Day 4: Birdlip to Kings Stanley

It was a long day.  A hard day.  There were parts that were pure work.

Start at the beginning: Big old English breakfast.  During breakfast, I met my first Cotswold Way buddies.  Bart and Ronny, Belgians, completed the first third of the trail a year ago and are back to tackle the two-thirds.  Turns out, they were staying at the same B&B with me in Kings Stanley.

The walk started with forest.  Lots of forest.  The most notable portion of the morning walk was Cooper’s Hill.  Famous for its injury inducing cheese wheel race, Cooper’s Hill has been closed in recent years to stop people from hurting themselves for the sake of cheese.

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More forests for a total of 6.5 miles, whereupon I entered the village of Painswick.

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This is Painswick

The village has a famous church with a cool graveyard and a lot of Yew Tress, 99 to be exact.

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Yew, so sweaty.

I had lunch at a local pub.  As I was finishing, my Flemmish speaking pals stumbled in.  We talked for a bit and I hit the trail to finish the last 10.5 miles.  10.5 grueling, sole crushing miles (see what I did there?).  God, my feet hurt.  But I’m a winner, not a quitter, so I opted to take the much longer stupid “scenic route” through Stonehouse, which sent me up a stupid steep hill where I took this stupid picture.

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Coming back down the hill, I was in such distress that I opted to take a good long draught off the vitamin W from the flask.  This little bit of liquid fortitude helped me make it to my B&B in Kings Stanley.  The Belgians and I walked down to the pub and had many pints.  Turns out one of them is a homebrewer, so we talked mostly beer.

One fun thing about walking alone is that my mind can wander.  Often I find myself trying to work out some limerick or turn some words.  More often than not, the result of my musings turn silly.  Here’s a great morbid example.  The link picture is not pleasant, so don’t click, unless, you know, you want to know.

Up by the beacon,
High upon the hill,
Beware the hare of Harefield
for his eyes are always peeled

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A man in a Harefield

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