We Are Those Merry Wanderers . . .

Okay, so we’re plagiarizing and compromising Puck’s line to the fairies from Midsummer Night’s Dream, but Sarah and I are headed toward the Cotswolds and the land of Shakespeare, so why not? And, yes, this post is quite tardy as it features our English ramblings into September . . .

After our lovely isolation and jaunts through Windsor and London, it was time for Sarah and I to venture farther afield to the north and Cheltenham, a gateway to the Cotswolds. We had decided we would take the train for our cross country travels, and we were delightfully surprised at the incredible rail system throughout England. We were of course able to check routes and times on the GWR (Great Western Railway) mobile apps, and even book tickets that could be scanned on our phones. The best part was that the trains ran almost constantly to even moderately significant destinations, making our planning a breeze. Our first trip was from Slough Station, near Windsor, west to Reading where we changed trains—about a ten foot walk—and then north directly to Cheltenham. Even with our gigantor luggage it was a piece of cake as friendly railway employees helped us with nearly everything.

“Now spurs the lated traveler apace, to gain the timely inn” . . . Macbeth

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Cheltenham turned out to be a sophisticated city with great restaurants—yes, we’re always thinking about our next meal—and sophisticated shops and luscious green parks. It’s home to the annual Cheltenham Festival horse races and was also the birthplace of Gustav Holst, composer of the well-known “The Planets,” which everyone will surely recognize—check out this YouTube of the opening movement from a BBC Proms concert. We stayed in a small—okay, tiny—flat in a unique building called the Strozzi Palace for its Italianate architecture and we enjoyed wandering and al fresco dining. We did actually do a bit of grocery shopping at Waitrose, one of the three primary chains in the UK, but we mainly indulged our curiosity and taste buds dining out. At one of our favorites, Gallimores Kitchen, we met and chatted with the charming and vivacious Gilbert Biberian, a guitarist originally from Turkey, and who has performed all over England and Europe.

“I do wander everywhere, swifter than the moon’s sphere . . .” Midsummer Nights Dream

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“I am a great eater of beef, and I believe that does harm to my wit.” . . . Twelfth Night.

And that brings us to one of our favorite discoveries of the ways of England: The Sunday Roast. Oh, my, Sarah and I voraciously adopted that tradition and made a habit of seeking the best Sunday Roast wherever we travelled. In Cheltenham, we scored our initiation at Gallimores with roast beef—it was just okay—but we fell mostly in love with the traditional fixings: beef dripping potatoes finished off in duck fat—yes, heaven on a fork—caramelized carrots and parsnips, Yorkshire Pudding, cheesy cauliflower, and an occasional black pudding as well. And of course I continued my quest for the ideal cider!

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“’Tis an ill cook that cannot lick his own fingers” . . . Romeo and Juliet

While in Cheltenham, we arranged for a guided tour of the Northern Cotswolds with Chris Peake, of CJP Cotswolds Tours, and he took us along the back lanes—one car width in many places and bordered by stout hedgerows—through a litany of utterly bewitching hamlets and villages and manor houses from Winchcombe through Snowshill and Chipping Camden and Stow on the Wold and the Slaughters (both Upper and Lower, of course) through Bourton on the Water. Don’t you just love those quintessential English names? We stopped at Hailes Church, nearly a thousand years old, where Chris explained the glorious wall paintings, untouched and in their original state, including a lively hunting scene. It was on this tour that we discovered another of the joys of English life: an introduction to the public footpath!

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“Lulled in these flowers with dances and delight” . . . Midsummer Night’s Dream

After our exploration of the Cotswolds, we headed a bit further north to the heart of Shakespeare country, Stratford-upon-Avon, where we stayed at the classic White Swan Hotel, opened as a tavern in 1560, just a few years before the Bard was born. Each breakfast–and several lunches–we ate in a small dining room (the Oak Room) next to the original fireplace and where we could study an ancient, faded painting that had only been accidentally rediscovered after a renovation in the twentieth century. Did William and his mates sip their ale gazing on this same painting while trading lines from the plays and wondering when we would finally arrive?

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“To dance our ringlets to the whistling wind” . . . Midsummer Night’s Dream

Needless to say, Sarah and I fell in love with Shakespeare’s Birthplace, Ann Hathaway’s house, and all the Bard-aphenalia on display and for sale as we explored the cobbled walkways. Of course, we had brought our appetites with us and found S-u-A a marvelous source of gastronomic indulgence. Probably one of our very favorite meals of our entire time in Merry Olde, was a lusty dinner at The Woodsman Restaurant, where we could watch chef Mike Robinson preparing ‘field to fork’ dishes over an open fireplace. We started with fresh grilled sardines, oh my, and then I tracked down a stunning haunch of venison with pickled blackberries and tenderstem broccoli (we call it broccolini in the US) while Sarah savored a delicate filet of plaice, our first encounter with that fish, but far from our last.

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“On the bat’s back I do fly after summer merrily” . . . Tempest

We had as well to sample high tea at the charming Fourteas Tea-Room where one can step back in time about 80 years while sampling a tiered stand of delicate, fresh sandwiches, scones with jam and clotted cream, cakes and pastries and a delightful Prosecco. Glen Miller and the Andrews Sisters serenaded us while Winston Churchill’s calming demeanor watched over everyone. An evening’s victuals at The Opposition, another unique menu with overtones of centuries of tradition, rounded out our dining in Stratford-upon-Avon to perfection.

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“Give me your hands if we be friends, and Robin shall restore amends” . . . Midsummer Nights Dream

Best of all, though was our afternoon stroll along the Avon River and through Holy Trinity Church, where Shakespeare was baptized and is buried. The docents there were extremely knowledgeable, even through their ubiquitous virus masks. Once we left the church, we wandered back through a lovely park and we noticed couples and families with picnic blankets arrayed as if awaiting some speaker or a performance. Sure enough, a handful of men and women stepped forward—they were actors from the Royal Shakespeare Company and the theater itself was shuttered due to the virus—and they began an al fresco, casual entertainment. They sang, they ran a couple short bits, they joked, and they charmed away an hour of the afternoon and we reveled in our good fortune to have stumbled on the scene.

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“Jack shall have Jill, Nought shall go ill, the man shall have his mare again, and all shall be well” . . . Midsummer Night’s Dream

Ah, the essence of England, right? The Cotswolds and Shakespeare’s own town. What might we do to match those two delightful stops on our spontaneous tour of Merry Olde? Well, the trains do run south, don’t they, and more old-gold, sonorous names do beckon: Devon and Dorchester and Cornwall; Lyme Regis and Penzance and Mousehole . . . which isn’t pronounced the way you might think. But that, you know very well, is another story . . .

“Jog on, jog on, the foot-path way. . . A merry heart goes all the day” . . . Winter’s Tale