Shortly before settling in with my coffee to begin writing something up for this space, Andrew brought in the mail, a postcard lying at the top of the pile. It was the last of the three postcards I’d sent back home to us while we were on our recent trip–a watercolor image of the town square in Stow-on-the-Wold. I ran my thumb along the glossy surface portraying a scene I’d come to know so well in our nine days of living in that little town: The view of the King’s Arms and its limestone facade, the monument commemorating the Battle of Stow in 1646, and part of Digbeth Street. Places where we grabbed a post-lunch drink, where sat down to take in our surrounds, and where sits our favorite breakfast spot. I lifted the postcard to my nose–I kid you not–in hopes of catching even the slightest recognizable scent of that place. I didn’t. And so, I stared down at the image just a little more, this place I had begun to miss the moment we’d started packing our bags to leave. This small, ancient town in the Cotswolds–and it’s neighboring villages–had set up residence within my heart. But what a gift, to carry them with me, even in the form of a postcard.

Thankfully, our time at Bradley International and our subsequent overnight flight to Dublin went very smoothly. Even though flights don’t bother me at all, I had been a ball of anxiety before going to the airport and anticipating the often nerve-racking tasks of going through security, finding gates, and so on. By the time the glorious beverage cart was making its way down the miniscule aisle, the Irish flight attendants were my saviors and I was ready for a G&T. After a chat with one of the attendants about my superior choice of Gunpowder Irish Gin, the gentleman sitting next to Andrew and I at the window held up his airplane bottle of Jameson in cheers. Admittedly, I was a little worried when he’d ordered two Jamesons and a beer before the plane had even finished flying over Connecticut, but I don’t think we could have asked for a more pleasant row buddy. A couple of hours later, after he put in another order for two Jamesons and a beer with an annoyed-looking attendant, he leaned over toward Andrew and said, “I’m not flying this thing–I need to catch a buzz!” Once again, I was a bit worried at the time, but Andrew and I have since quoted this to each other in laughter each time we’ve had a drink.

Admittedly, I’m one of those tourists who absolutely loves seeing and hearing all of the Gaelic at Dublin International. It’s like a little bonus while you’re figuring out where the hell to go next. After bidding our buzzin’ plane buddy goodbye and getting our passports stamped, we proceeded to board our plane to Heathrow–and then sit on the tarmac for two hours for what was supposedly a routine maintenance inspection. Andrew and I were exhausted at this point, as we’d been unable to sleep on the first flight, so we snoozed as much as we could during this time, occasionally waking to the sound of a fellow flyer demanding a flight attendant ask the captain why on earth we were still on the tarmac (I seriously feel for flight attendants so much, y’all. Bless ’em). Once the engines were on and we were speeding down the runway, I was relieved to note we should still have time to catch our train from Paddington, but felt for the folks we heard saying they’d missed their connecting flights.

Now’s the time for a big shoutout to the Heathrow staff who kindly aided these country mice on their search for the express train to Paddington. I wanted to kiss every one of them.

We had extra time at Paddington, which means I had time to gawk at the station’s beauty, and to grab a pastry breakfast for us. I had considered catching more much-needed sleep on the train, but couldn’t stop staring out the windows. Firstly, at the industrial side of London and its suburbs that reminded us so very much of the industrial US (Andrew: “Well, this looks familiar”). And then at the bucolic rolling hillsides we’d been waiting for. By the time we’d stepped off the train in Moreton-in-Marsh and were on our bus to Stow-on-the-Wold, I was happy to hear Andrew saying, “Wow, this is amazing” as we looked out upon countless centuries-old stone structures. I was thinking the same thing.

Our bus deposited us in the town square and we fought the urge to awkwardly stand and gawk at the stunning town around us while attempting to follow the directions to our AirBnb. We made our way along a stone-lined alleyway that couldn’t be more than three feet wide and felt as though we were making some sort of magical discovery–even though it was obvious that it’s an alley nonchalantly used by locals every day. After ringing the bell at the beautiful stone home of our AirBnb host, Cat, she chipperly led us to our own little stone cottage to the back of hers.

On our way, she introduced us to her gigantic tabby cat, Genghis Khan. She explained that we would likely hear the bells on his collar at times. The reason for these bells? Evidently Genghis is such a relentless killer that Cat devises ways of warning birds and other critters of his arrival. He listened to all of this information while sleepily lounging in a sitting chair like it was all he ever did.

Entering our cottage, even in my exhaustion, I excitedly gasped at basically everything Cat showed us–especially our private patio and the fresh sourdough on the kitchen counter. The two-story cottage was tiny, but cozily packed with comfy chairs, stacks of books, and fluffy robes. Beside the sourdough rested local shortbread, a French press, an electric kettle and–no surprise, I’m sure–lots of tea. Cat opened the mini-fridge to show us the butter and milk from a farm down the road, and a jar of jam, which she makes from the berries produced on her allotment. Once she’d left, we climbed the charmingly steep stairs up to the bedroom, my jaw quite literally dropping when I saw the French doors by the bed open to the warm day, the curtains blowing happily in the breeze. The doors didn’t lead anywhere, but looked out onto our plant-packed patio and its abundance of blooms. Cat had turned the radio on to classical music.

I would have been perfectly content flopping onto the bed and soaking it all in, but we hadn’t had a “real” meal since before getting on the plane the previous day, so we quickly made our way to the nearest open pub, which happened to be The Bell, right down the street from us. It was around 3 pm, a time when many pub and restaurant kitchens are closed before dinner, but a charmingly posh-looking publican welcomed us in, grabbed our drinks, and took our food orders. I began referring to him as “The Gentleman Publican” because he looked as if he’d just stepped away from his manor house. I mean, who knows, maybe he did?

I know we were in the Cotswolds, but I could not get over how gorgeous this pub was. A sophisticated green wainscoting rose almost halfway up the walls and met with a botanical wallpaper. Chairs, booths, and benches held layers of cozy pillows. Light streamed in through large leaded-glass windows. Our plant burgers and chips (yes, I do mean fries) were just the hearty fare we were craving and, paired with the surrounds, it all made for a pretty perfect first meal in the Cotswolds.

As we did our first exploratory walk around Stow, and Andrew continued to talk about how delicious his first room-temp pulled ale was, we paid particular attention to the outrageously charming names bestowed upon all of the cottages. We noted names such as Little Acorns (a favorite of mine), Serendipity, Holly, Hurdle, Peppercorn, Nepenthe, Bluebell, The Crest, and Greystones. I was attempting to keep a running slideshow in my head of which cottages had not only my favorite names, but also my favorite door colors (sage is always a favorite), door knockers, and plants (so many stunning climbing roses).

After beginning to flag a bit, we walked back to the cottage with the plan of taking a short power nap to get us through the evening. The power nap turned into a three hour deep sleep that we could barely wake from. As it was 8 pm, we decided to forgo dinner and more exploration and instead simply relax and enjoy the cottage. I settled in with a British murder mystery, some ginger tea, and a couple of pieces of the shortbread I’d begun eyeing the moment we’d first stepped into the cottage. The French doors were still open, as was the little skylight, and the breeze seemed to want to entice me as it fanned the pages of my book. I was so distracted by the breeze and the view of dusk outside the doors that I began to wonder if I would actually get around to reading any of the pages. I didn’t.

Until Part II,
Lara