Walking with Plato (23 page)

From Cheltenham, we walked three miles south to join the Cotswold Way at The Devil’s Chimney: a curiously shaped limestone pillar, of uncertain origin, rising out of the ground atop Leckhampton Hill. And from there we walked fifteen miles to the village of
Painswick
.

One thing you learn very quickly on the Cotswold Way is that it’s never in a hurry to get anywhere. Quite the reverse. It loops and detours and zigzags about like crazy.

Unlike many long-distance footpaths, it doesn’t follow the route of old drove roads, or old Roman roads, or anything of that sort. There’s nothing remotely functional about it. It just winds and wanders about, anywhere that’s pleasant or interesting, and gives the impression of putting off as long as possible its arrival into Bath.

This is generally a good thing. After all, you’re not there because you want to take the most efficient route from A to B. You’re there to take in the scenery. But sometimes, when you’re tired and footsore, or when the path takes a particularly lengthy detour so that you can walk over an especially steep hill, you wonder whether the route designers weren’t just amusing themselves at your expense.

The route from The Devil’s Chimney to Painswick is typical in this respect. It mooches around for a while along the top of the scarp, with fine views of open country to the right and trees to the left. Then it meanders its way through a series of woods, each one prettier than the last, before reluctantly arriving at its destination.

Painswick is a beautiful old village with an ancient church, renowned for its elegant spire and for the ninety-nine neatly clipped yew trees in its churchyard. We spent the night at St Anne’s B&B, along with some American tourists who were walking the Cotswold Way.

Breakfast was a splendid affair, which included freshly baked croissants – one per person. Sadly, Wendy and I arrived at the table a tad later than our fellow guests, and therefore had to do without. But we consoled ourselves with the thought that they had gone to people who had demonstrated, by their desire to eat
ours
as well as
their own
, that they’d really, really appreciated them.

From Painswick, we walked fourteen miles along the Cotswold Way to the village of
Cam
. Our route took us over sculpted hills, through shady forests, across verdant meadows and open grassland, and through the market town of Stroud and the villages of King’s Stanley and Middleyard.

We reached a point, late in the afternoon, where the Cotswold Way could have taken a direct route across level country towards the villages of Dursley and Cam. But instead it took a detour up and over Cam Long Down, a cripplingly steep hill that rises for no apparent reason out of the flattish ground to the west of the escarpment.

Local legend has it that Cam Long Down was formed from rocks tipped out from the Devil’s wheelbarrow. This may or may not be true. But, either way, it is the very Devil to climb – and, I imagine, a source of diabolical delight to whoever designed the Cotswold Way.

In fairness, I have to say that, because the Cam rises so abruptly out of its surroundings, the 360-degree view from its summit is pretty damned spectacular.

Thankfully, we had a rest day to look forward to in Cam. Not that Cam itself is much to speak of. But it was delightful to lounge around in our B&B, and give our tired bodies and tender feet some much-needed recovery time.

The following day, we walked seventeen miles from Cam to
Old Sodbury
via the villages of North Nibley and Little Sodbury. A small detour would have allowed us to pass through the tiny hamlet of Waterley Bottom too, but we somehow resisted the temptation.

We also walked through the villages of Dursley and Wotton-under-Edge, which are much bigger, but less worthy of a mention because their names aren’t nearly so much fun.

It was a day of woodlands and glades, of towns and villages, of scrubland and grassland, of pastures and cultivated fields, of steep-sided hills and peaceful valleys, of grazing cows and sheep, of ponds and mill streams, of hilltop monuments and ancient forts, of hedges and stone walls, of pubs and teashops, of churches and alms houses, and of cottages of honey-coloured stone.

We spent the night at the Cross Hands Hotel in Old Sodbury. It’s an old posthouse, dating back to the fourteenth century, and apparently has some charming old rooms. But Wendy and I, being low-rollers, had to content ourselves with a not-quite-so-charming room in a modern part of the building.

Now that I come to think of it, though, that’s not quite right. We didn’t ‘have to’ content ourselves with a modern room. We
were
contented with it.

There may have been people at the Cross Hands Hotel staying in plusher, more stylish, more expensive rooms than ours. But what was that to us?

We had just enjoyed a long and happy walk through heart-achingly beautiful countryside. We were pleasantly tired and hungry. We had a warm room with a comfortable bed. We had a restaurant meal and cold beer to look forward to. We had leisure time to read, chat, or watch TV. And we had another long and happy walk to look forward to the following day.

We
were
contented.

In my copy of
War and Peace
 – which I was still reading – I had highlighted a passage, at an earlier stage of our journey:

Pierre had learned not with his intellect but with his whole being, by life itself, that man is created for happiness, that happiness is within him, in the satisfaction of simple human needs, and that all unhappiness arises not from privation but from superfluity.

And that sums it up.

JoGLE was all about the satisfaction of ‘simple human needs’. It was about staying warm and dry. It was about getting enough to eat and drink. It was about finding somewhere to sleep at night. It was about getting where you needed to be before it got dark. It was about fresh air and freedom. It was about companionship.

And being able to meet those simple human needs was enough to release the happiness within us.

Gensei, again:

why envy those otherworld immortals?

With the happiness held in one inch-square heart

you can fill the whole space between heaven and earth.

The final nineteen-mile section of the Cotswold Way took us from Old Sodbury to
Bath
. The first six miles were flat and easy. But, after that, it was just one hill after another.

If I had to sum up my memories of that day in just one word, it would be ‘green’. Apart from the last couple of urban miles, almost the entire route lies across fields. Huge, great, glorious, lush green fields.

It’s heavenly country. But still, it’s a tough old walk, up and down those hills. By the time we reached the outskirts of Bath, we’d had enough. But still we had to walk a couple more hilly miles, through the city, to the YHA.

Whatever mischievous soul it was that planned the tortuous route of the Cotswold Way, they outdid themselves in that final section. There’s not a stone staircase, an incline, a decline, a back alley, an indirect path, or a pointless zigzag in the entire northwest corner of Bath that hasn’t been drafted into service.

Admittedly, there are some fine sights along the way, including the Royal Crescent, Britain’s largest and finest Regency terrace, and Bath Abbey, the last of the great medieval churches in England.

Doubtlessly, these are the official reason for all of the ups and downs and the ins and outs. But I have a strong suspicion that there’s a route planner somewhere who spends his leisure hours bending over a city map, rubbing his hands and cackling in maniacal delight.

Readers who have stayed the course with me thus far won’t be surprised to learn that, although Wendy and I spent a rest day in Bath, we saw nothing of it. We spent an hour or two in outdoor-gear shops, replacing our worn-out hiking boots with brand-new lightweight trail shoes. We treated ourselves to cream teas. And we lounged around in the hostel. But sight-seeing wasn’t on our radar.

I guess that it
would
be possible, as an End to Ender, to explore the towns and cities you pass through on your journey. But only by building in so many rest days that you’d lose the rhythm of the walk. And that, in my opinion, would be too high a price to pay.

On JoGLE – to paraphrase Shakespeare –
the walk’s the thing
.