Gertsamtkunstwerk

Sezincote

A notable example of Neo-Mughal architecture, says Wikipedia. The inspiration for the Brighton Pavillion and also featuring in John Betjeman's autobiographical Summoned by Bells

“Down the drive,
Under the early yellow leaves of oaks’
One lodge is Tudor, one in Indian style.
The bridge, the waterfall, the Temple Pool
And there they burst on us, the onion domes,
Chajjahs and chattris made of amber stone:
‘Home of the oaks’, exotic Sezincote.”

We had tried to visit on the Sunday of our Cotswold adventure but it was closed. When we exited Batsford Arboretum, we  realised that the entrance to Sezincote was just opposite and Sezincote was open. We drove down the long single track drive. I started to feel anxious: it's a bit odd to turn up to someone's house and expect to look around. But the car park and the sizable queue for the ticket office reassured us we were not alone! We declined to book on an interior tour - there's a limit to much walking one can do in a day, there was a long wait with several tours already booked up, and why go indoors on a lovely Spring  day!

First stop was the Orangery, for a much needed cup of tea and a very welcome slice of cake. Proper cake, homemade, by locals I think - I had lemon drizzle. Tea came out of a pot, with tea cups. The teapot was wielded by Camilla, the lady of the house, with refills freely available.

And after the Conservatory, the lawn. There was a sheer climb to the top of the lawn, and it was very pleasant, one could imagine tea and croquet parties, but the elephant statues aside, there was far more to explore elsewhere. I enjoyed walking round the garden, the sun and the delightfully mild temperatures were an added bonus. Relatively few people ventured far from the house and lawn, which made strolling the outer garden even more pleasant.

It was quite a different experience from any garden I've been in before. I can't say I had any profound understanding of the Indian influences. I did especially enjoy their incongruity in an area which for many would epitomise the English rural idyll.

This folly is near the tennis  courts, a useful place for storing deckchairs and so on. There was a church on this sight but this was razed to the ground during the English Civil War. It surprises me that they never bothered building a replacement - every village should have its church (especially in the days before motorised transport) but perhaps when it was gone they didn't miss it!

As we strolled around there were some great views back to the house and into open country.

I particularly enjoyed the area round the lake. Do notice the two chaps in red trousers and yellow trousers. I do have a zoomed shot of them and they look spectacularly Cotswoldy posh. On balance I decided not to blog the zoomed photo. Although I feel confident they would probably not be hurt by having their conscious fashion choice mocked, I don't want to set a precedent of mocking people doing no harm in photos where their faces are recognisable! But we saw probably even more yellow and green trousers on a certain type of man than even red trousers, and more red trousers than even at English National Opera or Brixton Village.

 

I'm convinced there must be some great photos to get of herds of cattle. This isn't one.

Now I'm writing this, I assume these are bluebells, but I can no longer be sure. Nice, anyway!

My favourite part of the whole estate was the Snake Pool with its Hindu temple and statues. If time or energy is extremely limited, I would suggest prioritising these.

You would think, with my political philosophy, I would rather visit gardens owned and run by English Heritage or National Trust, but this was the second place we visited in 2013 (the first is yet to be written) managed by the resident family and with limited opening, where the experience was far more pleasant, even down to details of proper fresh home baked cakes, served by local volunteers, rather than packaged processed stuff served by staff on zero hour minimum wage contracts. Ok, I'll admit that if I lived in a village and had time to volunteer it probably wouldn't be for the local landed gentry. On the other hand, it must be very social, mixing with fellow volunteers and the the public.

 

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We left soon after four and realised just how hungry we were. We knew it would be difficult to find anywhere serving food at that time. We tried Churchill, and various places -under-Wychwood but were not surprised to find the pubs shut. We ended up in Chipping Norton just as full time was approaching in the Championship Play Off final between Crystal Palace and some other team. Himself is, technically, a Crystal Palace fan, so we sat in the car park in the Town Square listening to a crackly commentary with poor reception from Radio 5 until the glorious news that Palace had been promoted to the Premiership.

