June 11, 2022. We woke up to a really nice breakfast at our place—surprisingly good, especially considering it was included in the price of our hotel, which was very reasonable by British standards. Both of us had mushroom omelets, while I got a latte and mint tea. I really liked the guy running the place and we chatted about the tourist season. He mentioned they were short-staffed, which had forced them to close down the restaurant at the moment. He seemed to be doing everything—running the bar, handling guests—you name it.

After breakfast, we headed to Bath, arriving around 10:30. I parked in a disabled space just past Queen Square, hoping I wouldn’t get caught since we couldn’t use the parking app and had no change for the meter (they don’t take credit cards). We split up, and I started wandering through the old city, which I quickly learned is a UNESCO World Heritage site—one of only two cities in the world with that designation (the other being Venice). First order of business: a real latte (the one at the hotel had been less than ideal). I stopped by a hip coffee shop near where I parked and ordered the special Colombian bean latte, but it was too fruity for my taste, so I added some sugar, took a few sips, and moved on.

The town was bustling, mostly due to college graduations at Bath Abbey, which meant it was closed to the public. Avoiding the crowds, I wandered toward the train station and then along the Kennet and Avon canal, where I found upon a path that ran a ways until it hit locks. Limited by time I turned back, and on my way, I stumbled upon one of the old city walls, where I read about a burial site for cholera victims from the hospital. Eventually, I reached the Roman Baths but decided against going in—at over £25 per person and with only timed entry available, it didn’t seem worth it. Instead, I admired the architecture from the outside.

Shawn texted about another history museum, so he went there while I continued exploring the old town. I found a detailed historical map on a wall, took some photos, and later bought the same map at a bookstore. I stopped by the Bath Fringe art exhibit before discovering the UNESCO World Heritage Centre, which I didn’t know existed. I texted Shawn, indicating that he should come check it out. I was pleasantly surprised when he showed up and paid me a compliment, saying, “You’re so good at finding places like this.” I was genuinely taken aback—he rarely gives me that kind of acknowledgment, and it was a nice moment.

At the UNESCO Centre, we spent an hour listening to a tremendously knowledgeable historian who gave insight into the city’s architecture and history and talked tirelessly. He told us that the Roman baths, a blend of Roman and Celtic architecture built in 70 AD, were dedicated to the goddess Sulis Minerva and offered therapeutic hot springs and a social hub for people from all walks of life. When Roman rule ended in Britain around the 5th century AD, the bath complex was neglected and fell into disrepair, gradually becoming a marsh. It was rediscovered in the 18 century and reopened in 1897 for public use.

We also learned about the Royal Crescent and the Circus, iconic landmarks showcasing Georgian architecture. The Royal Crescent is a crescent-shaped row of houses, while the Circus is a circular arrangement of townhouses. Another important landmark is Sydney Gardens, the only remaining eighteenth-century pleasure or ‘Vauxhall’ garden in the country. At one time it featured a maze, grotto, sham castle and an artificial rural scene with moving figures powered by a clockwork mechanism.

I was running out of time to see all the historic sites, so I headed to the King’s Bath, where I drank from the fish fountain—a little-known public water source. I could just see the Roman seats carved above the baths as well as the medieval seats and the rings for the kings and queens and the mythical Celtic King. The fish fountain was in a lovely high ceiling tea room with live chamber music, and Shawn suggested afternoon tea, but we never got around to it. I enjoyed the small museum containing hundreds of artifacts discovered within the baths, including letters to Sulis Minerva. The letters were written to the goddess and then dropped into the waters, which the ancient Romans believed were a sort of portal of communication with the gods. The subjects of the letters ranged from praising Sulis Minerva, asking for money, to asking for retribution against another Roman.

I walked across the square hoping to finally get a glimpse of the interior of the Abbey (aka Abbey Church of Saint Peter and Saint Paul, former Benedictine monastery). Sadly it was still closed to the public. I wanted to see Pulteney Bridge, one of the most photographed examples of Georgian architecture in the city and one of only four bridges in the world to have shops across its full span on both sides. It was built in 1769 and named after the wife of a big local landowner who had grand plans to create a ‘new town’ to rival that of John Wood’s on the west side of the city. 

Everywhere I turned, I saw an architectural marvel. I was almost to Sydney Gardens, whose history had been described in great detail by the museum guide earlier that day. I loved the follies and admired the architecture of the former Sydney hotel, now the Holburne Museum, featuring a David Hockney exhibit. I like Hockney’s work, having seen a big exhibit of his at the De Young Museum in San Francisco. A canal and railroad tastefully cut through the park. Apparently the engineers had been required to make concessions to the public so neither would be an eye sore.

