“There is nothing like walking to get the feel of a country. A fine landscape is like a piece of music; it must be taken at the right tempo. Even a bicycle goes too fast.”                                   ~ Paul Scott Mowrer

“OK, keep your eyes peeled. After we cross the A46 your shortcut will be the third road on the right.”

It is always wise, when leaving the main road and heading into uncharted territory, to remind your husband that this was his idea and any chaos which may ensue is all entirely his fault.

It was a sunny Sunday in July, which happened to coincide with the seventh anniversary of the day I arrived to live in the UK. Tired of our four walls and the same walks around the home fields, we had packed our face coverings, hand sanitizer, the dog and a picnic lunch into the car and set out in search of adventure. Our destination: Woodchester Park in the Cotswolds.

We were not the only ones enjoying the day and a newfound feeling of freedom. Cyclists were out in abundance, flamboyantly garbed in bright jerseys and tight Spandex, clogging the narrow roads and forcing us to crawl at a snail’s pace around blind bends until it was safe to pass. Why does it always seem that cyclists are either grouped together in an un-passable peloton or spread just far enough apart that you have to hopscotch around first one, then another, then another? No sooner do you see clear road ahead than you round a corner and find another sweaty, miserable impediment blocking your way.

At last we arrived at the turning and plunged off the A4135 onto a one lane road across the fields. “This isn’t bad,” Mr. H announced, pleased with himself for cutting off a corner and possibly saving us two whole kilometres.

Soon an ominous sign warned of a 12% downgrade and we entered a shadowy green tunnel of dark woodland. Our hopes of avoiding the cyclists were crushed as we started down the hill. This unmarked, hidden shortcut is apparently the most popular route for all the Tour de France wannabes of Gloucestershire. Nearly a dozen cyclists in various states of cardiac distress were struggling up the hill. Not a single one appeared to be enjoying himself.

We drove through tiny chocolate box villages hidden in the deep valleys below the Cotswold escarpment, seemingly unchanged by the passing centuries, then climbed back up again on the other side. The beauty of the region once again filled us with wonder at the enchanting views that stretched for miles across the Severn Valley.

As we neared our destination it proved easy enough to follow the familiar brown oak leaf National Trust signs to Woodchester Park. They led us down a narrow, washboard gravel drive to a small car park. To our relief we had arrived early enough that there were still plenty of available spaces. There would be no long trek from the overflow parking area today.

Woodchester Park was once the home of the wealthy Ducie family from 1600 to 1845. They lived in a Georgian house surrounded by 400 acres of designed parkland. In 1845 the property was purchased by William Leigh, a wealthy ship builder. He demolished the existing house and began building a new Victorian Gothic mansion. After sixteen years Leigh’s fortune dwindled, and the construction finally ground to a halt.

The mansion, though unfinished and never lived in, is not the derelict ruin you would expect to find. The Victorian scaffolding is still in place, abandoned by the builders over a century ago, but thanks to the outer shell being finished, the house stands proudly steadfast. It is a gem, hidden away in a quiet, steep-sided valley a mile from any road – truly one of the best kept secrets of the Cotswolds.

Mr. H and I shouldered our rucksacks and descended the small flight of steps down the steep hillside from the car park to the shady track below. All trail markers pointed downhill, and so, guidebooks and cameras in hand, we began our walk.

In my opinion one of life’s simple pleasures is the quiet joy that comes from taking a walk with someone you love. There may be long stretches of silence when you are each lost in your own thoughts, and there is often lively conversation. Then there are the moments of breathless wonder when a scenic view suddenly reveals itself and you stop to gaze in silent admiration at the beauty that surrounds you.

I have to agree with Mark Twain, who wrote, “The true charm of pedestrianism does not lie in the walking, or in the scenery, but in the talking. The walking is good to time the movement of the tongue by, and to keep the blood and the brain stirred up and active; the scenery and the woodsy smells are good to bear in upon a man an unconscious and unobtrusive charm and solace to eye and soul and sense; but the supreme pleasure comes from the talk.”

As we walked I rhapsodized about the damp woodsy smells and grew nostalgic for Oregon, Mr. H grappled with his camera lens and began taking photos, and the dog was in raptures over every rock and blade of grass.

“We’ll probably see some wildlife,” Mr. H advised me. He’s always hoping to see wildlife. “They have herons nesting by the ponds, and several species of bats live here, even horseshoe bats, which are quite rare.”

“We’re not staying here late enough to see bats, are we?” I asked, suddenly anxious. We didn’t have a big enough picnic lunch to see us through a night-time bat watching safari. Yes, it always comes down to the food with me.

The scenery had the tranquil beauty which is a hallmark of the Cotswolds. The trail descended through a cool, dappled woodland, then emerged in the narrow valley floor into a warm, sunlit pastureland. We followed a path which circled up through the descriptively named Break-Heart-hill Wood before descending once again into the valley. Five man made ponds flow one into another, gradually descending along the valley floor, and we chose the path with tantalizing glimpses of sparkling water shining through the trees. Blue damselflies and giant dragonflies flitted along the water’s edge, where water lilies bloomed. Animals graze throughout various areas of the 400 acre property, and at several gates signs were posted warning us to keep our dogs leashed and beware of excitable cows and one mean old bull – that’s my paraphrase, not the exact wording.  We did not see any cows, excitable or otherwise, just large numbers of dozing sheep. 

We found a peaceful picnic spot on the causeway between Kennel Pond and Parkmill Pond and spread our blanket in a cool spot shaded by bracken and pink rosebay willowherb. It was an idyllic spot, pristine and peaceful…peaceful, that is, until my tub of chicken salad began to tilt, and the dog made a lunge. Then, for a few seconds, it was absolute pandemonium as it can only be when a hungry hiker witnesses half her lunch disappearing inside her beloved corgi.

Well, at least the dog was happy. And I still had some bread, cheese and an apple to sustain me, as well as a piece of banana bread. All was not lost. 

We walked about five miles that afternoon, circling from the ponds past the quaint old boathouse, to the mansion. The mansion is not operated by the National Trust, but by the Woodchester Mansion Trust. Normally it is open to visitors, but due to COVID19 it is closed for the 2020 season. The small, outdoor cafe was open that weekend, however, serving up light refreshments in a safe, socially distanced setting.Those rare horseshoe bats Mr. H was talking about live in some of the attics of the mansion, and the bat cams are popular with visitors who, like me, don’t plan on staying until after dark in order to see them flying outdoors.

After viewing the impressive building, we turned our feet homeward, climbing once more up the steep hill, through the woods and back to the car park. It felt energizing to be out, exploring new areas, and expanding our horizons after so many months of semi-confinement.

On the drive home we bypassed the shortcut and stuck to the main roads. The cyclists seemed to have all vanished. The happy ones, who cycled in normal clothes and smiled as they went, no doubt were home drinking beer and wolfing down heaping platefuls of pasta; the Tour de Francers were probably still miserable, virtuously sipping matcha tea and nibbling salad.

I am happy to report that we had pizza, and we were very happy indeed.