Refried Neurons

I know I’ll sound like a crazy woman, but I’m one of those people who genuinely enjoy moody English weather. I love being blasted by the wind and rain—well, maybe not so much the rain—but the whole package of going for a long winter walk (preferably under blue skies) and then coming back to a warm pub with a crackling fire and a pint. With that hope for temperatures hovering around zero, we booked ourselves a stay in the Cotswolds. It’s only a two-hour drive from London, yet somehow, we’d never been! I mean, we did visit Castle Combe once, and I had dinner in a pub there, but that was about it. Given how many times we’ve been to Devon and the Peak District, it was actually quite surprising that we’d managed to avoid this part of the country—especially since it’s considered one of the prettiest. All the rich and famous live here, so there must be something to it. The plan was simple—exactly what we were looking for—stay two nights in a pub and hike some hills.

Thursday afternoon, we realised we hadn’t charged our EV. We do have a house charger, but it’s just a plug socket, which takes 30 hours to charge 50%. It was already 3 pm, and since P needed to drive to the office the next day, we had to go to one of those fast chargers. That meant a trip to Waitrose—charging the car while doing some shopping. We also needed to add air to the tyres, so I drove to BP, which, despite being only 3 km away, was right next to Waitrose. The only issue? Thames Water had inexplicably decided to rip up every bloody road in the neighbourhood, meaning I got stuck in traffic for 20 minutes. I could’ve walked faster if I didn’t actually need to service the car! Anyway, by the time I finally got to Waitrose, all the chargers were taken. So, through more traffic to another charging station—where, guess what? All chargers were taken again!

After waiting 20 minutes for some moron who’d plugged in his car at 85% (knowing full well the charger cuts off at 90%) and then disappeared, I realised I could actually unplug him. So, I did. Charged up to 75%, went back home, and the owner of the other car was still nowhere to be seen. I sincerely hope he got a fine for hogging the parking space! I do love EVs, I do love EVs… I’ll just keep repeating that to myself.

The next day, we packed our bags, P drove to the office, and I planned to join him later. I left home wrapped in a winter jacket, only to be hit with a wave of hot air as soon as I stepped outside. Wait, what? It was supposed to be cold! I wanted cold winter weather! Instead, it was so warm that after a 10-minute walk to the tube, I had to strip down to a T-shirt. At least by the time we started driving, the temperature had dropped, and it had started raining—perfect.

We arrived at the Green Dragon at 7 pm after several failed attempts on my part to park properly. It’s not that I can’t park, but you know… it was dark, muddy, and—well, I could list more excuses. I’d been to this pub before for dinner, but back then, they didn’t offer overnight stays. Now, they have a few rooms. It’s a 17th-century pub with two massive open fires and everything warm and cosy you’d expect from an old English country pub—massive wooden beams, stone walls, stone floors, good beer, warm lighting, and most importantly, dogs!

After checking in, we headed for dinner, greeted by the same lovely receptionist/waiter. What a nice chap. Our table, right by the fire, was already waiting for us. As soon as we settled in, I knew we’d made the right choice booking this place. P was also over the moon. We ordered our pints and, after a few minutes, our food. The selection was great—some classic pub fare, some more refined options—so we were really pleased. With TTT our tummies touching table, we called it a night.

The pub was great, the rooms were quite nice, but, as usual, someone had forgotten about acoustic insulation. We were woken up by our upstairs neighbour taking a shower. Other than that, we slept well. Once I got over the initial annoyance of being woken up 10 minutes before our alarm, I was actually grateful—we were the first ones in the pub for breakfast and snagged the best table, right in front of the fire. Breakfast was decent—nothing amazing, just standard pub fare—but what stood out was the story of the pub’s beginnings and its furniture, told by the nicest waiter ever. The building originally belonged to the church and was a vicarage, but no one really knows when it was transformed into the lovely establishment it is today. Many of the wooden decorations—mantelpieces, bar tables, chairs—were handcrafted by Robert Thompson, aka the Mouseman. He became famous for carving a small mouse into each piece, so the pub is full of hidden wooden mice. Adorable!

Properly fed, we headed out for our hike. A short drive took us to the start of our trail, but just before we left, the waiter mentioned that an older lady had a puncture the night before, right in front of the pub. When we got to the car park, we saw another couple changing a tyre. Apparently, they were already the second ones that morning! There was a massive pothole just before the pub, completely invisible. After our own recent adventure with a puncture, we took a different route, and 20 minutes later, we were at the car park, ready to start.

We began through a small beech forest with multiple MTB trails—super unusual in this bicycle-hating country! Sorry, but compared to even Poland, cycling infrastructure here is a joke. A road with a bike sign painted on it does not fucking count. Anyway, it was a lovely surprise! The forest was waking up after winter, and we slightly regretted not coming two weeks later, when it would be covered in bluebells and wild garlic blooms. The sun filtered through the bare branches, making the day even better.

