A Bimble down the Thames form Lechlade to Kelmscott

Carbo-loaded with the great British breakfast,t I set out early to escape the trauma of room number 3. Luckily I can sleep on a washing line.  With new energy Lechlade took on a new light. The River Leach and the River Coln join the Thames here and the ancient Ha’penny  Bridge with its toll house is emblematic of its strategic importance as a crossing point on the Upper Thames. This is the furthest point that boats can travel up the Thames and the ‘wool’ church dominates the skyline. The spire can be seen from afar across the Thames plain and would lead farmers to the town to trade their wares with barges heading downriver. Cotswold cheese was popular down-river and I carried a hunk of Double Gloucester in empathy. 

Two locks bring order to the river below Lechlade ,St John's and Buscot, and formidable lock-keepers ensured this continued in navy style on their watch. There was a cut to their jib that suggest serious business. This was not for the volunteer. A party of teenagers danced to Grease show-tunes on the roof of their day boat but looked cowed as they came under the keeper’s stare. The statue of Old Father Thames had been moved here where a beady eye could be kept on him. Each lock was manicured and kempt mirroring the shipshape world of its captain.

Just beyond Buscot Lock a couple of bridges afforded views that would have Monet salivating in a painterly way.  Dripping at the easel? Perhaps not.  Rain was in the air but the light shone through heavy clouds and lit up the spring foliage. Yellows and Greens became luminously vivid as the light played on the water.  It was to be a last gasp before a deluge that hasn’t stopped for 10 days.  Perhaps nature knew this and threw forth all its glory in one last hour.  The river was cloudier past the locks and the perfume headier. The heady smell of elderflower re-invigorated my home brew plans.

 I had seen men with hessian sacks raiding the hedgerows by the source and now it was my turn.  I only needed about twenty heads so I chose carefully and respected the rule of the hedgerow. I asked the ‘hag who lives in the tree’ and limited my harvest. Considering the river is such a dominant feature there is a lot of wilderness surrounding this stretch and fields stretch across the plain. Perhaps it is the risk of flooding that protects its isolation but nature seemed to be thriving. 

Kelmscott epitomised this idyllic rural isolation.  The path runs beside a meandering river and fields of wheat and early summer crops, mostly grown fast for cattle feed. William Morris understood the peace emanating from this village and made his home here, hoping to be inspired by its tranquil nature.  Kelmscott Manor is his legacy and lay in elegant timeworn splendour at the end of the village.  Opening hours were indicative of the lazy, hazy pace of life in an English garden of Eden and I was charmed. There was evidence of a schism in the village and a warning that this idyll was about to be challenged by the forces of progress.  The dilemma was about the Heritage Lottery grant required to conserve the manor.  The grant was dependent on opening throughout the week, widening roads for access and doubling visitor numbers. Defenders of the status quo worried that the arrival of coachloads of tourists would ruin the charm of the village forever.  For once I would agree with the NIMBYS.  If you are a real fan you will make the effort to visit and this defiance against turning the UK into a theme park is admirable. We often don’t appreciate the jewels the country until we have lost them.  If it became another tick box on the Oxford/Cotswold coach tour I imagine it would lose its ambience and become another commercialised selfie stop.   

The manor is open on Wednesday and Saturday for the ardent so as the heavens opened I retired to the equally characterful pub, The Plough,  for a cheese platter vowing to return to reconvene with the path after an informed bimble through the arts and craft movements finest monument.

A Bimble round a Boutique Cotswold Hotel

Exhausted I was looking forward to rest in my boutique Cotswold hotel, which will remain a nameless coaching inn in Lechlade. Uniquely British ‘hospitality’ is alive and kicking in the Cotswolds. It’s like they never got the Fawlty Towers memo and are stuck in a 70’s time-warp.  There is no need to change as there is limited availability and a captive market. Running an Inn in the Cotswolds is a licence to print money. I did the maths and reckon an entrepreneurial owner could turn a million pounds profit each year.  If you are lucky enough to own such a place then you are rich and those who visit are even richer. They cater for the affluent and know how to extort cash.

I knew all was not well upon arrival. It is all in the body language and the demand for payment up front put me on guard. The defensive tone suggested previous complaints were still ringing in ears. 

‘Erm… can I see the room first?’

‘You have booked through booking.com so you have to pay, You won’t find anywhere else tonight in the Cotswolds.’

Well I was hoping to stay here!

