Day 3: Cotswold Way, Cleeve Hill to Cheltenham, 8.8 miles

Cleeve Hill, Seven Springs, Cheltenham

I must have looked rough this morning as I stumbled my way into the breakfast room at the charming Cleeve Hill Hotel. The delightful attendant greeted me warmly in her lilting British accent. Upon noticing my haggard appearance she added with some concern, “Are you alright?”

This same lovely lady had been there to greet us yesterday when our broken bodies arrived at the hotel. If the scent of lavender were a voice, it would be hers. Had this gentlewoman offered last night to read me a bedtime story and tuck me into bed, I would have said yes.

Now in the breakfast “conservatory” I assured her I was groggy, but perfectly fine! Wandering wearily to the automatic coffee machine, I pressed the cappuccino button staring stupidly while the appliance delivered my cappuccino all over the tidy little breakfast station. I grabbed a cup to remedy the error, making a quick glance left and right hoping nobody had noticed.

By the time Gary and I headed out into Cleeve Hill to start the day, we had added to our party the lovely Jenny who’s hiking partner Judith opted out of today’s hike due to foot issues. Jenny hails from near Napa Valley, California. As hikers on the Cotswold Way, we live parallel lives for a time. Gary and I had run into Jenny and Judith at several points the last two hiking days.

Fueled by a full English breakfast and cappuccinos, we set out into our third hiking day in the Cotswolds. As I look at this photo, I’m certain I forced a smile to impress Jenny. If we’re going to wander the Cotswolds collecting people, we best be pleasant. But this morning was a challenge.

The Cleeve Hill Hotel proved to be a comfortable and charming accommodation. And yet, while the front of the hotel looked out over a delightful Shire-like patchwork of hilly farmland, behind it loomed high a most unusual almost pretty landscape. Its only deliverance was the occasional sheep and plentiful green grass. It was our starting location today.

This conservation area called Cleeve Hill Commons is the highest point in the Cotswolds. And likely the windiest. Despite gale force winds, golfers who clearly have nowhere else to go appear satisfied to play the rugged course of this peculiar topography.

Yesterday the endless, daunting miles of Cleeve Hill Commons and its impossible freezing cold wind gusts slapped us around like ragdolls. They inflicted a trauma that remained unresolved this morning, codifying Cleeve Hill forever in my mind as the boggy moor of the Hound of the Baskervilles. And while our passage early today was quick and uneventful, I still felt the heavy weight of this otherworldly hellscape on our way out.

Today’s hike was a more realistic one than yesterday’s. It offered less variety than our other two days, but proved endlessly photogenic nonetheless. Our route essentially half-circled the city of Cheltenham for an 8.8 mile trek taking 5.5 hours. We covered 1722 feet of elevation and have earned our ale.

Since our arrival in the Cotswolds, I’ve spend quite a bit of time thinking about one of my favorite authors James Heriott. Heriott was a veterinarian surgeon whose enchanting memoirs of his work in the farming community of the Yorkshire Dales in the mid- to late- 20th century are beautifully documented in his multiple books.

If you have not yet read a James Heriott novel, consider downloading one to your Kindle, or even better, buy yourself a tattered old dog-eared book. And yes, I know the show is good. But do read the books. There is no better way to block out the messiness of modern daily reality than the innocent delight of a James Heriott narration.

In his unique profession in a unique place, Heriott had the exceptional ability to observe and record the beauty and comedic nuances of years of human interaction. Not all his clients were easy or friendly, nor did he do everything right. Animals were unpredictable. But his daily life as a country vet spawned the elements of stories that continue to bring joy to readers.

Like a James Heriott novel, our long hike through the English countryside similarly generates beautiful stories. Even in our frustration and exhaustion, the wind and the chill, there is a joyful wholesomeness in the acts of relying on each other, with strangers, and on our bodies with the common goal of reaching the end.

Before wrapping up, allow me to share with you the below photo of the very source of the River Thames, Seven Springs. There’s some chatter out there that there is a second location called Thames Head that makes a similar claim. It is located not far from this one, also in Gloucestershire. Since the Telleses have now encountered Seven Springs, our executive decision is that it is without a doubt the source of the Thames. Not’ but a mere puddle, this trickle near the bottom of the stairs marks the very womb that spawned the great city of London.

Our overnight in the metropolitan city of Cheltenham has forced us back into reality for a few hours. Our dinner wasn’t much to speak of. To compensate we ducked into a pub afterward called The Circus. Our server Frankie (below) took good care of us, assuring us all beers and ciders at The Circus are all Samuel Smith’s beers, an English brewery a few hours north of Cheltenham.

I opted for a pint of Samuel Smith’s Extra Stout. It was hands-down the best brew I’ve had here. It’s was not so different than Guinness. Gary was very impressed with his half pint of Samuel Smith Organic cider. My wonderful man deserved at least a full pint of cider for sitting at the laundromat this afternoon while I stayed in the room to write.

A sweet local lady named Jane who visited with us in The Circus asked where in the States we were from. She then inquired if I knew of the singer John Denver. I assured her everyone in the States knows John Denver.