We then found a pub serving food all day, with a wonderful name, Bitter and Twisted As I said to the manager, I was expecting something on the level of Wetherspoons, or possibly Wetherspoons plus, but it was much better than that. Obviously, not comparable with The Wild Thyme over the road, but peerless, in my experience, in the All-Day Food category. For whatever reason, I didn't photograph my food, battered prawns followed by a veggie risotto, but I had fun photographing my Singapore Sling.

 

 The Galloping Gardener has also blogged about Sezincote.

My other Cotswolds blogposts are here: First day in the Cotswolds, Bourton-on-the-Water, Slaughtered, Wild Thyme Chipping Norton, A drive through the Cotswolds, An evening in our Cotswolds hotel, Batsford Arboretum

All the photos and more are in Cotswolds photo ablbum.

We drove home the next day. It absolutely chucked it down, with visibility extremely poor on the M40. We experienced a spectacular soaking-by-lorry-driving-through-puddle on the A40 Western Avenue which would have hit us head-on if it had happened a split second earlier. But it was great to have the three full days of our break in beautiful Spring sunshine.

Batsford Arboretum

This is situated just outside Moreton-in-Marsh in Gloucestershire and was recommended by my guidebook as a place to visit. I've never really visited an arboretum before, but they seem to be growing in popularity. I wasn't entirely sure what to expect, but hoped it wouldn't be rows and rows of trees planted in neat lines, sort of like a glorified garden centre. There was a garden centre, gift shop and café attached. My hopes soared when I saw the sign by the ticket office recommending sensible shoes.

The Arboretum is set in the grounds of a Stately Home, and it's good that they have turned their land over to display the country's largest private collection of trees and shrubs. I expect the income as a visitor attraction is  useful, too.

The Stately Home isn't open to the public, but, like so many stately homes, the historical significant is virtually non-existent. It is of some minor literary note, having been the home of the Mitford sisters, and part of Nancy Mitford's Love in a Cold Climate was set there. For some reason I find the Mitfords faintly fascinating whilst retaining not one iota of interest in them. I think generally, their significance in the national consciousness has faded rapidly.

 It was a Bank Holiday Monday and fairly warm and perfectly dry so there were a fair few people out in the Arboretum, although thankfully it wasn't as crowded as it ought to have been. It's possible to walk along a well tarmaced path, but there is more benefit in going onto the lesser paths, some well-maintained, some emerging from nature. On the whole most people were wearing at least semi-sensible shoes, although not one particular party, a mother my age with her 20ish daughter. One was wearing shoes with a sharp almost stiletto heel of medium height and the other was wearing flip-flop style sandals.

Their choice, of course, and none of my business. But it puzzles me, and it has puzzled me even more since, what goes through people's heads. If I'm out on the town, of course I want to dress up, put on heels, but I don't get why people do that for 'country' pursuits. Given that travel by car is fairly essential for this sort of destination, wouldn't it make sense to keep a change of shoes in the boot? I'd feel out of place dressed in fleece and walking boots in a trendy bar in a town centre on a Friday night, and I wonder why people evidently more anxious about fashion and fitting-in than me, don't feel out of place tottering around uneven paths and protruding tree roots. Surely it must limit your enjoyment of a place if you daren't leave the path for fear of stubbing your toe or turning your ankle?

I have little to say about the arboretum. I am sure that many people would appreciate it better than me, especially if they have an active interest in trees. I am poor at identifying species of tree, and hadn't read the leaflet properly to know to look for the specialist collection of trees. However, I thought it a perfect walk. Not too far, and with a variety of terrain, including steep slopes. I thoroughly enjoyed the experience on my terms. Stretching but not over-strenuous exercise, surrounded by managed nature on a lovely day. I respected the management.

I'm sure it's a difficult balance to strike. I doubt there are many accessible places in Britain that are truly wild, and all are managed to some degree, whether it be path and pond maintanance or expert thinning of woodland to encourage new growth. And, as far as my non-expert eye could tell, this was done sensibly. The signange was discrete and just about enough to guide a visitor with a complementary leaflet/map but the signs never dominated nature.

I enjoyed walking through the Waterfall, but it was a mistake to try and take a photo while doing so. It took me months to get the equipment  - including Giottos Rocket Air Blower - necessary for cleaning the lens* and for a good while too many photographs were spotted.