Shawn reached out and said he was at the Royal Crescent, a stunning architectural feat that looks like a single building but is actually multiple structures developed simultaneously. I forgot to look for the masonic marks above some of the doorways. On the way I bought some garlic drops for my ears and echinacea capsules. The cold still had me by the throat. I took some photos, then found my way back to the car with my usual solid sense of direction.

We had planned to spend the next day exploring the Cotswolds Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty.  We visited Castle Combe, a charming town that has served as a movie set, within the Cotswolds Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty and is a popular tourist attraction. Many of the towns in the Cotswolds were historically market towns, and the Market Cross in Castle Combe’s center struck me as its most interesting feature. With its cluster of Cotswold stone cottages and lack of modern buildings – no new houses have been built in the historic centre of the village since about 1600– the village has been described as a “chocolate box”, a “tourist honeypot”, and “the prettiest village in England”. Unfortunately, since we weren’t staying at the Manor House, most places were closed except for the church. Wanting a break from sightseeing, I took a walk in the nearby woods, craving some time in nature. I walked along a public path which led into a rich panoply of green. I’d been longing for a walk in the woods. I haven’t been doing enough of that on this trip.

I had planned to stop in Tetbury, but forgot and drove straight to Cirencester, known as the “Capital of the Cotswolds” due to its Roman history. By the time we arrived, it was 8 PM, and both the museum and church were closed. I wandered through some historic streets filled with overhanging second stories. Curious, I asked a guide why so-called jetties were popular in the Tudor age. Three reasons were given. One, they extend the home’s floor space without having to extend the lower floor since property taxes were determined by measuring the square footage of the bottom floor. Two, Tudor people poured their excrement out their windows onto the street below. The overhang enabled them to do so further from their front door. And last, jetties create a protected area from rain and direct sun. Most work and socialization was done outdoors to take advantage of natural daylight. Umbrellas had existed or thousands of years by this point, but weren’t a thing the regular Tudor person would have ever carried. I was told that jetties came to an end in England in 1667, a year after the Great Fire of London when it became clear that buildings squeezed close together made for a tremendous fire hazard.

When I got back to the car, I met Shawn who was hungry. I should have conceded to his need for food. Instead I suggested we find lodging first as I was worried we might not otherwise find some.

We hadn’t booked a place to stay thinking we’d decide based on where we ended up. Unfortunately, It was a Saturday night, and there was a concert in town—meaning everything was fully booked. Shawn was frustrated and blamed me, and I felt awful. The tension was high. I wondered whether we would be able to continue living together once we got home.

We got to Tetbury, but it appeared that no lodging was available, and most restaurants were closed except for an Italian place, which took an hour to serve our food. By then, it was 10 PM, and both of us were exhausted and frustrated. Finally, Shawn found a place near Swindon. We rushed there, arriving just before 11 PM, only to find it was a total dump. There were drunk people carousing nearby in the streets, the carpets smelled like glue, and the room was barely big enough for a tiny bed. Neither of us slept well, and I felt guilty about the whole situation.

June 12. The next morning, Shawn mentioned interest in The Slaughters. I suddenly remembered the recommendations made by the British couple we’d met at Pont-Aven while dining at Mimosas. Grateful to have some local guidance, I suggested that we follow their suggestions. After I read the list, Shawn agreed that they sounded like good places.

Eager to escape our terrible hotel, we headed straight to Bibury. Shawn needed breakfast and found a spot near a trout farm, but it looked unappetizing, so I went to the Twig, a cute café I had spotted on the way. The owner was friendly, had an impressive Italian espresso machine, and made a fantastic latte. It felt nice to be around friendly people after the rough night. I ordered a delicious sandwich (mozzarella, tomato, raclettte, and sun-dried tomatoes) and had a nice chat with the owner before some customers came in. He is interested in architecture and told me about the nearby Cirencester amphitheater, a Roman amphitheater. He was impressed that I was from the SF Bay area which he considers “a real coffee center”. Then a nice Dutch couple came in. They’d been traveling around England for 3 weeks and particularly like the New Forest. I parted, letting the owner know he was welcome to visit if he ever made it out my way.

From there I walked along Arlington Row built in 1380 as a monastic wool store and converted into a row of weavers’ cottages in the 17th century. The cloth produced here was sent to Arlington Mill, a cloth and corn mill, where the cloth was hung on wooden timber frames after being degreased. Nearby was a lovely stream filled with watercress—always a sign of healthy water. Wanting more nature, I followed a public footpath through a rock stile and headed toward a forest. I passed some locals who said that the path was open to the public and looped around to connect back to the town center.

