THE COTSWOLDS

A CLOSENESS TO NATURE THAT YOU CAN ONLY GET ON FOOT

Author: By Sally Burt, Globe Correspondent

Date: SUNDAY, August 2, 1998

Page: M1

Section: Travel

Several months before my 65th birthday, my husband, Ken, already 65, suggested a walking tour of the Cotswolds, something he'd always wanted to do. As an English boy, he had spent his World war II years in the Cotswolds, and though we had been back for visits, we had never walked across the countryside. Since it is rare for Ken to suggest travel plans, I quickly replied that if we were going to do this we'd better do it soon -- while we could still walk!

But except for daily strolls with the dog and occasional rounds of golf, we are not walkers; neither are we models of fitness. Although there are groups that specialize in walks for people over 50, we chose an English group called the Wayfarers because we liked what we read in the brochure sent by their agents in Rhode Island. The moderately priced tour would be prepaid: hotels, all meals, and entrance fees to special sights. For five days, we would walk about 10 miles a day, have pub lunches, and our luggage would be carried by van from hotel to hotel. We were told that the van would carry us too if we needed to rest. Although not designed for seniors, this sounded like the sort of walk we could do.

We booked the July walk and received several pages of information about outfitting ourselves and preparing for the walk. In February, we purchased boots, socks, raingear, knapsacks, hats, and water bottles. Soon after that, we began our training program, walking a little farther each week, to break in the boots and to increase our endurance. Both proved vital.

We were given the five-day itinerary that roughly outlined the guided walk, named the hotels (all modest but comfortable), and mentioned some of the sights we'd be visiting along the way. Starting in Burford, we would walk to Stow-on-the-Wold for our first overnight stop, from there to the relatively unknown, unspoiled village of Blockley, on to Broadway, next to Winchcombe, and finally to Cheltenham, spa town of the Regency period, where we'd spend our final night of the tour.

We had no idea about the terrain we'd be traversing. Our prior familiarity with the Cotswolds led us to expect gently rolling hills and picturesque villages with houses and churches made from that distinctive sand-colored Cotswold limestone. What hadn't occurred to us was that we'd be walking through an area designated as one of outstanding natural beauty, across pastures of grazing sheep and cattle, through shady woods, up some steep hills and down through golden grain fields. On foot, we experienced an intimacy with nature that involves all the senses. We saw color and contour in panoramic views of green pastures, yellow fields, and stone villages, felt the land under our feet, heard lambs, birds, and crickets, and inhaled the aromas of flowers, damp woods, and drying grain. It's an experience I'll never forget.

But on that first morning as we 10 American Wayfarers walked a little too briskly out of Burford, I was somewhat apprehensive, as was another walker with a game leg who was at least 10 years older than I. ``We can't keep up this pace,'' she said, and I agreed. But we needn't have worried, for Bill, our excellent and very knowledgeable walk leader from Yorkshire, waited for us at the turning as he did every day after that. It didn't matter if we brought up the rear most of the time; the five experienced walkers often stayed behind with us to chat or assist, if necessary. Our group of 10 included four singles, two couples, and a mother and daughter. Although total strangers from the East and West coasts of the United States, we were an extremely compatible group. Six of us were over 65; the three younger members were teachers. Our ties were strengthened by convivial meals taken at one large table at hotels and pubs.

The other English member of the Wayfarers' team was Trevor, the walk manager, whose job was the care and feeding of weary or hungry walkers. Every day around 11 at the midpoint of the morning walk, he arrived with a van full of goodies: water, juice, cookies, and fresh fruit. I was astonished at how hungry one gets when walking in the fresh air. While we were refreshing ourselves, Trevor passed out menus from the pub where we'd be having lunch after another interval of walking. Then he'd take our orders and bid us farewell as we set forth again.

During the first two days, I was still suffering from jet lag and decided to take the afternoon off. Trevor willingly and cheerfully drove me to the next hotel so I could rest. Ken, a wiry individual, walked on. He was one of four who walked every inch of the way, about 60 miles. The other three were women: two real walkers and an athletic 35-year-old. Ken's presence was appreciated by all of us, since he knew how to open and close farm gates and, more important, how with sticks and shouts to drive a bull or cows away from our pathway. (Essentially, a bull doesn't care where he is as long as he's with his cows.)

Although we used some public footpaths, which are found all over England, we crossed many private tracts, open to the public with the permission of the landowner. Following what is known as the Country Code, we fastened all gates, kept to paths across farmland, and used gates and stiles to cross hedges, fences, and walls.

Stiles, wooden or stone steps, were sometimes the only way to cross fences from one field into the next, and although they are not especially difficult, there was one day when we had to cross well over 30 of these high steps. The next day, my hips and thighs screamed with pain so that again I had to retire early from the afternoon walk.