We saw the Mansion where Love In a Cold Climate was set

but I was more interested in the Thatched Cottage and the Hermit's Cave

 

We wandered out of the Estate and into the adjacent village, including by a church. There seemed to be more signs of life there than other churches we visited in The Cotswolds. Well, I say 'signs of life', I mean an Order of Service remaining from a funeral the previous week. The churchyard was dominated by graves of the lords of the local Manor, from decades ago.

There were streams, ponds and marshes, demonstrating the balance between nature and management.

     

I was disappointed by the relative lack of colour - although, to be fair, I went to a place, an Arboretum, whose name derives from the word for trees. But there were some colourful sights.

 

Altogether a pleasant couple of hours and we were pleased we visited. 

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*The Giotto's Rocket blows away dust particles, which may scratch the lens if you just try and wipe it; it's also enormous fun as a toy/stress buster. I was being particularly stupid the day it arrived and pondered aloud "What happens when it runs out of air?" I was given an incredulous look.

An evening in our Cotswolds hotel

A startling difference between my partner and me is our attitude to activities such as eating out, especially when we're away. I want to try as many different places as possible, he seems to establish a comfort zone and return to places he knows he can trust.

After we had driven round several counties we returned to our hotel, the King's Head in Bledington. We sat outside the pub for a quiet drink, and were shaken out of our reverie by the sound of the resident bantams sounding flustered. They appeared at speed round the corner pursued by a dog - on a lead, as per the sign outside the pub - and a man who was egging the dog on and was clearly highly amused at this hilarious entertainment. He looked at us to share the joke. I think the contempt must have shown on his face, for he suddenly reined the dog in and scuttled off - to talk to the children on the swings on the village green. Children scampered back to where their parents were sitting drinking outside the pub. It seemed that none of the children was his.

We decided to lay down for a rest but were disturbed by the sound of the evening's live singer practising. To be honest, I didn't think much of him, and I pondered the extent to which you can reasonably expect a residential pub to be reasonably quiet in the later afternoon. I came to no conclusion.

As it turned out, the pub singer was quite decent once ensconced in the bar, and we later spent a good hour or two enjoying the set, mainly of 60s and 70s classics that everyone knows, and quite a few drinks, knowing we only had to stumble up the stairs to bed.

We also enjoyed a pleasant meal in the hotel restaurant. I started with a seafood salad.

I followed this with  fish and chips.

I call this photo 'Waiting for chips'. I don't think I've ever been served fish and chips with the chips served as a side dish, and when they came I was disappointed that they were American-style fries, not proper chips. But, in fairness as thin fries go, they were amongst the best I've tasted.

I finished with a Crème brûlée, which was good without being a showstopper. 

I reflected that I really couldn't complain about the food, but the second time of eating in a place in a short time is never quite as delightful as the first. You've generally chosen your most favourite dish on the first day, and few restaurants alter their menus radically from day to day, although in my experience they've usually removed the dish that you almost ordered on the first night. But it was still very nice, and so convenient, and there was a really good atmosphere in the bar.

See also First day in the Cotswolds

A drive through the Cotswolds

Nothing quite went to plan, but I think we got to see a fair sweep of The North Cotswolds, one way and another.

After another hearty breakfast, we set out on the start of our epic journey through the gloriously sunny Gloucestershire countryside. First stop Sezincote, a house and garden, open to the public, highly recommended by our Lonely Planet guide. Unfortunately, it's closed on Sundays. Time to replan.

Our plan took us via Fish Hill. Fish Hill is a steep descent into the outskirts of Broadway. Don't take my word for it

At this point, it becomes 3-lane and descends steeply through some sharp bends - the second one, going downhill, a near hairpin.

A rural trunk road, you'd expect the speed limit to be 60mph. It was actually 25mph. There were numerous signs and road paintings urging 'slow', 'use low gear', 'beware cyclists', 'careful now', 'oh sheeeet'.  Lots of signs with black and white arrows indicating sharp bends. Not one but two escape lanes. Although, in a trucknetuk discussion, someone says yeah thats right but i dont think they would help you on that gradient!!

