So what is a wold, anyway? Cotswolds. Stow-on-the-wold. All my life I’ve heard of the Cotswolds and thought nothing of it, other than it being another of those curious English names. Now that I am “on the wold” in Stow, I’m intrigued.

I used to think it was quite smart back in high school, to start essays with a dictionary definition. Then that got a bit old, and I’m a now turned off when people do that. But, for wold, I had to turn to a dictionary. (I wish I could say I turned to the Oxford English Dictionary, but I’m not a subscriber, so I had to make do with a definition from another source.)

 (in Britain) a piece of high, open uncultivated land or moor

I know I rode uphill yesterday. I’m not too sure about the uncultivated bit, but I guess way back when, in the Norman days or earlier it may well have been true.

Dodging rain is becoming a tiresome pastime. We know there will be rain today, and know it makes sense to hit the road and get where we are going before it dumps, but today dawns with a gorgeous blue sky, and we dally in Stow, taking in some of the sights that were drenched with rain last night.

We leave Stow in the sunshine, but only a few kilometres out of town the skies open, and we squelch into Bourton-on-the-water in a deluge, wondering if it should actually be “Bourton-under-water”.

Bourton-on-the-water is known as the Venice of the Cotswolds, something I only find out today when we arrive in town. It has a picturesque High Street, flanked by greens with the River Windrush passing through. There are a number of arched bridges over the river, leading to the Venice reference.

We arrive in the rain, and the place is deserted. One thing English villages are not good at is providing shelter. I wish for a good Aussie veranda; instead we park our bikes against the side wall of a cafe, and slosh inside, hoping to warm up and dry out.

Sticky toffee pudding and clotted cream go some way toward this, along with a pot of peppermint tea. The warm tea pot makes a good glove dryer, and the tea goes some way to warming my insides.

The town was almost deserted when we arrived. As we work our way through the pudding the sun comes out again, and like magic, the street is full of people, some watching the Morris dancers on a bridge; others paddling in what must be icy river water, and more just ambling along the riverside.

We had originally planned to spend a rest day here. As we wend our way through the crowds trying to get out of town, it seems we made the right decision to keep going. When you have long peaceful days in the saddle, spending off time with hordes of people is not an enticing thought.

Out of Bourton we climb steeply; we are passed by a number of road cyclists out for a pleasure ride. The sun is short-lived, and we are soon cowering under a tree as the rain once again belts down. There doesn’t seem to be much hope of a dry journey today, and we decide to suck it up and get to Cirencester, 25km away.

To distract myself from the belting rain, and the endless hills, I make up ways of saying Cirencester. (None of which, it turns out, are correct*.) The unpleasantness of this ride in the rain is compounded by the very busy road. I wish I could just crank it, but the road tilts up too often, too steeply.

Finally, closer to Cirencester, the road evens out into rolling hills. The thought of somewhere warm and dry spurs me on, and I start thinking of options like taking a taxi or a bus or a train to Malmesbury. I am pretty much done with being wet.

Heading into Cirencester, my glasses are wet, there is water streaming into my eyes, and I can barely see. This leads to today’s biggest mistake, when I miss an exit on a roundabout, and head, not into town where a warm and dry cafe is surely waiting, but along busy A419, a scary road where no bike should stray.

We take the first possible exit and head for the closest warm dry place, thereby sinking to this trip’s absolute low: McDonalds.

Wet beggars and cyclists cannot be choosers. We park our bikes under the building’s eaves, and slosh into the restaurant.

It is generally polite when using toilets and taking up space, to order something from the menu. I order fries, hunt for something else and find “Red Leicester Melts”. More fried cheese! They are surprising good – a bit like cheese nuggets with a spicy tomato sauce dip.

While we eat, the rain eases and we plot a route to Malmesbury. There are no trains, only buses, and buses are not bike friendly.

This McDonalds is like McDonalds world over, and full of young people. We watch a group of youngsters outside, being cool, including a young lad, no more than twelve, pacing up and down and smoking in front of a group of slightly older girls.

“I wouldn’t be young again for quids,” Neil says as we set off in the rain.

Really? I am thinking that everybody in McDonalds was looking at us, and being glad they were not stupid cyclists setting out in the rain!

Our trip to Malmesbury is unexpectedly enjoyable. The rain is gone, and we ride along quiet and gentle country roads with little traffic.

Malmesbury is a market town with a population of around 5,000. Its outstanding feature is Malmesbury Abbey, which has a history that dates back to the 7th century, although what stands today is the remains of a larger building that was completed in the 12th century. The first king of all England, Æthelstan, was buried at the Abbey in 939.

We check in to The Kings Arms, a 16th century coach inn that operates now as a pub with accommodation. It is the cheapest place we’ve stayed on this trip, but is perfectly fine for a pair of damp cyclists. We have a post-ride drink in the very quiet bar, where Neil instructs a new employee on how to pour a black and tan for me, then set off to explore the town and find a place for dinner.

If find the Abbey here very compelling. Only about one third of the original stands, but the ruins speak of a rich past and even hint of Roman origins (which is not correct, just my thoughts). We take a lap of the cathedral grounds, and it is while I am off reading a sign nearby that Neil is approached by some strangers. I walk back mid conversation and realise these people know Andy and Lynne, the couple we had dinner with in York, who we had originally met on our Danube cycling trip back in 2015.

It turns out that it is Andy’s brother Kevin and his wife (whose name neither Neil nor I can remember – apologies!), who recognise us from a photo taken in York of us with Andy and Lynne, a photo that Lynne had sent only today, saying how it would be funny if they ran into us in the Cotswolds. Funny all right! They chat a while, and take a selfie shot of the four of us to send on to Andy and Lynne, then recommend the restaurant they are going to with their daughters.

We continue our stroll around town, and then hunger drives us to The Birdcage, the restaurant Kevin recommended. It is a pizza/pasta place, and named for the Market Cross, a 15th century structure that was built from limestone from the collapsed Abbey, in the market square.

I think it looks more like a crown than a birdcage, but I have been completely royalled on this trip, and perhaps I’m just not seeing straight any more.

So I eat pizza again, and drink some wine, and we chat for a while with Kevin and his daughter. After dinner, Neil and I head to The Old Bell Hotel for a nightcap. The Old Bell Hotel stands near the Abbey, and is the oldest hotel in England. It is extended from what was originally a guest house for monks studying at the Abbey, and now houses a restaurant and hotel. It makes our 16th century coach house feel decidedly modern.

Malmesbury is a small village, it is not really on the tourist beaten track (though it was hard to find accommodation on a Saturday night) and is a truly delightful place to stay over and dry out.

 

*Cirencester: pronounced Siren-sester.

Stats for the day

• Distance travelled: 56.5km
• Climb: 533m
• Moving time: 3:15:49
• Average speed: 17.3km/h
• Average temperature: 14C (This is summer, right??)
• See our ride on Strava.

Along the way today