But despite my limitations, I enjoyed every minute of every day of this healthy outdoor exercise. In the 35 miles I managed to cover, I saw close up the natural beauty of this peaceful part of England. Bill identified trees and wildflowers for us such as the ubiquitous hawthorn and the towering pink spires of bay tree willow herb. I couldn't help taking pictures of the familiar blossoms of red poppies, blue geraniums and scabiosa, purple thistles, goldenrod, and white parsley that grew in profusion in the hedgerows bordering fields of thigh-high golden wheat, barley, and oats. But the most important and ever-present plant specimen to know was the stinging nettle, which we were taught to recognize from the start. Since the weather was hot and most of us were wearing shorts, we had to be particularly careful to avoid this irritating plant. Bill also showed us how to rub the sting with the broad leaf of dock weed, an antidote that always grows nearby.

Village cottages and manor houses with their gardens of tall hollyhocks, perennials, and fragrant roses of every hue inspired those of us who are gardeners. As we walked past one particularly lovely private garden, we were invited in to admire it more closely. The superb gardens of Bourton House and Sudely Castle were part of the tour. In Chipping Campden, we visited the memorial garden of Ernest Wilson, a plant collector who through his contacts with Charles Sprague Sargent of Boston's Arnold Arboretum became his assistant in 1918 and keeper on the death of Sargent in 1927.

As for animals, Bill identified a number of the 70 types of sheep raised in the Cotswolds through whose meadows we were continually walking. Sheep and lambs are apparently accustomed to walkers traipsing through their territory, since they tended to ignore us. But occasionally they would look up, baa, or gambol away. We crossed pastures in which there were horses and cattle. In the woods near Lower Swell, Bill pointed out large holes inhabited by badgers. In another wood, we encountered hundreds of pheasants being raised for shooting. At the Cotswold Falconry Centre, we were treated to a demonstration of the flight of birds of prey who dived from dizzying heights at great speed to grab a piece of meat from a trainer's glove.

It would be impossible to single out the most picturesque of all the villages we walked through; each had a charming and distinctive quality while all possessed the same building fabric of Cotswold stone. Bill told us that long wheat straw was used for the thatching of the picturesque flower-bedecked cottages in Broad Campden. He explained the craft of making stone drywalls, which are topped by vertical cam stones. A local guide gave us a tour of elegant Chipping Campden with its medieval market hall and St. James Church, one of the great ``wool'' churches, built as a result of the wealth made in the wool trade. Bill showed us the splendid Perpendicular church in Winchcombe, which has the ugliest gargoyles I have ever seen: agonized human faces and hideous monkeys. One of Ken's special memories was the climb to Broadway tower, the Earl of Coventry's magnificent 18th-century folly, visible for many miles around and that, from the top, offers panoramic views of 12 counties. To achieve this splendid view, you must walk up 73 circular steps inside the tower after having climbed the hill to the folly.

In addition to the natural beauty of our Cotswold walk, we enjoyed our stop at Stanway, a Jacobean manor house that was one of the settings for Edith Wharton's Buccaneers, a series seen on PBS.

That afternoon, our fourth walking day, we visited Sudeley castle, home of Katherine Parr, last wife of Henry VIII. En route, we had our first rain of the week, a hard shower that lasted about 20 minutes and forced us to don the rainwear we had carried in our knapsacks and hadn't needed before. Some of the walkers, especially those wearing glasses, raised small umbrellas they had brought along. Fortunately, the rain had stopped by the time we reached Sudeley, and we were able to tour its magnificent, prizewinning formal and informal gardens, one of which was redesigned by the famous English plants woman, Rosemary Verey. The stunning historic castle is presently the home of the Dent Brocklehurst family, makers of fine gloves, some of which are on display. Spanning the centuries as it does, the castle contains handsome Tudor and Jacobean furniture, beautiful stained-glass windows and fireplace tiles as well as 19th-century William Morris wallpaper. Katherine Parr is buried in the castle's Gothic chapel.

Bill and Trevor kept up our interest by promising ``little surprises'' each afternoon, but my favorite occurred in the morning. As we walked along on the last day, Bill asked if we'd like to take a ``little diversion'' to see a mosaic on the floor of the ruins of a Roman villa. All of us readily agreed to undertake this ``little diversion,'' which turned out to be a half-hour detour into a woods on a somewhat slippery muddy path. Following close behind Bill, we came to the ruin with its ancient Roman stones and watched him peel back a protective tarpaulin to reveal a simple but beautifully preserved black, terra-cotta, and white geometric mosaic. It was well worth the journey.

That night, our last, we had our final delicious dinner in the charming Wyastone Hotel in Cheltenham, where we had speeches and hugs as we said goodbye to our fellow Wayfarers. The following day, all I could think about was where and when I'd go walking again.