One of the numerous reasons I love slow, relaxed, undemanding travel: It gives you plenty of room to be human. On our third full day in the Cotswolds, I was feeling a tad under the weather. Since we had decided to figure out the majority of our itinerary as we went, our spending another day leisurely exploring Stow-on-the-Wold was quite welcome and didn’t throw a wrench in anything.

Wanting to return to Lucy’s Tearoom after our delicious teatime a couple of days before, we popped in for breakfast, enjoying their back garden once again. This may very well usually be a no-no, but we were craving their scones and ordered them again for breakfast. The weather was still absolutely divine, so we took our time in the garden.

Since we had arrived in Stow on a Wednesday and it hadn’t been particularly busy the previous days, we were surprised to see many more people out and about around town. We took time to peruse yet more tiny shops we had somehow missed before, as well as some charity shops we hadn’t seen open yet. We were yet to buy any of the usual souvenirs (aside from postcards, I guess), but you bet your bottom dollar I was going to buy a used puzzle with an image of a quintessential English cottage on it. I prayed it would fit into my carry-on (don’t worry, it did). Walking back to our cottage, we passed a bow window with an absolutely precious little dog sleeping in it. It was a clothing boutique, and they were most definitely snoring on top of a dress’ flowing skirt.

We savored some of the afternoon on our patio with Genghis, him begging me to keep petting him while I tried to journal and add messages to postcards. When we were hungry again, we walked just a couple of blocks to The Sheep, a rather contemporary and spacious pub, where we dined on their back patio. When I ordered a glass of rosé to go with my mushroom risotto, I was surprised to be offered the option of a regular-sized glass, or a large. I got a little too excited and chose a large. I told myself that, oh, everyone chooses a large size. Right? Andrew chose another local beer and the margherita pizza. A rather expensive sports car pulled into the lot beside the patio and a man got out, asking us to keep an eye on his car as he passed. We looked at each other mid-chew, both thinking, What the hell are we supposed to do?

After our meal, and abandoning our car-watching duty, we grabbed some dessert from Coach House Coffee and then returned to The Cellar to fetch a bottle of the chilled red wine Andrew had vowed to come back for. Before returning to our cottage’s patio once again to enjoy some wine and dessert, we made a stop at the ice cream cart in the square that had been taunting Andrew all day long. I loved the ice cream gentleman’s boater hat.

After a late and light dinner back at The Porch House, where we reclaimed our previous and seriously special patio table, we engaged in another post-dinner walk about town. As the sun was slowly setting, we made our way back to the allotment we’d kinda sorta gotten lost in the day before. We took our time admiring the dozens of plots and their various plants, coops, sheds, trellises, and water features. The sunset’s blush cast a glow upon everything, and was beautifully reflected in Andrew’s glasses. Once it started becoming too dark to see well, we turned back in the direction of our cottage. As we had done the previous nights, we marveled at the fact that we were still out walking after 10:00 pm.

I spoke of how that day was exactly that I needed, and that I was feeling much better. Andrew agreed, saying he would take a slow day of being a local over doing almost anything else.

Earlier in the day, we had stepped out onto a sidewalk and almost bumped into a man and his dog, both of whom we’d sat beside and chatted with at The Hive previously. The incredibly kind man asked what we’d been getting into and what else we had planned. When we mentioned our love of hiking, he suggested two relatively short routes that led into neighboring villages. As I was opening the French doors to the night before bed, as had become my habit, I mentioned those routes to Andrew and we decided we would take on at least one of them the following day.

Sunday morning, while enjoying yet another breakfast at The Hive, multiple staff members were surprised to see we were still in town, one mentioning that people usually came to Stow (and the Cotswolds as a whole, as far as I could tell) for only a day or two. One thing they shared with our cottage hosts was the additional surprise that London was, in fact, not on our itinerary. From what they could tell, people didn’t fly to the UK without visiting London (technically we were in London via Heathrow and Paddington, but I won’t try to claim that as a visit). They may have thought we were the strangest Americans they’d ever met.

Sated from our breakfast, and from the staff being impressed by our dedication to Stow-on-the-Wold, we stopped in at the town’s absolutely stunning nineteenth-century Victorian gothic library with its towering belfry spire. We climbed the impressive staircase toward a small craft/antiques market, gawking up at several sixteenth-century portraits. At the market, I found two Amelia Jane Murray fairy prints and promptly bought them. The seller then took the time to show us the first-ever postage stamp design, as well as some Roman coins. He then proceeded to tell us that he has a second home in Florida, where he is involved with the local police force and could arrest us in the States. We couldn’t hide the utter confusion on our faces.