It soon hit me when I opened the door, which had a yellowing gloss sheen and needed a budge to open.  Stale cigarette smoke and a fuggy heat!  I tried to open a window but there was a plastic window as a form of double glazing which didn’t permit a draft.  The old window was so filthy  I could hardly see through to the pretty high street which lay beyond somewhere.  The impenetrable plastic ‘glazing’ meant it had not been cleaned for years.   I’d walked 20 miles so I lay down and the bed was comfy enough.  Was it worth the hassle of complaining?  It would just cause bad feeling and I was here to relax. I’m not good at conflict usually opting for the path of least resistance.

I took a shower and felt human again, almost in good spirits although that smell just hung about.  As I looked about I noticed small things.  The dresser was vintage 80’s dark wood.  The cushions were stained so went on the floor, but they always do as no one ever washes cushions.  The carpet was a deep jungle green and induced vertigo so I looked toward the curtain and this was my catalyst. A drop of something red?  I had to at least question things.

‘Yes, good afternoon again. I’m a bit shocked at the accommodation. In fact I’m frankly disgusted. I’m paying over £100 for a dingy room, lukewarm water, grey scratchy towels and a window that doesn’t open. It also stinks of fags.'

‘You did ask for a bath’

‘I’m not sure how that is relevant…I don’t mean to be rude but if I had an option I’d leave now.’  

‘I’m sorry I’ll call the manager.. he’s at home’ 

‘I hear you are unhappy.. I disagree with your description of the room’

‘Well.. I can show you if you like..’

‘I don’t need to be shown round my own hotel, I know the room inside out’

‘Well can I move rooms if there are better ones?’

‘We are fully booked…I’ll have a look...I hear you had a shower?

‘Yes I’ve been on a long walk and took a shower. Is that a problem?’

‘Then it is impossible, housekeeping have gone home…We could move you tomorrow?’

‘I won’t be here tomorrow’

‘Well you are booked for two nights, the deal is two nights.’ 

‘I’m definitely not staying tomorrow so we can sort that out first then see if there is another room’

‘Well we can’t refund you it through booking.com’

‘But I just paid you half an hour ago.  Look I don’t want any bad feeling I just want a decent room to relax inn. I’ve paid quite a bit for it.’

‘We are competitively priced for the Costwold, perhaps you were looking for a more boutique experience?’

‘Yes, perhaps...’

‘You mentioned the room was not clean?’

‘It smells of cigarettes, I cannot open the window so it’s hard to be in the room.’

Yes its double glazed. We have a no smoking policy.’

Well it reeks of fags and its not really double glazing is it. Whatever it is,  it can’t be opened hence the windows are so dirty you can hardly see out…There are also a few stains…’

Stains?

‘On the cushions but also red stain on the curtains. Blood maybe?’

‘Oh yes that’s wine. They cost £400’

‘You know about the stains then? Could you not get them cleaned? In case someone thinks there’s been a Midsomer Murder’

‘You are being facetious now…SILENCE…’

‘Look this is good value for the area you are in. Have a look on the internet you won’t find anything local for under £200. Our food is renowned as the best in the area.’

‘I’m sure it is but a captive market doesn’t excuse the standard of accommodation does it?’

‘Well I don’t agree with you…I will cancel your booking tomorrow... can we also agree NOT to provide a negative review!’

‘OK, that sounds reasonable.’

’But it would be cheaper on a Sunday so you won’t get half the money back.’

‘I think I need to go for a walk…let’s deal with the bill in the morning’ 

‘Will you be eating with us tonight?’

??!!

A Bimble down the Thames from Cricklade to Lechlade

After Cricklade the Thames path often diverts from the river due to property rights.  I decided the best way to see this part would be afloat. Cotswold Canoe Company dropped a canoe in Church Eaton for me and I paddled blissfully down to Lechlade.  The river is still a baby and it was difficult to guide a canoe through the upper reaches, full of reeds and overhanging branches. This made for quite an unexpected work-out. Without the path the isolation was often total. Hordes of Damselflies flitted about and reed warblers trilled at my passing.  The flow of the river pushed me on so that steering was my main concern.    It was hard to imagine a more idyllic pastime, floating through a natural oasis, undisturbed by man’s presence.  What a way to travel ! 

