Sunday, August 25, 2013
Behold the beauty of pastoral England.
I went on a walking trip to the Cotswolds today.
Run by London Walks, my favourite walking tour company to date (well, it's actually a cooperative, to be precise, and they have an endearing operating model. Check out their chatty, over-exuberant self-introduction on their website: http://www.walks.com/London_Walks_Home/About_London_Walks/default.aspx).
Our group was led by a lovely guide, Richard, who is in their own words "cynosure of guides, golden of voice, red of cap, pink of courtesy! Not to mention platinum of well-connected, etc. etc.". Brilliant. Quite sure this description was what prompted me to sign up for the tour in the first place (aside from a burning desire to go to the Cotswolds, of course)!
By all accounts it was a lovely day.
Lovely meanders through charming little villages with sleepy willows, quaint stone cottages with blooming flowers and thatched roofs, bubbling brooks hidden amidst tall golden fields of hay. The landscape was gentle rolling hills and white grazing sheep and cotton candy clouds and clear blue skies and in short, pastoral England at its best.
Dainty stream running past the village.
One of the many village churches.
Oh and this deserves a special mention. It being a public holiday on Monday, we were quite a large group of around 50 people, and while walking on quiet countryside lanes it was easy to forget that cars sometimes pass by too. So of course when an unsuspecting car pulled up behind us, it was to find a long line of straggly, dawdling, camera-wielding tourists blocking its way.
And what do these cars do? Oh marvels of marvels, and I still hardly believe it, every single one of them followed patiently behind us with hardly a peep of the horn and no inclination at all of trying to run anyone over or even trying to overtake us. Yes, and I do mean every single one of the cars.
In London city (and so many other places I can think of) this would probably be a sure-fire recipe for a blood bath of road rage.
So, of course, by anyone's standards, the day was perfect.
But strangely, throughout the tour, and as much as I enjoyed myself, I kept having flashes of panic. Perhaps I could even call them mild anxiety attacks as there were moments so suffocating I felt like screaming. At those times, all I could think of was...
No no no no no!
Where are my rugged mountains and jutting cliffs and sheer vertical drops and dramatic seascapes?
Where are my angry skies and howling winds and bitter cold and harsh unforgiving plains?
Where are my moody people and austere towns and lonely pubs in forgotten places?
Amidst such tranquil perfection, I must be the only one feeling uneasy. Call me difficult, but to be honest, as much as I enjoyed the peace of the Cotswolds, I would much prefer the tumult of the Scottish Highlands.
Where there is drama, where there is life, and it's bold and uncompromising and there's nowhere to hide.