After some ups and downs, we reached a ridiculously steep hill—and realised, to our horror, that it was the famous Cheese Rolling hill. If you don’t know what the Cheese Rolling Competition is, YouTube it. It’s basically people hurling themselves down an almost vertical hill, chasing a massive wheel of cheese. Seeing it in person, I have no idea how anyone survives!

At this point, we were on the Cotswold Way, the famous trail running the length of the Cotswolds. We followed it all the way to Painswick, winding up and down through the woods. And here came another surprise—I don’t think I’ve ever spent this much time in a forest in the UK, a country better known for its lack of them rather than an abundance. The trail was absolutely brilliant! Even the short bit that took us through a golf course to the Painswick Beacon, although I would much rather prefer to walk without minding the flying golf balls! After 9km, we arrived in Painswick, a stunning little town built from that classic yellow Cotswold stone.

There’s something special about old English towns and villages—whether made of dark slate or golden sandstone, they all have a unique charm. Some have thatched roofs, others slate, and they’re full of beautiful gardens, old windows, and doors adorned with stained glass and flowers. We found a local café, tucked inside a community and arts centre. The sun was shining, and they had cleverly turned the south-facing car park into an outdoor seating area—genius! We were set on having cream tea, but they had run out. Instead, we had a cheese scone and carrot cake. I love stopping halfway through a walk for a cup of tea and cake, and yes, cream first! We grabbed seats outside, and just as our order arrived, the sun vanished for a few minutes. That was enough to send us shivering—note to self: if you’ve been sweating for two hours in the middle of winter and plan to eat outside, put on an extra layer!

Refreshed (and still a bit cold), we set off again. Why do legs always feel like lead after a break? St Mary’s Church in Painswick has the most stunning cemetery, with perfectly shaped trees that make you feel like you’re wandering through a French garden rather than a graveyard.

Crossing Painswick Stream, we started the next uphill section, which, to be honest, was our least favourite part of the trail. The path was narrow and fenced in, and then we passed a farm where a local farmer was burning fertiliser bags. The entire area stank for at least a mile. Seriously, who does that in this day and age? Even if you don’t give a fuck about the environment, how do you not care about your own lungs? And doing it right next to a public footpath—brilliant. We moved on quickly and, thankfully, were soon back in the forest, breathing fresh air again.

This time, we found ourselves on a bridleway. As the Cotswold Way continued south, we started the return leg of our loop. The bridleway was fantastic for mountain biking—so good that we immediately decided we’d be back with bikes next time.

Next, we headed towards the valley where Sheepscombe lies, walking all around it. We took a wrong turn and had to do a few extra metres uphill, but it turned out to be worth it. The pasture we ended up in was stunning, with views over small ponds. We passed a small reservoir on the stream, and by this time, the shadows had started to stretch, creating a dramatic spectacle in the woods.

A few miles before reaching the car, we stumbled upon a bizarre place that looked like a movie set straight out of Snatch. It was surrounded by rusting, corrugated metal sheets, enclosing what looked like a junkyard. Inside, there were old cars, buses, and even some new cars with no number plates. But it was definitely in use. Not sure if it was run by the travelling community, but if any film director is looking for a gritty backdrop, it’s all set up and ready to go! We didn’t hang around, half expecting guard dogs—or worse—to someone to appear out of nowhere.

One of the best things about hiking in this country? The promise of a pint in a cosy pub at the end of the trail. And so, we popped into the Black Horse Inn in Cranham. The cider was great, but the real star of the show? Doughnuts. Homemade, heavy as three shop-bought ones, and stuffed with homemade strawberry jam. I’m genuinely considering driving two hours next weekend just to get more. The last time I had doughnuts this good was when my mum made them when I was a child.

Tired but happy, we drove back to the Green Dragon for a well-earned shower and dinner—yet again, absolutely delicious. To top off the day, we grabbed two chairs by the fire, poured ourselves a glass of Rioja, and reflected on the trail. We absolutely loved it!

The next morning, we had grand plans to be up and out for breakfast before 8:30. Reality, however, had other ideas—we simply couldn’t leave the warmth of the bed. Eventually, we dragged ourselves to breakfast just after 9, and honestly, thank God we didn’t force it earlier. There was no fire, and our favourite waiter was missing, so we just filled our bellies, swiped a couple of extra bananas for the road, and checked out, ready for the second hike of the weekend.

The plan for today? A 17km walk, much flatter than yesterday’s, with the highlight being a visit to Burton-on-the-Water, famed for its picture-perfect beauty. Car safely parked, we set off and immediately fell in love with the scenery—and the cold. Yesterday had been bright, crisp, and perfect. Today? Well, not so much. Cloudy skies, a biting wind, and a forecast predicting rain, possibly even hail. But hey, we had wanted colder weather, and here it was.