There are videos on YouTube, eg this from a lorry

 

or a motorbike

 

This is some hill. But it took me a while to persuade my other half, a very safe and experienced urban and motorway driver that that number of "Careful! Mind yourself!" signs kind of means they're not messing around. We survived, however, and agreed it was an awesome descent.

We ended up in Broadway, Worcestershire, the 'Jewel of the Cotswolds'. What a lovely town! Although, for some reasons, I failed to take any photos. In a sense there's nothing to see, but what makes the town truly outstanding is their parking policy. Simply put, there is no parking on the main road, all cars are directed to a car park. Admittedly, by the time we were leaving, it had reached a 'one out one in' situation, but whoever thought of that rule had their head screwed on. 

To be honest, there isn't a great deal to see in Broadway but shops. It was too early for tea so we went for coffee. Fairly randomly we chose Prego. Of course, it's impossible to judge a restaurant solely on the basis of coffee, but I've rarely been sent such positive messages on service, decor, presentation. Even the Ladies' loos - spotlessly clean - had an understated elegance about them. Reviews on TripAdvisor seem to confirm my judgement.

We thought we would head for Moreton in the Marsh, but when we got there, it was packed. We didn't hold a hope to get parked. Perhaps the crowds from miles around were drawn by the junk - euphemistically labelled 'vintage' - market. We got out of town via the Fosse Way. Cars were queueing for several miles to enter the town. We knew there would be no turning back! The road just went on and on, straight, for miles, crossing the border into Warwickshire. By now we were hungry. Momentarily we toyed with the idea of Stratford-upon-Avon for lunch, but considering it was a sunny Bank Holiday Sunday we quickly changed our minds. We nearly went to Shipston on Stour. I went there with my father thirty years ago, on the way back from dropping my sister at college, as an alternative to touristy Stratford. Then I noticed on the map that we could go to Chipping Campden via B roads.

The guide book and Wikipedia paint Chipping Campden to be elegant, a delight for architectural eyes, one of the prettiest towns in the Cotswolds. I found it hideous. They have a one-way system and encouraged parking in the school carpark, just a few minutes stroll from the high street. However, they didn't discourage on-street parking, and the village centre was nothing but a mess of parked cars, poorly driven 4x4s, their incompetent owners distracted by the desperate search for a parking space. Very unpleasant.

Chipping Campden's one saving grace was the Badgers Hall Tea Room. A gem of a place, worth visiting especially to go there. Almost as if the dream tea room I had concocted from various novels had finally come to life under one roof.

It was run by a couple who were just this side of eccentricity, in the nicest way. A new girl had started just that day to wait; they were up front about this. I'm sure she has done well - I asked whether the quiche contained meat. Her answer "I'll go and find out" and she returned with the information I had a choice of quiche. I'm sorry I didn't take a photo, because it was beautifully presented and delightful to eat, texture perfect, good portions. Indeed, Jimmy ordered a soup and something else, and, actually, was really quite full. I asked the proprietor whether it was too early to order a toasted tea cake. He assured me it's never too early!There was a big table in the middle of the room filled with tasty-looking homemade cakes - proper cakes, not cupcakes and brownies masquerading as cakes - but somehow, a toasted tea-cake was just perfect. Tea came in a variety of blends, but this was before I began to care passionately whether it was bags or leaves, I can't truthfully say. Overall, I thought it was a lovely place, as if someone had somehow bottled the best of the 1950s, and enveloped it in the best of contemporary values. Wonderful! Some fairly decent visitor photos on TripAdvisor and Flickr

We did try strolling the streets of Chipping Campden but it wasn't just that pleasant because of all the cars, so we beat a retreat and returned to our hotel for a couple of drinks and a lie down.

Slaughtered

An afternoon in Lower and Upper Slaughter! After we had exhausted the sights of Bourton-on-the-Water, it was time for lunch. We had no clear idea where we wanted to go, and, in any case, with a 7pm reservation at the Wild Thyme, we didn't want anything too substantial. I spotted a hopeful sign; following it took us to the village of Lower Slaughter. We quickly realised that the Luxury Country Hotel was not for us. 

