When you and I were last traveling together through my recollections from a June trip to the Cotswolds, Andrew and I had just giddily concluded our first full day in that stunningly charming region. If you’d like to refresh your memory, or if you haven’t yet gotten a chance to give Part I a read, you can do so here.

The following morning, a bright Thursday, I awoke quite jetlag-free to soft sunlight glowing through the open skylight, to a birdsong that I was happy to recognize as being different from what I was used to at home, and to the sound of Genghis’ little bell jangling as he raced down the iron spiral staircase outside. While Andrew had a bit of a lie-in, I made my way toward the tiny WC and endeavored to figure out how to work the rain shower head, especially without turning on the handheld hose and soaking the entirety of the bathroom. Although, thankfully, the shower with its various knobs and buttons was easier to figure out than I’d originally feared, I hadn’t thought to keep my pajamas on the outside of the bathroom (the shower rains down into the center of the room). Actually, I had stowed them on a shelf, insisting to my brain that the water from the shower certainly wouldn’t splash that far. Well, it did.

Wrapped in a fluffy white robe provided by our hosts while my pajamas rather sheepishly hung soaked on a hook, my growling stomach led me toward the sourdough and homemade jam in the small kitchenette. Biting into the toasted bread slathered in mixed berry jam, I resolved to make lounging in a fluffy robe and munching on bread & toast a regular part of my life back in the States [It hasn’t happened yet, but you never know].

Once Andrew was awake and ready for a meal, we walked the few blocks to what would become a regular breakfast spot for us—a rather adorable café called The Hive. As I’m sure you can imagine, it’s bee-themed. When we stepped in the door, the staff was buzzing (pun shamelessly intended) around the busy dining area with its stone walls and back doors open to a breezy patio. Busy or not, the staff was incredibly friendly, and we would come to feel like we knew them quite well over the following days. I sipped an oat latte while Andrew had his first truly English pot of Earl Grey. Both had weaker flavors than we’re used to in the States, but the thing about travel—at least in my opinion—is that we shouldn’t go somewhere different and then expect everything to be the same as we’re used to. So, we enjoyed our beverages all the same. Side note: When we’d left Connecticut, there was a bit of a heat wave, so we were truly relishing having hot drinks while a cool breeze blew in from outside. Now, I know avocado toast gets a bad rap, but the avocado toasts we ordered were seriously good. Andrew couldn’t believe the vivid orange yolks found within his Cacklebean eggs. He had also ordered a side of sourdough, butter, & jam, and took time to savor the richness of the butter.

Since we’d already decided we would take the day to explore our home base of Stow-on-the-Wold for the week and get to know it better, we spent the next few hours walking just about every street and alleyway we saw. We popped into shops, read historic building plaques, and perused real estate listings in windows, saying, “Oh, that cottage definitely looks like the one for us.” We noticed more fun cottage names, were quite impressed by some seriously crooked old buildings, and pressed ourselves against walls each time cars came barreling down one of the slender streets. I took time to choose just the right postcards to send back to our home, to our parents, and to a friend, and did a double-take when I saw King Charles’ profile on the stamps before remembering that, yes, he would now be on the stamps, wouldn’t he?

Stepping into Tara Antiques, on the edge of the town square, we were positively blown away by the quality of the items so unassumingly lying around the shop with modest price tags. We were also blown away by the sheer amount of tiny animal figurines—but I digress. As we moseyed through the several rooms, we lamented not having much extra room in our carry-ons and seriously considered buying a gigantic suitcase to fill with antiques.

Deciding to reconsider going hog wild on antiques so early on in the trip, we took ourselves to Lucy’s Tea Room—also bordering the square—for teatime. You will notice a shameful pattern with me throughout my retellings of this trip: Not once did I choose tea while we were out and about, not even during teatime. It’s a true American failure of mine, but my body and brain have gotten so used to having multiple coffees a day the last couple of decades, I ordered coffee (and generally espresso) with absolutely everything. Anyway, now that I’ve relayed that embarrassing detail, we enthusiastically enjoyed our teatime at Lucy’s and ended up making it a semi-regular spot. We were seated in their charming bloom-filled garden to the back, which only added to our pleasure of having our first scones of the trip. I sheepishly ordered mine with jam only—no clotted cream—and was relieved when our server didn’t seem to give a single damn that I’d asked for no cream. Andrew proceeded to enjoy the hell out of his cream while I asked him to describe—in great detail—the flavor and texture. When he couldn’t quite find the adjectives he wanted, we played a guessing game until we were satisfied we’d put a finger on it. As you can probably guess by now, I don’t eat dairy, and so I live vicariously through those who do. In addition to our scones, I drank an oat flat white that was delightfully stronger than my morning latte and Andrew enjoyed another pot of black tea.

After a post-teatime stroll, we stepped into The Cellar, a wine bar we’d been admiring the façade of. It was a cozy space with bottles of wine lining the walls, and since it was very early in the evening and therefore still quiet, we had our pick of tables and chose the little two-seater by the window. Once I’d ordered a glass of prosecco and Andrew ordered a chilled red with a side of marinated olives, we took some time to people watch and enjoy the view of the square from the window. Seeing several dogs chipperly trotting the sidewalks, we happily realized we’d been seeing far more dogs than we normally would back home, including quite a few in the restaurants, pubs, and shops we’d stopped in. Chatting with the owner of the wine bar and telling him we were from Connecticut, he told us he’d just returned from a trip to New England.

Vowing to return to the lovely wine bar (and Andrew vowing to come back for more of the olives), we made our way around the corner to the rather famous St. Edward’s Church. Being a Thursday, the town had been relatively quiet and the churchyard was as well. I almost immediately made a beeline to the back of the church in order to see its often-photographed arched wooden doors flanked by 300-year-old yew trees. Evidently, Tolkien took his inspiration for the Doors of Durin in The Fellowship of the Ring from those otherworldly doors. Like a true tourist, I snapped photos of the doors from every angle imaginable and then sat on a bench nearby to admire them (and the centuries-old headstones of the churchyard) for a time. As Andrew and I rested, jackdaws both hopped and flew around the churchyard by the dozens. They aren’t a bird we see in Connecticut, so we enjoyed watching them, the black spots on their faces making it look as if they were either ready to attend a masquerade ball, or to attend to a plague patient.

For dinner, we walked over to The Porch House, which was opened as an inn in 947 AD, evidently making it the oldest inn in England. We stepped through one of the front doors and into pure coziness—low ceilings, soft lighting, dried hops strung all about, and lots of vintage/antique furniture. Since it was a beautiful evening, however, we followed the route to the sprawling back patio and kept going and going until we found a perfectly secluded table. Andrew enjoyed an ale and I thoroughly enjoyed my first taste of Cotswolds Gin. Maybe due to adding scones to our day, we weren’t feeling terribly hungry, so Andrew ordered some focaccia bruschetta while I had a small bowl of hoisin cauliflower wings studded with slices of habanero (a very traditional English meal, I know).

As would quickly become a nightly habit, we went for another walk around town after our dinner, enjoying that darkness wasn’t arriving until around 10:00 pm. We discussed our favorite parts of the day, as well as our plan to hike to a few villages the next. Leaded windows glowed with warm light, casting a golden hue onto some of the sidewalks that intermingled with the moody blue of dusk. We were already thinking of how soon our departure would come the following week, but until then, we would savor all the exploration, scones, pub evenings, jackdaw dances, English antiques, and post-dinner strolls that we could.

Until Part III,
Lara