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Cotswolds

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Cotswolds

Article

Cotswolds is a recurring place in the Collected Agenda archive, appearing 1 times across 1 issues between July 27, 2025 and July 27, 2025. The archive places it in contexts such as “Redesdale Arms Hotel, Moreton-In-Marsh, Cotswolds, England”. It most often appears alongside A Push For More Organ Transplants Is Putting Donors At Risk, Back to Oz, Bourton on Water.

Metadata

  • Category: Places
  • Mention count: 1
  • Issue count: 1
  • First seen: July 27, 2025
  • Last seen: July 27, 2025

Appears In

Source Context

Recovered passages from the original issue text. When the raw archive preserved outbound links inside the source passage, they are listed directly under the quote.

Walk The Cotswolds
July 27, 2025 · Original source
WHAT I DID Monday, July 21 There was lots of turbulence on the plane to London and my good mood was effusive. I wrote for all six hours of transit. My seat-mate played hang man on the Virgin Atlantic TV. Next door, I scribbled frantically. On review, every word was about Me Me Me. There was rain that started all at once in the greenhouse apartment, in New York, in the afternoon, before I left. The drops started heavy over my glass house and then the walls turned to waterfalls and a siren howled down the streets towards the left and I did not feel, for the first time in some time, like I would do anything to leave here with sluggish abandon and never return. Choppy and treacherous plane ride. By the way, Iris texts me. A Push For More Organ Transplants Is Putting Donors At Risk. Yes, I text Iris. Though, my aversion to medical generosity in death is not so much due to risk as it is the Purgatory between Oneself and Someone Else. I wake up at cool ten pm sunset in the Redesdale Arms Hotel, Moreton-In-Marsh, Cotswolds, England. The plans were made in different seasons and the summer has pumped things full of gluttony and inconvenience so, it is still nice to get away. I will try to go back to sleep. I will try to read the wall texts in the closet of this hotel, which they have told me once was haunted. We arrived early. My father found an illustrated biography on Shelley and his friendship with Byron at the pub in England. It is gray and chilly here and I do not quite know what to do with myself on measured time. I catch the train on time. Moreton-in-Marsh has one long street, limestone cottages, little gardens. Reading Pynchon stories full of strange winding houses and the dream logic spaces that their basements open into. My room comes with a glass bottle of milk, two oil paintings of deer, a pink ceiling fan, a silver mirror. And I do keep half expecting the floor to open up and swallow me whole, or at least the closet to burst open and reveal something upsetting, delightful, off putting, transgressive and weird. We liked hotels because of anonymity and aesthetic cohesion. Abandon your One-Week-Life. I dozed off with a diet coke in the hotel lobby. Chicken skin orzo risotto and syrup-sweetened lemon lime water at dinner. I tried to articulate, to my father, the types of ways these certain types of people can be - She is bored. She is always looking for some sort of activity to fill the time. She is not bored. She is endlessly entertained by a life sitting very still and thinking about herself. Third option… Tuesday, July 22 I will be hiking from inn to inn here. This is the plan. It is a good plan, all things considered. 8:00am - Follow the river upstream through ancient trees passing the old mill with its waterwheel. 12pm - cut across a field of brambles and sheep towards Sezincote House, where grounds of an Indian estate rise out of the Marsh. It is quite spectacular and seems to be quite abandoned. A caravan decorated on the inside like a love seat sits behind a moat, behind barbed wire. We found a manor for dinner. We found a church before that. It was 1300 years old and it hit me with heavy quiet inside like I have never been so sure to be somewhere before. This is not unusual for people in your circumstances, I was told later. But it was unusual, I said. The door is locked and so you kneel outside. You find a key. You are the only one there and so you stay til almost dusk. You walk miles til almost dark. You are not religious. You have been saying something else. You have been saying a lot of things. You planned a certain type of life in New York. You planned a different type of life first. It looked like wheat fields and wild flowers. You cannot recall one second in which I have ever been bored. Maybe, you have never been bored. Maybe, you lack recollection. Mossy patch under the crabapple tree where I would like to fall asleep. It is kind of just this thing of waiting now. reduce Inflammation, incoming emails, art and life, take a deep breath in and hold it. Wednesday, July 23 8:45 am Because I'm getting sick, when I close my eyes there is no color. Open my eyes, and I told them to leave me behind in Bourton-on-the-Water 12:00pm Pacing three loops around Windrush Public Path and thinking about everything I have ever wanted. It is a bit like a fairytale. Wind in the Willow, Windboy, Back to Oz, I have wanted things like this. The river is nice because the water is clear but the bottom is dirt and fern. So, it's brown a bit but you can still see patterns. Patterns and circles and moss. There are flowers along garden gates. I don't mind when things are a bit precious. 