Apparently, the main/only road in Lower Slaughter was voted the most romantic street in Britain in 2011. I admit it's really quite nice, but, seriously, I think there must have been an orchestrated local campaign to write-in.

We stopped at The Slaughters, delightfully situated on the banks of the River Eye, with a beer garden and lawn sloping down to the river, It was fairly busy outside, with more than its quota of screaming kids and unleaded dogs, so we went inside. I ordered tea and a sandwich. The menu stipulated that the sandwiches were available in white or granary. I ordered granary. It came on white, with an explanation that they were out of granary. Fine, places run out of things, it happens. And the white bread was quite nice, certainly not processed rubbish. But, it did strike me  a little bit casual just to assume!

The church opposite the pub had a banner outside inviting people in to see their flowers. A generous move, I thought. Unfortunately, nice as the vases of flowers were, they were few, and I think more money had been spent on the banner. The church looked moribund, no Children's Corner, no evangelising notice board, no Parish Notices. No sign of their having been a wedding this Saturday of a Bank Holiday weekend at the start of half-term. Wikipedia refers to the church being "13th century" but largely built in 1866. So no historical or social purpose as far as one can see.

I don't especially advocate the widescale demolition of redundant churches; on the other hand, I do feel they serve only two purposes. I imagine that having an "old" church - half a century newer than my house - in a village helps maintain house prices - three bedroom semi, £635k and it serves the Establishment and especially the Church of England that while their buildings remain dominating the landscape, dying or redundant, they seem Relevant to people's lives and Entitled to dictate how those lives are led.

We strolled around the village. A mixture of older houses (16th & 17th century according to Wikipedia), and many modern ones keeping with the local sandstone but otherwise non-descript. We strolled along one bank of the river, noting how the picturesque nature of the village was marred by ubiquitous motor cars.

We walked as far as the  19th-century water mill which has an undershot waterwheel and a chimney for additional steam power. Attached to this was a tea-room and a shop. It was one of the strangest shops I have ever seen in a tourist place. It included local ice creams and other artisan foods, local guide books, and local souvenirs such as staddle stones, but also a seemingly random collection of vaguely hippy clothes, some cheap/over-priced costume jewellery and an eclectic collection of books that should have been remaindered weeks previously - Fifty Sheds of Grey, anyone? Annoying on Twitter, even at the height of the 50 shades craze, but imagine that someone used paper to publish this, and expected people would buy it.

We walked along the opposite bank of the river

We passed the quaint old school house

We also passed the building at the top of the post. If I recall correctly, it's a former library and was hosting an Arts Show. With no little irony they advertised this with an ugly banner perched like vandalism on an interesting old building. I can only conclude someone in the village makes these banners and forces community groups, from the church to the artists, to buy them, or else.

It is suggested that one walks from Lower to Upper Slaughter, which is a fine idea if you're up to it. The downside of having a car is that any walk from A to B must also necessitate  B to A. Instead, we drove, and having strolled around Upper Slaughter, I knew I had reached the limit of my walking endurance.

Upper Slaughter is even more delightful than Lower. We explored the church, which had slightly more signs of life than its neighbour, although hardly a thriving place. From the churchyard, we looked down on the former Manor House, now a hotel with a Michelin star restaurant.

We were puzzled that the churchyard seemed to contain no War Memorial. I only later found out that, despite its name*, Upper Slaughter, is one of only 52 Thankful Villages and one of 14 Doubly Thankful Villages.  A Thankful Village was one which had lost no men in the Great War because all those who left to serve came home again. (England and Wales)

I write this on 4 August, the day when two people are finishing their visit to all 51 -  some confusion about the numbers. See more details here. I have never heard of any of the others (with the possible exception of East Wittering - I've heard of West Wittering but never stopped to consider the existence of East). Upper Slaughter is really very small, for example, there doesn't seem to be be a village pub or any suggestion that there has been one recently closed. I guess the others are similarly small; every community of any size lost men in the First World War.

The graveyard includes relatively recent and well-tended graves of young children

We strolled through the residential area, across the Ford and a few yards along the river. The weather was just perfect - warm, but not hot, hard to recall the low grey skies and teeming rain of twenty four hours previously.