It led through grazing land and I saw with some trepidation that very protective cow and her calf stood to one side, with a bull just on the other side of the fence. I had to pass within 8 feet of her, and I was very nervous. I’ve had cows chase me in the past. They may not be the sharpest tack, but they are not docile. Without warning, the cow lowered her head and charge me, ramming me into the fence with full force. Miraculously, the fence flexed enough and I was not smashed. But I was very shaken. I scrambled to my feet and walked away as fast as possible, wondering what kind of “public footpath” this was. I was afraid that if I ran the cow would chase me. Bibury and the mad cow.

A few minutes further I spied the Arlington Mill where cloth and later corn had been processed. It’s a lovely stone structure and I wondered whether it was still used. I learned that it is now a private residence. After its tenure as a working mill, it housed a collection of period clothing, documents and working machinery illustrating milling and the Victorian way of life.

When I got back to the car, I told Shawn what happened. He asked if I was okay. I responded no broken bones, but quite shaken. We continued on to Bourton-on-the-Water, the town Shawn had been eager to see. Turns out, it was the place to be on a Sunday morning—absolutely packed. It felt like the town could barely contain the number of people pouring in. While most visitors congregated along the river, I opted for the quieter backstreets, admiring the old houses. Eventually, I stumbled upon a footpath that followed the river, leading to what looked like an old mill. Snapped a shot, posted it on Facebook, and sent it to Shawn. As I made my way back along the river, I ran into him.

To my surprise, he apologized for how he had acted the night before. I appreciated his humility—my perception of him is that he rarely apologizes, so when he does, it means a lot. I had been really angry, but that softened things. We walked back together towards the busy area and found a charming ice cream vendor. He sourced his milk from a nearby farm that, during COVID, had been forced to dump its supply due to lack of demand. Instead of letting it go to waste, he started making ice cream. I had a black currant and clotted cream scoop—absolutely delicious. Shawn liked the flavors too. The vendor told us he only needed to buy a license and had virtually no overhead, just £1,000 a year. Not a bad gig.

Shawn needed a bathroom, and while there was a museum with a model town, it didn’t seem worth the entry fee just to use the restroom. Instead, I found a Co-op market that let us use the facilities. Then, we headed back to the car and drove to Lower Slaughter.

Far fewer people there, but parking was scarce. Cars were squeezed into every possible space, some illegally. I headed out of town and parked in front of a barn-like building, and we started walking along a path. That’s when we spotted a sign for Upper Slaughter. I hesitated, worried it would take too long, but it was just over half a mile each way. The walk was stunning—rolling fields, big trees, sheep grazing in the distance. On a hill, we saw a manor house where people were having tea on the lawn. I wanted to have high tea there, but when we checked, they were fully booked.

Upper Slaughter was tiny. Slaughter was a rough translation of marsh in Celtic. We strolled past most of the houses in just a few minutes, popped into the church, then took the same path back. Along the way, we saw a group of sheep with their heads buried inside a tree trunk. It looked ridiculous—like they were wearing the “cone of shame.” It was one of those small, silly moments that made us laugh, and for that moment, everything felt light and happy.

Back in Lower Slaughter, we peeked into an old mill, though there wasn’t much left inside. We chatted with two artists—one was sketching animals in pencil, the other was painting watercolors. Then we met a Californian who was staying in the village for a week to visit his son.

From there, we checked out the church and wandered through the grounds of a manor house. At one point, we lost our bearings, but after some wandering, we found our way back to the car and headed to Stow-on-the-Wold.

Shawn was starving and immediately jumped out to search for food. I asked him to let me know where he landed, then I made my way toward the church. The churchyard had an enchanting little walkway beside an old house. Eventually, Shawn found a spot at The Porch House, the oldest inn in England. I investigated the witch markings on the old fireplace. During the 16th century draughty locations such as fireplaces, windows and doorways were considered entry points for evil spirits. In a superstitious attempt to keep these spirits away, property owners would etch a symbol near these portals, which continued until early in the 19th century. 

His food came quickly, but his apple crisp dessert was forgotten. I kept returning to check on it, and after several attempts, it finally arrived.

In the meantime, I bought a pair of sandals from a store called Mountain House, which was closing down. Normally £40, they were only £10. Score. I also stopped by a chocolate shop and picked up some clearance chocolates. In hindsight, I don’t think they actually made the chocolate there.

After finally eating the apple crisp, I took another 15 minutes to explore the town. There was so much history—guild halls, stunning old buildings, and even an architectural history tour I’d love to take someday. An alarm going off deterred me from venturing farther, so we left for Moreton-in-Marsh.

