdoors (which wasn’t easy after a recent downpour that I missed) and ordered a quite exquisite baked Camembert with toasted walnuts. It was as good as it sounds. Better, probably.
Newly recharged, it was then a glorious couple of hours of cycling through classic Cotswold scenery and villages to my destination. I was able to follow tiny little lanes all the way and saw barely a car. I did run in to a few tourists, firstly in the achingly pretty Lower Slaughter, famed for its very expensive hotel, and then in large numbers in equally pretty – but shamelessly touristy – Bourton on the Water. Both of these villages are graced by the River Windrush, which even sounds lovely. Across it are a series of small bridges, mostly just for pedestrians. The banks are lined with the most attractive honey coloured stone buildings, and it is no surprise that people are drawn here.
I passed through a series of much quieter, but equally lovely villages and felt very tempted to stop at the pubs I passed on this sun kissed evening. But I wanted to get there, so I resisted temptation. For a while, anyway. Although since I was staying in a pub, it was really only delaying the inevitable. I reached Lechlade on Thames in good time and felt quite justified in treating myself. This is the highest point of navigation on the River Thames, much nearer its source than its estuary, and it has shaped the local economy over the centuries. Since I left home only at lunchtime yesterday, I thought it was a pretty decent effort to be alongside its waters tonight.
