Cycling to the butchers

Has it really been two months? Apologies to everyone and thank you for waiting! But spring is here and today Marjorie and I took ourselves off for a shopping trip. First we stopped to get some eggs from a nearby honesty box. Then we began our trek to the butchers, out of the village and across the way, through winding lanes - can you see the tail of this one snaking away to the background?

This stretch is a long old grind uphill, never mind that there are pretty cottages to admire (which I could not afford the mortgage of if I sold every single on of my internal organs and then some).

There is about a mile of slog until we reach the war memorial and I dismount. A bit of gentle pushing is called for.

After a long, cold, winter, the Cotswolds are finally waking up.

Which way shall we go?

Down here? Lovely little tempting track which sadly leads nowhere in particular.

We must turn right and, oh dear, another long slope up. We walk to the summit - after all, it is a gorgeous day to be out and about.

Finally we cross a busy road and begin a mile long leisurely spin downhill all the way -

- to the pretty village where we will do our shopping.

Slatters Butchers, the best kept secret in West Oxfordshire; free range and local meat at affordable prices. For this I have cycled seven miles. Inside in the cool, I fan myself rapidly as I order a small free range chicken, home made pork sausages and some neck of lamb (thrifty), while chatting to the lovely butcher about running marathons (him) and half dying from exhaustion (me).

There is a little deli-cum-village-shop attached to it. It's a bit pricey and I have problems deciding if I do *need* anything, but it's vital to support local shops, so Marjorie's panniers end up filled with a bag of meat, the two cartons of eggs, two bottles of Hook Norton beer, Strawberry & Elderflower cordial, lemon crunch biscuits made in the village and a wodge of mature cheddar. Plus my big flask of water. My debit card is lighter though...

Laden down like a desert donkey, Marjorie and I wobble our way home.

What came down has to go up again - though mostly walking, up to the top road where the trees line the horizon.

Mercifully it's a lot easier coming back, a lot of free-wheeling downhill -

- back past the cottages.

Taking a different route back home, along a *real* road - with a warning sign. Sadly it didn't slow the cars whizzing by, though Marjorie eased up a little. Just in case.

Winding through the tiny neighbouring village.

And the last stretch home. Another hill. Did we walk or did we tackle it manfully? What do you think?

Cross-country scramble Sep 9

After a rest day I was up for a big morning's workout, so at 9am, I took Hercules, my faithful rust bucket, across to a long field footpath, which climbs slowly and punishingly upwards. It was a cool, autumnal morning, with the clouds gradually burning off to reveal a clean blue sky. Hercules is an old racer, with two working gears and one brake, and he does not like this kind of rubble filled travelling; that is for mountain bikes, he grumbles, and he was born before they came on the scene.

Nonetheless, we plodded up the track, having to walk most of it, listening to the tiny clockwork tickings of crickets in the long, dry grass. At the top, the footpath turns and we were rewarded with the most spectacular view, looking westwards. The camera cannot do justice to the panoramic vastness of the landscape, stretched out around. The clean wind blew gently through my hair and for once I forgot about work, and even blogs. If one had to leave this Earth, right now, this would be a good way to go.

After this indulgent moment of melancholia, we bumped and bobbled along the stony path, through stubble fields, along the D'arcy D'alton Way.

This part leads into the side of a grandiose estate; there is an Alice in Wonderland moment, when there suddenly appears...

...the decrepit remains of an long-unused gateway, which must have been magnificent in its time. Once, this would have been a broad entrance for carriages.

Passing through these architectural sentinels, one almost misses the little hidden sanctuary behind. It is as overgrown as the Secret Garden, with a stone bench for the footsore walker.

The bench is inscribed with a touching memorial, which never fails to bring a lump to my throat.

'To the happy memory of
Henry Haughton Reynolds,
Lord Moreton,
who farmed this land
for more than 30 years
and loved this view.
1857 -1920 '

And this is the view he loved.

Descending into the estate proper, and very much enjoying being a ragamuffin amid riches, I was startled by the somewhat sinister and surreptitious opening of a pair of gates...they paused, wide, as if beckoning me in; then, just as silently, they closed. I wondered if there was CCTV hidden somewhere, but logically, they must be sensor activated.

Slightly unnerved, I headed to the end of the footpath, off the estate and onto the firm road again, passing through peaceful villages and making a long loop to return home.

By now the sun was hot, but it was a gentle heat; more slow cooker than barbeque.

I was amazed to find that I had been out for three hours, returning at midday. To mark my thorough enjoyment of our part of the Cotswolds that morning, I treated myself to a small lunch of oatcakes and locally made Crudges Haddon Gold Cheese.

High point - magnificant views and stunning estate grounds.

Low point - to be honest, absolutely none!