The trail followed the Windrush River (not sure if it has anything to do with the Windrush?), a wild, meandering stream teetering on the edge of overflowing. Birds were fishing, reeds swayed in the wind, and except for a few random fences sticking straight into the water—God knows what for—it was blissfully untouched. We passed a ford and a small woodland that had been absolutely devastated by storms.

P had been struggling with some shoe issues all week, so halfway through, we had to stop to slap on some blister plasters. Lucky man, he picked the local bird toilet as his seating spot. Plasters on, bird poo wiped off various places, and we were back on track.

Now, every country has its fair share of questionable hiking attire, but only in the UK will you find people dressed for a black-tie event—except, swap heels for wellies. One lady, fully rocking a fur coat and knee-high rubber boots, stopped for a chat, utterly unbothered by the mud.

The trail was circular, with Burton-on-the-Water about a third of the way through. The plan had been to do the longer bit first, so we’d truly earn our café stop. But, in classic fashion, I messed up the directions, and we ended up in the village much sooner than expected. Not that I was complaining—its back alleys along the river were simply stunning. Tiny stone bridges arched over crystal-clear water, ducks paddled lazily through manicured gardens, and the whole place had an air of calm, undisturbed beauty. That was, until we hit the centre.

Now, don’t get me wrong—it was still beautiful, but also absolutely rammed with tourists. Turns out, visiting the second most picturesque village in the Cotswolds on a half-term weekend isn’t the smartest move. I’ll take the blame on that one. We barely lasted long enough for a quick toilet break before making a swift escape, holding out hope that a smaller, quieter village further down the trail would offer a better café experience.

As we left, we were joined by Amy and her dog Lucy—a young local with a thick Welsh accent that we could barely decipher but thoroughly enjoyed listening to. She was an absolute gem and led us towards Lower Slaughter. Just before stepping back onto the muddy trail, I clocked Hoxton Brewery—the one Jeremy Clarkson uses for his Hoxton Lager. We didn’t stop, though. It was cold, wet, and neither of us fancied a pint in the rain. Maybe next time.

The return journey followed the Wardens Way along the River Eye. Lower Slaughter was another postcard-perfect village—tiny, peaceful, and right up my street. A single pub, a chapel, and a handful of cottages made it feel much more authentic than the touristy chaos of Burton. After snapping a few shots of the old water mill and a ridiculously cute thatched cottage, we pushed on to Upper Slaughter—via a small but very muddy hill. Now, I love the satisfying squelch of boots in the mud, but this was something else. It was so waterlogged we were practically skiing down the slope.

By this point, P’s heel was in tatters, and to make matters worse, the rain really started coming down. With no desire to trudge through an extra few kilometers in the downpour, we cut the route short and took the country roads back to the car. This is when the wind truly kicked off. I can’t tell if it was just rain being flung at us sideways or actual hail, but either way, it hurt. At least there were plenty of puddles to wash the mud off in!

After a solid 30 minutes of being battered by the elements, we finally made it back to the car, soaked from the waist down but weirdly exhilarated. Now, all we wanted was a good farm shop for a sausage roll and a coffee.

A quick Google search led us to our first stop—only to find they’d stopped serving food. Fine, it was 3pm. The second option had great reviews but terrible photos, so we weren’t convinced they’d have anything other than raw meat. Off to option three.

And that’s when we saw the chaos. A car park absolutely heaving with people. Traffic wardens directing the madness. It looked like a full-on football match was about to kick off behind the shop. Then I saw the sign. One Google search later, and it all made sense. The same second I muttered, Clarkson, P said, Cow juice! Yep. We’d stumbled upon Jeremy Clarkson’s brand-new pub and farm shop.

Now, ever since watching Clarkson’s Farm, I’ve wanted to visit Diddly Squat, but maybe not on a day when half of the UK had the same idea. We just wanted a sausage roll, not a two-hour queue for the privilege. As quickly as we’d driven in, we drove straight back out, cursing ourselves for not stopping at the other shop earlier.

I do wonder if Clarkson’s business actually benefits the local farmers or if it’s made their lives a living hell. Are the small farm shops thriving thanks to the influx of visitors, or has he hoovered up all their customers? Something to think about.

We had no energy left for more detours, so we aimed for home, hoping to find some kind of café en route. And finally, luck was on our side. A few miles down the road, we spotted what looked like a roadside diner next to a Range Rover restoration workshop. Turned out to be a petrolhead’s paradise, but the food was surprisingly excellent, and the portions were massive.

Fed and warmed up, we set off for London, tired but thoroughly content. A perfect weekend, even with the rain, the mud, and the missed sausage rolls.