1:13pm I am walking through this little village again now. I am listening to silly music. Writing now. I do need to finish my story. I felt so sick this morning. I thought some little things. I took a little nap. A necklace for me a perfume and a soap for my mother I am kind of glad I skipped the hike today. Dinner was nice last night. It's nice to eat scallops and salmon on spinach shaped toast. It's nice to be sincere in art and life and perhaps to never go to a party again. I put all my cards on the table. It is so good to be busy. I should take the bartending job and remember that is is good to be busy. But, before I even begin to consider these sorts of things, I should sort out my preoccupations. There are worse things. There was a month where I was not so busy. I am pacing through the English countryside now. There was a strange man on the path and it made me jump. I do not believe a life can just fracture and then split into segments, infinite. I do believe that it is just one life all at once. It is desolate but not sad, here. It is very difficult to imagine what the rest of my life will look like. Well, we'll see. I have stories to write. I will walk back to the hotel now and finish my story. That's fine. I quit nicotine and mostly alcohol and anything unhealthy so now it won't feel like my face is melting off. I have red light therapy and a desire to be good. 6:05pm I’m back in the room and I called my best friend, whom I miss. 8:57pm I went to dinner with my mother and my father. I was quite nice and not too much of a vile little bitch full of lots of vitriol and being very unpleasant. 12:56pm open the windows out over thatched hotel roof so the outside air matches in but I am not so lucky with equilibrium and there is still much motion. Thomas Pynchon “Entropy” Thursday, July 24 Winchim is a very ancient town, the taxi driver tells me. I have been here for a few days now and already my lungs feel pumped full of air and spirit and the moments of solitude feel quite still and nice. Being alone is no longer fire alarms immediately and then alert, abort, sitting in a bar with a sparkling water til close. None of this, anyways. None of it here. Sitting in the forest full of contentment. Sitting in the secret garden full of apple elderflower juice, black coffee, rye banana bread. Winchim has been on a downward spiral for the past fifty years, the taxi driver tells me. Something about Henry the 8th, the monasteries, the drought, a tremendous amount of damage. It was all on a selfish note, the taxi driver told me. The walk today was foggy and long and I liked it best. I liked the church on Tuesday best of all, but I liked the walk today. It is kind of plotless, this walking walking walking. I have never wanted chaos. I have wanted pure metabolic function and to stay up late. Friday, July 25 Church, lying under a beach tree, cricket field established by the author of Peter Pan. I went down to the hotel bar to read about Entropy (which I hope to not believe in. Downstairs, the evening festivities were moving into their final hour. I don't know if you're drinking or anything, the bartender said to me. Must I, I said. You can do anything you want, the bartender said. The bar was lined with portraits of polo sport and big yellow orbs. The fields outside were misty and gray and peppered with racing horses. The grass was soft and sweet and so, I'd stopped for a while. You will have to hop a barbed wire fence to avoid a small horned cow and his mates, an old man had said. You will have to learn to wait a while, my father had said. There had been another warplane, only this one over the pasture not the college, and I had not quit believing in signs and symbols just yet. Outside, the pub was bright, lethargic and chilly. The hotel felt something like a sanctuary. Royal green walls and no night terrors in foggy fields and self containment. And it's been nice to be brought back to the things that were mine first. They'll pick up the bags at eight in the morning. We'll loop back around to the marsh where we began. WHAT YOU SHOULD DO Travel advice for something quite restorative: I walked The Cotswolds via Mickledore Travel which is nice because I detest tours and organized fun of any kind, but this “tour” requires zero interaction with anyone outside of your travel companions and friendly strangers. Accommodations are booked across a walking route and every morning bags are picked up from a drop spot along the route and deposited at the next destination the following evening. Unburdened by baggage, you then hike to your next inn. There are little towns peppered along the route, as well as sheep fields, castles, horses, and ruins. It really is more of a long walk than a hike, which I find to be more pleasant than hut-to-hut backpacking or other similar adventures I have attempted in the past. You still are walking some ten to sixteen miles a day, so you will not feel bored or lazy.
Inline links: https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!J_pV!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F2e858c46-2c01-4d8f-aa7a-8b0df7060361_1200x1600.jpeg, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!bDOj!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F3fff7678-eb4f-4149-9480-ea6634866f9f_1200x1600.jpeg, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!dh11!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fdb2108b7-67f0-4f06-a1eb-f4c5a28fa486_1200x1600.jpeg, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!_CyN!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F623b1e47-66cc-463a-b6fb-f18ff7145043_1600x882.jpeg, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!5It-!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Ff7379e57-3e3f-4173-82e9-ea976cd835e5_742x320.png, Mickledore Travel
I walked The Cotswolds via Mickledore Travel which is nice because I detest tours and organized fun of any kind, but this “tour” requires zero interaction with anyone outside of your travel companions and friendly strangers. Accommodations are booked across a walking route and every morning bags are picked up from a drop spot along the route and deposited at the next destination the following evening. Unburdened by baggage, you then hike to your next inn. There are little towns peppered along the route, as well as sheep fields, castles, horses, and ruins. It really is more of a long walk than a hike, which I find to be more pleasant than hut-to-hut backpacking or other similar adventures I have attempted in the past. You still are walking some ten to sixteen miles a day, so you will not feel bored or lazy.
Inline links: Mickledore Travel
I recommend my loop - Moreton on Marsh to Bourton on Water to Broadway to Winchcombe to Moreton on Marsh. Walking distances range from six to sixteen miles. The nicest dinners were at The Dial House and The Lion Inn. All the inn options are lovely.
Inline links: Moreton on Marsh, Bourton on Water, Broadway, Winchcombe, The Dial House, The Lion Inn

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