Out in those special wilds of the Cotswolds, the wintry fields lie dun and bleak, while the pedestrian cowers on splattered verges as executive Jags roll by on their way to millionaires’ farmhouses. The villages that dot this muddy quilt are almost uniformly gorgeous, either nestling snugly in the sharp wooded clefts in the hills, or lounging around a pond or church up on the chalky swathes.
This image comes from the South Cotswolds Ramblers website. Now there's a happy-sounding organisation.
The village pubs, too, are almost uniformly as you’d expect, or hope – the Butcher’s Arms being no exception. A low, gentle interior entreats you to tread quietly and courteously; the yellowing posters on the walls and the polished, obsolete farm equipment secreted into alcoves and corners act as a conscious denial of modern truths, an exercise in true kitsch. I took my pint and allowed myself to foster self-consciously nostalgic thoughts, dreaming of misty-eyed conscripts pining for the community they left behind – or, more immediately, the painful weekend reminiscences of those sequestered in harsh foreign climes such as Canary Wharf or Swindon. What misery it must be to wrench yourself away, I smugged inwardly, settling into my drink with as much care for the world beyond as a dog at dinnertime.
The food’s good, too. And the beer. And the cider. And the bar staff were really helpful and cheery. It was quiet and relaxed. That’s slightly more to the point, isn’t it?