A mile felt like several as the river wend its own twisty way but I did not mind as time had stood still. A couple of intrepid kayakers passed as I neared Lechlade as I reconvened with humanity. Wonderful reflections of a willow and a quirky stone round house which looked as if it rested in the river hid the entrance to the canal system that once linked the Thames with the Severn and allowed waterborne transport to bisect the country.  Doomed to failure this ambitious project lasted until 1927 when the lock-keepers shut up shop. The River Coln also enters the Thames at this point and the final push into a town now lined with tourists was more vigorous. I looked like the full riverman as day-trippers pedaloed their pink flamingos. They could only wonder at the things I had seen in the far reaches of the river. 

A canal boat emblazoned with ‘Rooster No 1’ was tied up on the banks of a meadow as the rooster-man sat in the evening sun watching the cows go home.   He could walk into Lechlade for beer and a curry or watch the sand martins swoop in the dusk.  Lazing in his director’s chair he had not a care in the world. Top of the food chain this rooster he was in tune with the tone of the river.  Below lay locks and activity whilst here time slowed and you needed to slow down too to appreciate it fully.  I envied the river-man with his beer in hand.  What more do you need than a boat and an ever-changing view?

A Bimble down the Thames Ashton Keynes to Cricklade

Ashton Keynes is a picturesque village in the ‘on the water’ Cotswolds style, as rivulets pass through the town.  Homes have their own little bridge to cross making for an idyllic, pastoral scene.

 I once made a bad decision to cycle through Swindon ,two roads diverged after Cricklade, and this is what I missed! The Thames plain makes it perfect for cycling and away from the river you are quickly into quiet, green lanes that are flat and isolated. Momentarily I am intrigued by signs for an ‘Ironman’ contest. I’ll leave that one there!

Looking for roundhead vandalism and headless crosses I lose the path for a while and end up at the picturesque village church which demands a pause.  Another St Mary ! There are over 50 holy places bearing this devotion along the Thames, including one in Barnes, where both my sister and aunt got married.  I ponder about my own votive saint in the guise of Isis, an earth mother, symbol of fertility and re-birth, nurturing the plain of middle England. I ordain the white swan her earthly form, gracing the river throughout my journey, constant companion. If she is a bit hissy at times this is her role as protector and nurturer.  A swan is a magical bird and the Thames in early summer allows for an inspirational insight into their lives. 

Mated for life, pairs dote on their young and glide effortlessly but purposefully, always aware of spatial boundaries. A stern look or a ruffle of plumage bears a message to a wary trespasser and keeps the young in check.  From a canoe the behaviours are ever more noticeable as you share their space, careful not to crowd these elegant mysteries. I had an epiphany on this stretch and stopped in my tracks as a young family fed in the infant Thames.  I would call this a moment when time stops still and the wonder of the natural world fills one with awe.  Special moments that inspire a lust for life.

I spend a while futilely looking for Beavers which have been re-introduced to the area and delicate Snake’s Head Fritillaries in North Meadow before entering Cricklade.  The River Churn begins 12 miles north of Cricklade and its confluence with the Thames created a strategically and historically important town at a key crossing and transit point. the Churn lends its names to villages it passes like Cerney and Cirencester. It begins at Severn Springs which is 330 feet higher up on the Cotswold escarpment and was viable enough for the Romans to use such defensive advantages to crown a mighty town upon the waters, Corinium. Logically this must be the real source of the Thames as it is the highest tributary of the river and all must go downhill eventually. The Romans also named this key artery Tamesis or ‘dark water’ and saw the river as the key to dominating the lands beyond. 

The names of tributaries of the River evoke their history and purpose and lure the adventurer to explore further. A week later most of these were in flood after monumental June downpours: Ray, Coln, Key, Churn, Leach, Windrush, Evenlode, Churwell, Pang, Kennet, Berry, Loddon, Wye, Bourne, Wey, Ash, Mole, Rythe,  Hogsmill, Crane, Brent, Stamford, Beverley, Wandle, Westbourne, Tyburn, Effra, Fleet, Walbrook, Ravensbourne, Lea, Roding, Beam, Ingre, Darent, Mardyke…

I thought I would try to link them together as I sat by the Churn’s mouth as it fed into the Thames; 

A mighty Ash marks the source…

the Wey, the Key to the manor Bourne. 

Mole burrows and Rythes, 

Fleet of foot, a Wey down river to the Thames.

