When our friends invited my husband Joe and me to their wedding celebration in the Cotswolds, I immediately set about planning the perfectly polished countryside escape. Think train rides, stone cottages, perhaps a grand, Barbour-clad tour of some stately grounds. After all, if we were traveling all the way to England for their big weekend, we were going to make an extended trip out of it.
A year later, I hardly remember a thing. Time has edited the memories for me.
It was finally time to head to the Cotswolds: a place I had long dreamt of visiting and romanticized heavily.
Expectations were high.
After sleeping in that morning for once, we settled into our seats, contraband champagne safely ensconced in a paper bag, and got everything sorted just so. Ready to kick back, relax, and be transported in style, we planned to arrive in the Cotswolds with plenty of time to explore. But just as the train was pulling out of the station, literally, things took a turn.
“All westbound trains have been canceled. This train will now be returning to Paddington Station.”
How utterly inconvenient.
Time slowly ticked away as we returned, detrained, and finally hopped in an hours-long Uber to Malmesbury; my grand touring plans already unraveling. Rain streamed across the windows as I felt the trip already slipping away.
I’ve no idea if it was the first night or the second, but thankfully, a friend recommended we have dinner at The Bull Charlbury. Now this, this I remember in detail.
We entered from the back patio, and though the car park was packed, only a smattering of patrons sat on the terrace. It’s cold, but not that cold, I thought as we strode toward the weighty back door.
The second the door swung open, I was enveloped in a lullaby of laughter and clinking glasses. I guess we know where everyone is. My eyes adjusted slowly to the diffuse light of the candles abounding on every table as I took in the most quintessentially charming pub I’d ever seen. Housed in an old, well, house from the 1500s, it was all low ceilings and intimate seating areas with high-backed leather chairs and wobbly side tables.
Then there was the smell. Oh, that glorious smell of a wood-burning fireplace that felt like it’d been burning for centuries, like a hostess waiting to welcome us into the inner chamber.
Our actual hostess, Nell, was just as delightful, memorable for her easy humor, quirky charm, and sweet frazzledness at the end of what was clearly a very busy night. I may not recall a single thing she said, but I remember how she made me feel.
The Bull was a cozy hug in pub form, and it was exactly what I needed to restore my faith in our trip. I wasn’t chasing perfect English Country vibes anymore; I was simply living. It just so happened to be exactly what I needed.
As Joe and I collapsed down at our tiny little table together, we sank into the Cotswolds spirit. Cheersing our pints over the dripping candles, we smiled warmly and toasted ‘to finally making it.’ We ate some sort of meat pie, which was admittedly delicious. Still, what sticks with me most is the unique and unmistakable sense of place The Bull created.
It was all feeling and senses, and nothing else mattered but that meal, in that place, with those people.
Oh yes, I remember The Bull.
We stayed in Malmesbury, a picturesque country town with perfectly typical cafes, menswear stores, trinkets, and, of course, a stunning abbey with classic English gardens to accompany it.
But my favorite bit was the band.
What band, you ask? The local concert band who took up residence in Malmesbury Market Cross smack-dab in the middle of town.
Joe had already ventured out for the morning, so I left the Old Bell Hotel on my own to saunter into town. Just as I was about to do my usual rounds through the local cemetery, I heard the band strike up. Perplexed, I followed the ruckus, and when I rounded the final corner, I was rewarded with a full blast of Madonna’s Material Girl, performed as I’ve never heard it before.
What a wild rumpus it was.
Musicians overflowed from the front of the carved stone octagon, so no matter where you stood, you had a front-row seat.
With unbridled joy, the audience slowly began dancing in the streets. Unable to contain my own excitement, I joined in the fun. Children, elderly: we all embraced the small-town spirit as the band played on in our own private concert. Every face beamed with the purest smiles I’ve seen.
I peered across the cobblestone square and locked eyes with my own favorite dance partner. Joe was also drawn by the music echoing through the streets, and of course, he spotted me first. When our eyes finally locked, he smiled, and I knew he’d been watching me in full goofball mode for quite some time. How very fitting. Me, lost in the moment; him, quietly enjoying the view.
What we did next, I have absolutely no clue. But who can forget the delight of a surprise dance break to orchestral Madonna?
Not me.
After wedding shenanigans subsided, we had time for one last pit stop before heading back. Off we set to enjoy the proper quaintness of Bibury, which did in fact turn out to be the postcard promise we dreamt of when we started planning. Though not for the reasons you think.
You can’t really explore the English countryside without a little bit of rain. A little dampness and chill that must be warmed by the fire with a cup of tea. It’s part of the package deal. But unrelenting downpours aren’t exactly ideal when you’re trying to wander haplessly through ivy-lined streets and old stone cottages.
Misty skies, yes; soaked to the bone, no.
Sopping wet from trudging up and down the road, my frozen hands and feet begged for a break from the dreary day. Serendipitously, we spotted a simple sign that read ‘Eleven,’ and though we weren’t entirely sure what it held, the warmth through the windows looked promising.
Dropping our umbrella next to the ten others strewn by the front door, we stumbled inside.
When I looked up and read the menu, I knew we were in the right place.
Stews, sausage rolls, pastries galore. I felt heartier just reading it. In the end, I grabbed a broccoli quiche and headed upstairs to a hidden-gem of a sitting room. The walls were painted with pastoral murals of rolling green country hills, paying tribute to the natural beauty outside. Each window housed a petite table and a pair of bright orange velvet chairs that somehow worked perfectly with the quirky decor.
Joe and I snagged the only open table and chatted contentedly for well over an hour. Resting and reminiscing about the last few days, we generally just enjoyed each other’s company. No more plans, no more have-to-dos, just a cup of tea and a moment to reflect on another incredible journey together. A peaceful come-down.
Walking back to the car under a shared umbrella, I stopped to sneak a kiss on the bridge over the River Coln. We may have been parents, older than we were when we lived in England all those years ago, but for just a moment, we were back in those days of carefree exploration. Of sneaking kisses, of dancing in the rain.
It was exactly what I dreamt of, and the perfect Cotswolds farewell.
It’s a wonder why certain moments live on inside us while others fade away.
Is it a feeling? The unexpected? Or merely the moments that defy expectations: the details that aren’t in the plan.
Time can’t touch those.
Katherine Rose Woller is a FoodFamilyTravel.com contributor. Her travel advice has been seen in Forbes, her parenting insights in Parents and The Bump, and her words in The Mother Chapter.
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