Competition on a Hike Through the Cotswold Hills

The adventure had begun when an old friend in Toronto turned us on to the Wayfarers.

“It’s for you,” George said. “These people conduct walks all over England. You and Joyce ought to see the country from the ground for a change. Easy walking, only 10 miles a day.”

“Now, George,” I said, “10 is a lot of miles.”

“Well,” he said, “if you don’t think you can do it. . . .”

“Of course I can do it.”

“Naw, I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“George, it’s just that Joyce. . . . “

“Oh, I never had any doubts about Joyce,” he said.

“Give me the dumb telephone number,” I said.

After all, it did make a certain amount of sense. Travelers should take a look at the world from the ground once in a while. I called the Wayfarers.

The small company had established off-road walks through scenic areas of the British Isles.

Joyce (my wife) and I chose a five-day walk through the storied Cotswold Hills, a rural area northwest of London that has stayed the same for 400 years. We were told there would be 12 in the group, starting at Cheltenham and hiking about 10 miles a day, staying at various carefully selected inns and homes along the way.

Met New People

We met Bert and Beverley, of Lexington, Ky., on the train from London. Bert was 6 feet, 4 inches tall, with a boyish smile and a shake that made you wonder if your hand hadn’t been eaten by a bear.

Beverley had a soft smile, soft Southern voice and a delicate way about her that suggested hoop skirts, maybe, but never walking shorts.

There was no way this lady was going to walk 10 miles a day. Bert popped something into his mouth every time his watch-alarm rang. It had to be medication. I nudged Joyce.

“Well,” I whispered, “we’ll beat out those two, huh?”

“It’s not a contest,” my wife answered. “It’s a vacation.”

“Oh yeah. Right,” I said, but since that first talk with George--about whether I could make it or not--I couldn’t help thinking of the walk as anything but a contest.

The rest of the group didn’t seem like a whole lot of competition, either, except for an athletic-looking couple from Poughkeepsie.

“I’m not as active as I used to be,” the husband said. “But, of course, I still run my two miles every morning.”

“Of course.”

An attractive mother and daughter combination were the third couple, and two women from St. Louis made up the fourth. One, Nancy, was an IBM executive, while her friend, Susy, said she just didn’t walk much because it interfered with her smoking. Susy also said she never exercised.

Of the six couples, the last was Arnold and Louise, from Washington. Arnold mentioned that he had worked with Eliot Ness. I figured that had to make him 75. Louise looked as if she hadn’t been out of high heels since her 13th birthday.

Follow-up Vehicle

Our leader--a jovial, bearded Englishman named Basil Jaques--introduced a pretty girl named Victoria Bass. Victoria was the tour manager and would be moving our luggage and driving the follow-up vehicle, in case anybody needed a ride.

At 9 the next morning Jaques introduced Taj Mahal J. Muttly, his dog, who had a smile and a wag for everybody, and we were off. By 10:30 a.m. we had walked through Cheltenham, three miles up into the hills.

Taj, checking on everybody and trying to keep us all together, had run twice as far.

I knew it was 11 when Bert’s alarm sounded. Again he tossed something into his mouth and started chewing.

“Quitting smoking,” he said. “Doctor fixed me up with nicotine gum. Chew a little less every day.”

“He was a three pack a day man,” Beverley said. “Now he doesn’t smoke at all.”

Bert laughed. “I used to like cigarettes. I love the gum.”

Louise was not walking in high heels, either. She had a weathered pair of hiking shoes. She told me that, besides being an attorney, she was the editor of “Walkways,” a Washington-based newsletter for people who love walking. Her husband Arnold, she said, had been a student when he’d worked with Eliot Ness.

Victoria met us with the station wagon on a hilltop and served a picnic lunch.

Joyce sat down in the tall grass next to me. “These people,” she said in a low voice, “are in pretty good shape.”

“Tired?” I asked.

“Well, coming up that ridge I was thinking about praying for a broken ankle, but now I feel pretty good.”

We slept that night in a Cotswolds Manor House that had been built in the 17th Century. I got up once in the night to absolute silence, a sky filled with stars and the realization that in spite of physical fatigue, I, too, felt pretty good. For the first time in weeks, I was completely relaxed.