Even Lode, brother of Loddon, 

feels the Windrush and water Churn, 

Stamford battles Tyburn’s noose, 

Beverly Daren’t Wandle beyond

Ravensbourne and Brent, 

as they Crane their Beam toward the flood

Kennnet survive ‘til Mardyke? 

A Bimble down the Thames from Ewen to Cotswold Country Park

The path to Ewen took me along an idyllic stretch of infant Thames, just discernible as a stream, dividing fields. Pylons sang in the wind like sentinels of another dimension; a rusting windmill that once irrigated crops made a striking sculpture in fields of poppies and wildflowers. 

Flag Iris blossomed in the clean waters and I startled a fox into a ploughed field. He turned and stared me out as a I stood stock still.   An epiphany; a moment of peace that charges a walk with deeper meaning and fills a rambler with wonder. In turn the fox fled and scared up a few rabbits.  Familiar birdsong filled the hedgerows as I wondered whether cows could really see my bright red cagoule and pondered whether farmers really had to use ‘barbed’ wire. The skull cinema cranked into operation.

Cotswold Country Park is an extensive myriad of lakes and pools created by mining for aggregates.  At first the change from stream to reservoir is a challenge to the senses. By crossing the road from Somerfield Keynes you enter a different topography entirely.  Initially overwhelmed I went into shock mode as a raw wind battered me across the exposed lake of Somerford Lagoon.  An eerie estate had risen around the banks of the gravel pit but there was a sense of emptiness and absence which spooked me.  Were these holiday homes that no-one visited or an abandoned real estate venture where the homes were investments in some form of land banking scam waiting for permission to start a real housing boom in this prime location? Low Mill Estate seemed like an artificial timeshare nightmare. A nightmare vision of future living in gated communities spawned by the generosity of mining conglomerates in some pact to give something back after pillaging the mineral deposits.  Gentrifying their wasteland is better than leaving vast holes in the landscape but these looked like empty homes in a cod rustic Cotswolds style. Rusty balconies suggested a façade, homes hardly used.  I coin this housing style ‘eerie-dyllic’.  The map suggested it was merely a farm but as I explored further someone had sneaked a housing estate in while nobody noticed. The luxury, clapboard, ‘Cape Cod’ style super-homes that have become the nouveau style in the park appeared quite empty as the wind whipped across the lakes, taking a Beaufort battering.  

My mood picks up as the paths through the water park becomes sheltered and less windswept. Lakes are revealed like Freeth Mere.  There is no-one here in this sanctuary for wild-life and the morning rain has freshened spring growth to fill the air with green scents. The earthy smell of sand and gravel brings childhood memories of sailing clubs. There was water everywhere and it had to go somewhere.  I was thinking that if this all goes into the Thames it will be a very different proposition by Cricklade. It will get big, fast. 

A swan watches me as I find a calm spot on a fishing perch. Elegantly supercilious afloat he is less gainly taking to the air. The swan runs on water for fifteen paces and miraculously defies physics to eventually take flight. The beating, flapping and slapping of water accentuates the awkward display. Upon landing he gives an insouciant waggle of the tail as if to say, ‘ no-one saw, I think I got away with that.’ 

As I get into my stride I think of Beowulf and his Whale Road name for the sea and I collect compound nouns to illustrate place as my mind drifts.

Dog Rose,  Blue Tit.

Damson Fly, Duck Weed,

Corn Bunting,Otter Spraint.

Water Lily, Reed Warbler…

A Bimble down the Thames

The Source

This adventure is a path well trodden. There are no two paths that diverge in a wood, just a linear route from source to sea. The Thames is so integral to our history that it has been written about exhaustively. Millions of people live along its banks which means it should hardly be adventure at all! Peter Ackroyd’s wonderful, informative book ‘Sacred River’ has inspired my plans. I am totally in awe of his knowledge and insight; he has either done a lot of research or he has a lot of brain power.  

Less in awe and more in jealousy I watched Baldrick on Channel 5 dipping into stretches of the river on his own journey.  I bet he didn’t walk it though and did a Bear Grylls in the evening, retiring to a Boutique Cotswolds hotel.  Despite myself I have been enjoying his informative bulletins of fun as he meets Thames types to catch crayfish or re-enact Dads’ Army.  Blogs and web-sites also detail the route, offering various degrees of insight. It is now hard to know if my ‘incredible insight’ is not just a re-hash in a more ‘illuminating’ manner. 

