Okay, so day 1 wasn't too bad... some nice sight-seeing, mostly flat terrain, and a fortuitously-located pub lunch to dodge a rain shower.
Day 2 was very, very different. I went to bed with a vague sense of unease when I read that the day's ride was going to start with 8 miles of straight, steady incline. Lovely. Now, to the Lance Armstrongs of the world, or even your average hipster cyclist accustomed to the hills of SF, this would be no problem.
But for me? After 3 years of London, where my daily commute might include the odd speed bump in otherwise flat-as-a-pancake London?
It promised to be grim.
But, stiff upper lip and all that, I headed off bright and early at 7:30am on Easter Sunday. Too early for the hotel's breakfast, i figured I'd catch something on the road at any one of the charming villages en route.
Mistake #1.
Mistake #2? I didn't refill my water bottle from its halfway level, thinking "oh, how bad it can it be?"
Now, on the plus side, the ride was glorious, with sunny skies and gorgeous rural vistas in every direction. The problem was that these vistas would pass far, far too slowly given my somewhat lethargic pace.
Nevertheless, I perservered, arriving in the first village after a seriously exciting half mile 10% downward slope, just in time to watch the local villagers head to Easter Mass. Charming, and all was well in the world...
...until I tried to find a store, a cafe... in fact, a business of ANY kind.
No dice. These villages are great at providing charming homes away from it all, but decidely lack any sort of local business infrastructure.
But, I kept going, hitting up a km straight climb and then on through two more villages. Nothing.
Finally, out of water, I somewhat sheepishly asked a local fixing up his house if I could use his hose... nice break and a nice chat about the States vs. Canada (he preferred Canada), and then it was back on the bike.
This time fortune smiled on me, as I found a gastropub alongside the very busy A-road I was on. That prompted an immediate and tremendously satisfying full English breakfast, plus a pot of tea, in front of a roaring fire with a friendly cat. Perfect.
The rest of the day was more of the same, where I quickly learned that the Brits weren't kidding when calling the Cotswolds hills. Up, down, up, down, it was definitely a great workout as I stopped first in the seriously creepily named Upper Slaughter and Lower Slaughter for a lunch at a charity cafe...
... then on to Chipping Camden, which is the largest of the towns in the area, and really really pretty to boot.
Unfortunately, I was running seriously behind schedule by this point, and with only 2 hours to get to Stratford, and only 2/3rds of the way there, I had to hoof it. Um, or pedal it, as the case may be...
... where finally, fortunately, the terrain smiled on me, and turned flat. That, coupled with a smoothly tarmacked B-road on the way to Stratford-upon-Avon, and I was able to make great time.
I rolled across the ancient 13th century bridge in time to find my B&B, and after a critically needed shower, headed off for an equally necessary beer at an old, old pub. A walk 'round town, then it was time for vegging out in bed to the tele. Perfect.
The next day was supposed to be a bicycle ride back to Oxford, completing the circuit, but I completely sissied-out. My legs let me know in no uncertain terms that they would probably going on strike, so I decided to take in a stroll to Shakespeare's grave... ...
...then a walking tour of the town, that turned out to be a great idea. Stratford was full of cool stories and tidbits, such as the fact that the local 15th century school still educates the local boys, just as it did for Shakespeare. My lunch stop pub, the Garrick Inn, functioned about the same as it did back in the day, where the town's first plague victim was recorded as having collapsed and was thrown in the street. Charming healthcare approach.
The other funny bits were more American in nature. First, I learned that Henry Ford tried to buy the Shakespeare family home to ship back to the States, and came within a whisker of succeeding, when the locals finally got the buildings listed as historically significant.
Second, and as a case of 'it's a small world', I got to chatting with two Americans on the tour. The natural "where are you from" chitchat turned into... "oh, you're from Santa Rosa/Rohnert Park too?" And, as a final "whoa!", the guy was the son of my 3rd grade principal, Mr. Ernest, at good ol' Evergreen Elementary.
Stratford was a nice town, but I have to say it... after all I heard about the town, it seemed a bit overrated.
Sure, it's the #1 destination for tourists outside London, but while charming in parts, it just didn't blow me away. Compared with the grandeur and quirkiness of Oxford, or the Cotswolds' villages that were almost too good to be true, Stratford was.. just... there. I'll have to echo the Yank travel writer Rick Steves here and tell any of my friends visiting that while it's a great day stop, I'll be sure to suggest a dozen other places to go as a better use of their time in the UK.
Right, minor rant over, I had time to catch a train back to London, and a slow ride back to Fulham. A whiskey, a bath, and bed followed in very, very quick succession.
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