Second Day: Pain

The pain started just after lunch on the second day. Every time we would start downhill, my one flat foot would try to crawl into the toe of my boot. I started to limp, and Taj kept having to run farther and farther back to check up on me.

Basil walked with me for a while. We whistled “Stars and Stripes Forever.” Then we switched to “Colonel Bogey” because it was better suited for marching with a limp.

He told me about how he’d had similar problems when he was with the British army in Suez and again in Cyprus. He said he’d look at the foot that evening.

By 4 in the afternoon, at every rest stop Taj would show up, ostensibly to get her ears scratched, but I knew it was to find out what my problem was.

I got a little good-natured kidding from the men.

“Hey, it’s OK, nobody really thinks you’re a wimp.” “Ten miles a day is a lot of walking for a desk type.” “Nobody’s blaming you. Everybody gets old.”

The women just smiled, which was worse.

Foot inspection that night resulted in the decision that I should ride for a day.

“My friend,” Basil said, “worse things can happen to a man than riding around the Cotswolds in a station wagon with a lovely girl like Victoria.”

It was a delight, and helping her move the baggage from village to village was fun. So was listening to her stories. Before going to work for Wayfarers she had helped conduct African safaris.

But as I spent more time riding and less time walking, a kind of sense of failure began to grow. Taj and Basil, of course, were the best walkers, but Beverley and Bert, even Susy and her cigarettes, were always up in the lead, with Joyce not far behind.

On the fourth day, after dinner, the official Wayfarer sweat shirts came out, with the logo of the walking man in the top hat. Joyce immediately put hers on and looked through the stack for one my size. She couldn’t find one. I wouldn’t have felt right about wearing it, anyway, because I didn’t feel I’d earned it.

The following day Taj apparently misjudged a ditch she was trying to jump and pulled a muscle. The vet in Bourton on the Water prescribed a few days of rest for her.

Farewell Dinner

At dinner on the last night we gave little gifts to Basil and Victoria, and a couple of the girls handed Basil get-well cards for Taj. We talked about our adventure, the beauty of the English countryside and the exhilaration of forgetting the world and taking a nice long walk with friends.

At the conclusion, Basil made a few remarks I felt were really addressed to me, about how there was no such thing as failure on a walking tour.

“In fact,” he said, waving toward Taj, “she’s the perfect example. Things sometimes go wrong, even for the best, right Taj?”

Taj thumped her tail a couple of times against the floor.

There were hugs and handshakes and exchanging of addresses. Then, just as we were all going our separate ways, Taj came over and “asked” me to scratch her ears.

I did, until Basil whistled for her. Then, without a sign of a limp, Taj turned and walked to the door.

She stopped at the threshold, and I could have sworn she winked at me. Then she limped on out to the car and very carefully climbed in.

On the train back to London, Bert mentioned having an interest in the John Muir Trail on the West Coast.

“Bert,” I said, “that trail’s a couple of thousand miles long.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I probably couldn’t get the time free.”

“Lord,” I said.

“Oh, he could do it,” Beverley said. “You probably could, too, if you had a good set of arch supports.”

“Listen to her,” Bert said. “This lady knows walking.”

When we got home, Joyce made me go see a doctor. He prescribed arch supports. They worked. The problem was solved.

If I thought we could get Basil and Taj again, and maybe Victoria to drive back-up, there’s a five-day walk through Devon.”

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If you love to walk and are interested in seeing things “from the ground up,” here’s a list of some of what’s available in the United Kingdom:

The Wayfarers, Chepynge House, 22 Maltravers St., Arundel, West Sussex BN18 9BU, England. Ask for Michael West.

Bowland Treks, Lowgill, Lancaster LA2 8RA, England.

Dales Center, Grassington, Skipton, North Yorkshire BD23 5AU, England.

Serendipity Tours, Three Channing Circle, Cambridge, Mass.; (617) 354-1879.

These companies all conduct tours that the “Walkways Almanac” describe as moderately challenging, or about the same degree of difficulty as the Cotswolds walk.

Tours generally run between $200 and $750 a week, depending on the type of overnight accommodations, which range from tents to inns.

For a full listing of walking tours anywhere in the world, from nature walks through your own state to mountain treks in Nepal with Sherpa guides, write or call the Walkways Center, 733 15th St. NW, Suite 427, Washington, D.C. 20005; (202) 737-9555.