I kept finding reasons to avoid the trip and now the weather forecast ‘Storm Imogen’. I checked the river levels; might there be flooding? They were a metre below problem levels. Nettles and thistles?  Wear long pants.It looks like a fair portion of the path skips the river so might a canoe be an option ?

I could wait no longer… we all have our own style so I’ll do it my way.. less procrastination and bimble on…

Cotswold Airport provides an unnerving start at the back of Kemble station. A Jumbo in a Cotswold field is an inauspicious sight amongst rural bliss.  US Air Forces used the site to dismantle jets and monsters of the sky and the Red Arrows had their base here for a while until the 80’s. Air-force bases line the Thames which acts as a motorway toward Europe with Heathrow as the arrowhead. RAF Fairford is close by and my walk is haunted by looming presences overhead as eerily quiet bombers circle like carrion cruisers.  I imagine they are training pilots which is no less unnerving, as is the knowledge that Trump is keen to use us as a first line of defence. 

I get into my stride after Kemble station heading upriver, for the only time, toward the source. I start thinking of language which is always the key to discovering place. Thames. Tamesis, maybe of  Indo European origin signifying darkness This seems to be the common theme linking the river with the horror and bloodshed of conquest and tribal division. It has been a dividing line for millennia; Dane and Saxon, Briton and Roman and even became the home guard’s own Maginot line in case of German invasion, a line marked by hundreds of pillboxes along the Northern bank built hurriedly after Dunkirk.  I like the theory that two rivers ‘Isis’ 

 I like the theory that two rivers ‘Isis’and ‘Thame’ have been linked to create Thamesis as the mighty river is a receiver of many tributaries. By the time of the Magna Carta, concluded on the banks of the Thames at Runnymede, it was called Tamisiam. My favourite theory is that it was the Thame below Dorchester and Isis above, a title which is still used by Oxonians slighted at London imperialists dropping the Isis off the end. Research into the etymology keeps returning to the theme of darkness but I prefer the idea that the birth mother Isis nurtures the waters in the upper stretches adopting youths as she goes and caring for the myriad siblings in their infancy. Once she meets Old Father Thame at Dorchester this unification provides the mighty stretch of the Thames which gave birth to modern society; the life source of democracy and empire. Whence Conrad set forth to explore the heart of darkness only to find that it was the Thames all along. 

Old Father Thames draws me and Isis seduces me with all her tributaries. 

The source in Trewsbury Mead, 360 feet above sea level, is identified by an unedifying block of stone in the corner of a field. With no water in sight, it is guarded by a ropy looking Ash; I felt rather deflated and was glad this was the start of the journey.  The mighty Ash Tree of my imagination was going to mark the start of a journey across 9 counties. 

In fact looking at photos in Ackroyd’s book there was a more imposing Ash tree next to the stone not so long ago.  Its surviving neighbour also looked like it was disappearing, maybe through Ash dieback caused by a fungus, which has already decimated Ash trees in the UK after it was imported from European nursery stock. A Brexit metaphor is in there somewhere for those inclined.  While we move food and flora around and across continents we are bound to share diseases.  Yggdrasil the Norse tree of life was dying. 

As boys we had our own Yggdrasil on Cannock Chase and in our ironically charged, youthful wisdom we chose a gnarled dead Ash tree, heavy with symbolism for such adolescent Smiths fans. I climbed the tree of life at 16 to find it was dead already.  The mythical Ash tree at the source of the Thames did not suggest that it connected nine worlds of the cosmos so I was determined to find a more potent source.

Ludd’s or Lydd pool, named after the Celtic God of healing, was featured in Tony Robinson’s trip down the Thames and I was convinced it was the true source; cunningly hidden on private land to prevent hordes descending upon this sacred spot. Baldrick even makes a votive offering of a spoon attesting to its spiritual significance. It looked like the magical place I was yearning for where the waters bubbled up from limestone depths; a secluded and mystical portal to the underworld. As I clambered over barbed wire I imagined the local farmer either cursing Baldrick’s exposure of this place of pilgrimage or wondering whether to open up a new tourist attraction.  I found only neck high weeds and grasses and impenetrable undergrowth under a quite random selection of evergreen and deciduous trees, as if planted hastily and haphazardly to defy the intrepid. I could hear the gush of water tantalisingly close but beyond me lay bogs. I had to admit defeat and take solace in the romantic notion that it remained secret and unknowable. Until next time…

The Severn Cross of Gloucestershire 

Green for Apples Blue for the River