For a few moments I imagined myself living in such a rural idyll. But, aside from the fact that  Cotswolds house prices are beyond the reach of ordinary people, even newly gentrified Brixtoners, I soon realised that a place that's lovely to visit would not be so nice to live in, lacking the most basic services. Still, it's good to have these thoughts and remember to appreciate home!

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Upper and Lower Slaughter - the Cotswolds, England

Wild Thyme Chipping Norton

When I booked a weekend away in the Cotswolds, I had Gloucestershire on my mind. Only after booking a Gloucestershire Inn did I realise its postal town was Chipping Norton, Oxfordshire. I apologise to the majority of blameless citizens of Chipping Norton, but it does have certain connotations.

It wasn't difficult from the internet to determine which is the most highly thought of restaurant in the area, so I booked a table with pleasurable anticipation, yet tinged with some anxiety. (outside photo taken from restaurant's own website - I believe this to be fair use for the purpose of review)

It is very difficult to find anything to criticise about Wild Thyme. The biggest downside is it is so very small, and understandably, they've tried to maximise the number of people who can fit in. We were at a table between the service station and the kitchen. On the one side the manager was confirming reservations for the next few days, on the other side, a constant procession of waiting staff knocking on the door of the small kitchen (to ensure no one was in the way when they opened it).

That aside, no criticism. Good service, appropriately attentive  - they responded in a timely manner to our requests without trying to rush us or to interrupt our conversation to parrot a robotic "Everything alright, you guys?". I'm sure I was the youngest customer, and JImmy may have been the second  youngest, and possibly the only man not in red or yellow trousers. I would expect such a clientele to be quite conservative, but the menu certainly wasn't. Modern British, in the best way. A starting point of fairly classic dishes and using seasonal local ingredients (or those with provenance) to take them beyond 'staid' into 'refreshing' without reaching 'quirky' or 'frankly bizarre'. Portions generous enough to satisfy Jimmy, not so huge as to daunt me or leave no room for pudding.

  I started with Tian of dressed Cornish white crab meat, asparagus, poached quails egg, pink grapefruit hollandaise. 

Generous portion for a starter, and attractively presented, with each element given its space to shine, but not driven by the elements alone. This was the same with the taste, some distinctive flavours rolling over the tastebuds and yet blending into a coherent whole.

This was followed swiftly - minor niggle, possibly a tad too swiftly - by Sauté Cornish monkfish tails, brown shrimp, lemon, capers, ratatouille, braised haricot blanc, pesto.

What I said about the starter can also be said here. Choose good quality fresh ingredients, blend them intelligently, and prepare them perfectly. Chef either has a good palette, or, at least, one in tune with me. I had been unsure about both ratatouille and haricot blanc but neither was overdone and they acted as good base, without overwhelming the monkfish. The dominant taste was salty; I don't mean that negatively. I really don't like food with lots of salt added artificially/unnecessarily, I'm quite averse to it, and this was about the natural saltiness of the monkfish and shrimps starring in a way I found most attractive.

I nipped to the loo and searched the corridor and loo walls for photos of celebrity clientele. Assuming they have taste - and perhaps that is too big an assumption - I suppose Cameron, Clarkson and Brooks will have dined here on occasion. To my relief, there were no ghastly reminders of their existence!

We finished with poached pear. Such a risk. I'm sure we all remember poached pears from childhood which resembled nothing more than a once-decent piece of fruit boiled to within an inch of existing. This was the antithesis of school dinner pears, surely a signature dish, an elite pudding, and something I won't forget for a long time. It was on the menu as Vanilla poached pear, ginger ice cream, rice pudding, Nick's raspberry jam and peanut brittle. I was surprised at how well the ingredients combined, whilst (again) maintaining a clear separation. Vanilla poached pear would be to die for, I can conjure up a memory of the taste two months later. The rice pudding and jam added subtle waves of flavour. Outstanding! I may be misremembering but I'm pretty certain the ice cream was injected into the pear!

We finished dinner somewhat earlier than I had expected. We had had little time to linger between courses. But, also, the need to drive constrained our drinking, so perhaps speeded us up. Our drive back to our lodgings was spectacular, as an orange ball of fire slowly sunk into the Evenlode Valley, illuminating local landmarks, ranging from Bliss Mill, to Churchill church, to the nursing home at Kingham.