Not wanted to risk arrest, we headed northeast out of town to follow the Monarch’s Way—the approximated escape route taken by Charles II after being defeated in the English Civil War’s Battle of Worcester. Along the route we passed “The Old Wells,” which are, well, just that. If I remember correctly, they were constructed a few centuries ago in order to provide water for the people of Stow. Natural springs still fill them and we took a moment to dip our fingers into the clear, cool water. We were surprised not to see another soul along the footpath, as it’s not only an easy hike between towns, but it’s also a gorgeous route leading through woodland and fields. We occasionally stopped to touch hands to some gigantic trees (does anyone else feel the urge to do that, or is it just us weirdos?) while we estimated their ages (several looked to be easily 500 years old). We also peeked through woods and over stone walls to admire cattle and sheep.

After only about a mile and a half, the village of Broadwell, our destination, came into view. It is another picturesque limestone village, and likely the smallest we saw the entire trip. To be so tiny, however, it’s central green is said to be the largest in the area. Next to the green is what looked to be the most popular destination in the sleepy town—the pub. It, the Fox it’s called, was so popular that when we excitedly marched in, we were told they were all booked for lunch. Thankfully, we could still order a couple of drinks and bags of crisps at the small bar. Andrew laughed as I gazed into my crisp bag, eyes wide, and saw that it was actually full, not just ¼ full like we’re used to. It’s the little things.

From our cozy little table in the bar area, we soaked in the historic, low-ceilinged setting. We heard one gentleman, who evidently lived in a local manor house, invite folks to come see it. The couple he invited then proceeded to demand to the staff that they be seated for lunch, even though they (like us) hadn’t made a reservation. They were so tenacious that they were, indeed, seated for lunch. They’re the suckers, though—I got to enjoy a full bag of crisps. *tosses hair*

After Andrew proceeded to piss off the Lord of the Manor by attempting to help him find his keys (yes, I’m serious), we decided it was time to move on and headed up the hill to St. Paul’s Church. Before even noticing the rather ancient church, my eyes set on the absolutely enormous yew tree out front. I seriously think I gawked at it, open-mouthed, for a solid five minutes. After I had touched it and photographed it (you know, my usual routine), we walked into the stone church. Yet again, we were completely alone in the humbling setting. Like the other Cotswolds churches we’d been in thus far, there were more headstones in the floor, towering ceilings, and areas of Norman construction. I noticed a rather official-looking plaque on the wall dating the giant yew tree to 1,300 years old.

After having a gander in the old graveyard (you know, our usual routine), we retraced our steps back along the Monarch Way. Yes, we touched trees, peered at farm animals, and dipped fingers into the well water all over again.

Even after grabbing a coffee from Coach House in the square upon our return (using my brand new loyalty card like a true local), I crawled into bed for a quick nap at our cottage.

Following the discovery that the Bell offered a vegetarian version of the traditional Sunday roast, we were back yet again for dinner, so Andrew could try it. He wasn’t disappointed, and neither was I disappointed to see so many adorable dogs sleeping cozily under tables.

Remembering the other short hike the gentleman on the street had told us about the day before, we decided it would make the perfect post-dinner jaunt. We headed south out of town, evidently looking so local that an English couple asked us for directions. We were thrilled. In no time at all, the sprawling Maugersbury Manor came into view, which is named for the small village it resides in. It is another limestone village of mostly houses (I actually don’t recall seeing any non-residential structures), and as you start descending past some of the houses, a truly awe-inducing view over the wolds sweeps you away (unless you’re a monster, that is). My brain struggled to take in the view that was so very hard to look away from, the fragrant roses stretching out from garden fences, the sky tinged with sunset pink, and yet more beautiful cottages. The amazing thing about the Cotswolds villages is that even though quite literally every structure is made of stone, you never get used to how stunning they are. And, somehow, most of them look quite different from the others. For a rural agricultural region, this is seriously impressive.

Near the bottom of the hill, we saw a one-lane road leading to our right with a “No throughway” sign. Since those roads are often the best to explore, we promptly went down it. The further we went, the more the view of the rolling hills and their checkerboard hedges seemed to open up and stretch as far as we could see. We said hi to some local folks and their dogs and noted that, once again, we were the only tourists around. In a low meadow beside us, Andrew spotted what we assumed to be a very young deer, only to later discover that it was a muntjac, which we—admittedly—had never heard of before. We are now big muntjac fans.

Sunset truly seemed to last forever as we explored the entirety of the road and then walked back around the other side of the village, like it was giving us time to see it all. My dorky American self was excited to spot Maugersbury Manor’s Dower House. We also passed an abandoned red telephone box beside a field, looking as if it might blow over at any moment. The sunset’s glow lit our way all the way back up the hill into Stow, dimming only as we opened the sage door to our cottage.

Until Part V,

Lara