Moreton-in-Marsh was a single street lined with old buildings, but it didn’t do much for me. I wandered behind the main road toward an arboretum, where lots of people were walking their dogs. After about ten minutes, I headed back, stubbed my toe on a stump (thanks, new sandals), and got back to the car.

What I loved about the day was how close all the towns were—just three or four miles apart, short and scenic drives on country roads. But those roads were tight, thick with vegetation, and nerve-wracking to navigate. I kept worrying that another car would come barreling around a blind curve.

Our next stop was Blockley, a charming hilltop town steeped in history. The church there had been a filming location for the BBC series Father Brown, based on G.K. Chesterton’s stories. The series, set in the fictional village of Kembleford, in reality Blockley, brings to life the 1950s English countryside, with Blockley’s historic buildings and lush landscapes playing a key role. The village was lovely—I wandered up into the old town, where I spotted The Crown Hotel Blockley, and wished I could stay there. I headed up to the Village Depot Guildhall and passed an old bakery. Shawn and I eventually reconnected near the millstream of the old mill. I showed him the prettiest parts of the church and some photos of the filming locations, and we strolled down the main street. He appreciated it, agreeing it was a beautiful town.

The final stop before heading to Oxford was Chipping Campden, a wool trading center in the Middle Ages. Chipping derives from Old English cēping, meaning ‘market’ or ‘market-place’. Thanks to the wool trade, it enjoyed the patronage of wealthy wool merchants. I loved the terraced High Street lined with buildings built from Cotswold stone, a local limestone. I particularly liked the Market Hall. Apparently it was not a wool market as is sometimes said, but a produce or butter market. It was built to enable the women of the town to gather and gossip while they sold their produce – eggs, butter, cheese, bread – in a sheltered environment. It is possible that it was built on the site of a previous Market Cross.

Sir Baptist Hicks, a wealthy trader in silks, satins and fine fabrics in Cheapside in London, bought the Manor of Campden in 1611.  As well as building a splendid mansion, he became an important benefactor to the town – donating the pulpit and lectern in St James’s Church, building Almshouses near the Church for twelve poor people, saving the Grammar School from financial ruin and arranging for the Market Hall to be built in 1627.

I loved the architecture of the hall. Its cobbled floor, worn uneven by centuries of footsteps, and slate roof are original, with each stone slate in the roof held in place by a single wooden peg through a hole resting on the wooden cross strut. Sean and I mostly stuck together, and at the far end of town, I pointed out a park with a creek and green fields.

The town’s high street is often called one of the most beautiful in England, and I could see why. Many homes had thatched roofs, something I had started noticing more in the region. Turns out, maintaining a thatched roof is no joke—just repairing one costs around £35,000! The town is an end point of the Cotswold Way, a 102-mile long-distance footpath. That’s a hike I’d like to do.

By the time we reached Oxford, we were exhausted. We arrived around 8:15 PM, just as daylight was fading. Shawn had lived in Oxfordshire for the year he worked at Le Manoir aux Quat’Saisons, and had a few spots he wanted to show me. We parked downtown and headed toward the Radcliffe Camera. At this point, I really needed a bathroom, and I managed to slip into Merton College. I had a lovely chat with two Polish students about their gowns and college traditions. When I admitted that I was an interloper from UC Santa Cruz, they laughed, saying I was welcome. Their kindness warmed me.

When I stepped outside, Shawn told me to follow Beethoven. At first, I thought he meant a statue, but he was talking about the music—Beethoven’s Ninth was playing softly in the distance. We traced the sound to a concert hall and stood there, mesmerized. Eventually, I lay down, which made the experience even better. It felt like floating on water, staring up at the sky. The music transported me. Shawn was in his element. I could have stayed all night.

But hunger and time constraints pulled us away. At 9:15, we wandered deeper into the campus. I wanted to see as much as I could, while Shawn was more focused on finding food. We compromised, exploring a few more college buildings before heading to a kebab place I remembered. Truly fast food. In 10 minutes, Shawn was gobbling down his food, and soon after, we drove to our stay for the night: The Stagecoach Inn in Abingdon.

The room was spacious, comfortable, and—thankfully—cheaper than the previous night’s disappointment. But another argument erupted over noise. I needed air and opened the window, but Shawn shut it because of traffic sounds. I asked to use the fan, which he initially agreed to—until he decided it was too loud. So I directed it at my face instead. Frustration boiled over. I snapped at him. He snapped back. And just like that, we were at odds again.