I wanted to stop the car, but being extremely squiffy (though well within the legal limit) I assumed that Jimmy, the driver, also well within the limit would also be squiffy and not wanting to stop. Actually, he wanted to get back to our digs, park the car, and have a drink!

Bourton-on-the-Water

The first full day of our Cotswolds Mini-Break. Decent breakfast at the country inn, although I've had better. A promise of sunshine later in the day, and the forecast set to be decent all weekend. 

I had bought a book called Short Walks in the Cotswolds, one of a series. I decided that we would do the walk nearest to where we were staying, a stroll round the outskirts of Bourton-on-the-Water. I suggested that maybe we could find a coffee shop to start the day off. 'Somehow', we found ourselves in a field, with all-day parking available for a fiver, just a short stroll from the town centre. One thing led to another and we spent the next three and a half hours in Bourton. 

A lovely town, delightful to visit. I would hate to live there. It was quiet when we arrived, not many people around. When we left at 2 pm, the pavements were crammed with visitors, and cars were queuing along the main A road to turn into the village. 

They call it the Venice of the Cotswolds, a lazy description, because it looks nothing like Venice. Venice is sited on 118 small islands separated by canals and linked by bridges. Bourton has a small stream running through its centre, which goes by the name of the River Windrush, and has five bridges across that river, that would prevent boats passing along, if the river was navigable, which it isn't. 

I was briefly struck by the name 'Windrush'. We use it in Brixton. Our town square is Windrush Square, named after the MV Empire Windrush, the ship that brought the first group of immigrant workers invited over from the Caribbean to assist in rebuilding Britain's post-war economy. The Windrush was one of a series of, often secondhand, ships named after minor English rivers - Windrush had previously been a German cruise ship and then troop ship, and was captured and taken as a prize of war.

After coffee we wandered along the river and found ourselves at the Model Railway Exhibition. Photography forbidden - fair enough - so no photos. Basically, it consisted of three rooms, each with complex and intricate model railways. By this, I mean glorified train sets, but not disparagingly. Fascinating, wonderful amount of detail. I'm sure if I returned I would spot many things I didn't notice on this visit. You get the opportunity to control some signals and points, allowing the trains to move along their various tracks. Particularly good fun if you get to elbow small children out of the way*.

All around the village were signs that indicated that dwellings were holiday lets. Such a high proportion must rip the heart out of a community, even it does, I suppose, provide some low-paid local employment.

We spent quite a time strolling around, watching people in and around the river, basking in the sun that grew warmer.

We didn't go in the Motor Museum but enjoyed its exterior.

Jimmy bought an ice cream

The local hardware shop played up to the quaint olde-worlde image (1950s-ish) I think the village would like to project.

These girls walked fearlessly through the water. Small boys yearned to join them but were held back by over-anxious parents.

We finished our stroll along the river.

We finished off our half-day trip by visiting a Model Village, for which Bourton is famous. I have this idea in my head that I've been to loads of model villages, but I'm not sure I have. I do recall one near Bexhill in 1972, which I guess is Hastings, which reportedly closed in 1988, and Tucktonia, visited in 1980, which closed in 1986. Bekonscot is supposedly on my list of Days Out, but it's a long way to go for the day, and Bourton Model Village, delightful as it is, has probably fulfilled any residual need for half an hour in a model village.

 

 

     

 

Seeing how the town was filling up with coach parties, locals, and weekend visitors, we knew it was time to leave town. 

We returned to the car park where I was briefly amused by this sign

The next day we passed the entrance to Longborough Opera House, so the sign's origins were (probably) explained. On the other side it said "Parking all day £5".

I was entertained slightly longer in the car park by these beauties

A striking feature of our long weekend was the high number of well-preserved old cars we saw. Many older then these, and many from the early 70s (the days when I could name most makes and models) in seemingly pristine condition. At first I assumed there was some sort of Old Car convention but concluded that it's all the rage in those parts to own and drive old cars.

We drove away from Bourton-on-the-Water for a late lunch. But that is another blogpost!

* joke

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