You tell us!

It’s 8.30 on a sunny, sparkling May morning and we are thundering along country roads in a Landrover towards the picturesque Gloucestershire village of Bibury. Swaying around in the back with the cool box and a couple of loose pairs of walking boots, I manage to hold some amiable conversation with my fellow travellers, whom I met for the first time twenty minutes ago.

Preliminary niceties over, we start thinking about the day ahead as we bowl in to the centre of Bibury, memorably described by William Morris as “the most beautiful village in England”. We glance from side to side, taking in the Trout Farm, the haunted mill, the duck-strewn river and the exquisite Arlington Row: a low-lying, sunken string of cottages with overhung, stone roofs and tiny windows. But we don’t stop here – at least, not for the time being: we motor a further mile into the neighbouring village of Ablington where we park up and jump out.

This is day one of a four-day tour arranged by a small British company, Heritage Royal Walks. The plan is to follow in the footsteps of King Charles II who fled to France in 1651 after defeat by Oliver Cromwell at the Battle of Worcester. Disguised as a lady’s manservant, the king avoided capture, (once, famously, by hiding in an oak tree), and by using small country tracks and lanes on his way south. Our route will carry us along ancient salt roads he may have taken, through hidden valleys, wetlands, pasture and hunting grounds; through open parkland and into serene, unspoilt villages and quiet Cotswold towns.

Our guide is David Brech, Gloucestershire heritage expert, walking enthusiast, Landrover driver and father of seven. Had he been wearing up-to-the-minute Gore-Tex walker’s gear, the rest of us may have felt under-dressed and slightly nervous, but thankfully, he isn’t. He does, however have a decent pair of boots on and is carrying a smart, retractable stick: “Good for bashing down the nettles,” he declares. A transparent map holder hangs from his neck and a green canvas hold all, hung wildly with a variety of essential items, is slung across his back.

My four intrepid companions, all women of a certain age, are from Chicago and New York. Dressed casually in lightweight tops and trousers, sunglasses on top of their heads, sturdy boots down below, they look fit enough to walk for six miles and chat while they’re at it, which is, as I discover, all that is required. David’s walks are carefully planned to follow the gentle contours of the land and to walk down more than up, so, if you like climbing big hills, this may not be the holiday for you.

May is truly beautiful in England. No other month can match it for sheer vitality and freshness: the cow parsley is in full, upright bloom; the leaves on the trees have just unfurled and are young, thin and delicate; the woods and fields are a million different shades of green; dainty, white, wild garlic covers the ground like a carpet and the air throbs with birdsong.

And it is straight into this heavenly theatre that we walk. We take the old Salt Way from Ablington to the village of Chalcot: a wide rutted path, sheltered from the horizon, lined with high hedges and fields of vivid yellow rapeseed on either side. David gives us a nature lesson on how to date a hedgerow: count the number of different plant species in a 30 yard stretch and allow a hundred years for each. We put our new knowledge to the test and immediately find one that has to be 400 years old. It’s a sobering thought, though, that more than half the hedgerows in the UK have been lost over the past 50 years.

The sun is still shining, but there’s a nip in the air: perfect walking weather. Fat yellow Labradors bark at us from behind five bar gates, we meet friendly horses and inquisitive cows. The pace is measured and manageable; there’s always time to stop, to puzzle over the name of a flower, to watch a herd of deer in the middle of a field or just to marvel at the view. And marvel we do. David says there has to be at least one heart-stopping moment every day: we’ve had about four already and it isn’t even lunchtime.

Down we go into the deep, calm Coln valley: a place so peaceful and still that monks built religious communities here a thousand years ago. “Imagine the relief and sense of peace felt by our royal fugitives as they entered this natural sanctum,” says David.

The church at Coln St Denis, which goes back to Norman times, is well maintained: its graveyard, peppered with tiny Celtic crosses, has been recently mown, the grass spongy and pale green. Following the river after our picnic lunch, we come across the village of Coln Roger, set in pasture, with its even older Saxon church and immaculate country houses.

There is an unspoken and unforced etiquette to walking with small groups like this; it’s almost like a ballet in which little moves are gently performed over an extended period of time. First you walk two or three abreast, pathways permitting, and then, perhaps you hang back and let the others catch you up; sometimes you all walk together in a clump, sometimes you stride out alone. What’s drives the dance is the conversation: personal, political, topical or trivial, it’s what you talk about and with whom that keeps you moving.

David’s walks bypass regular tourist attractions so there is little or no chance to spend any money, but in the church at Coln Roger I did buy some marmalade for 80p. There were four pots sitting in an old cardboard carton, underneath the flower rota and next to the Parish magazines. Different shaped jam jars, each with a single white sticker on which was written: “Marmalade 2005”. Just that; no list of ingredients, no calorie counting. I dropped a pound coin into a box on the wall and cursed the jar for the rest of the day as it banged about in my rucksack, but how good it tasted on my toast the following morning.

The gently honey-coloured villages of the undiscovered Coln Valley have several things in common and by the time we reached Winson in the early afternoon, we were beginning to generalise about their charms: there had been a blissful and almost complete lack of traffic in the lanes; the ambience was surely the same as it had been for all time, the houses, whether vast, country manors or rows of labourers’ cottages, seemed to be unspoilt, their thatched roofs, paintwork and gardens immaculately kept. But where were the locals? The lanes were almost supernaturally quiet.

Rounding a corner, we came upon a red-faced fellow leaning on his gate. My companions looked to me to translate as he wittered on, in his broad Gloucestershire accent, about the folly of erecting a new bus shelter in the lane. Sure enough, a white council van with two workmen had parked opposite his cottage and had started to dig. “The bus only comes through ‘ere three times a week,” he told us, “and if you want to take it, you just flag it down. We don’t need no bus shelter ‘ere.” Here was our local, living where he belonged and in good voice too. Our faith restored, we walked on until we reached Ablington and the Landrover.

We drove back into Bibury and took afternoon tea at the Swan Hotel, after which we had a free hour to wander and take photos and feed the ducks and spot the trout or just sit and watch the world go by. David always builds this free time into the schedule: “It’s a lovely way to end the day,” he says.

Accommodation for the duration of the Royal Heritage trip is either Hill Court, a large country house set in its own parkland, just outside the village of Shipton Moyne or Lodge Farm near Tetbury. At Hill Court, Susie Brassey provides superior bed and breakfast in four double rooms, each with en suite bathroom. You wake up to the sound of silence, interrupted by the occasional neigh: Susie’s daughter, Louisa is an international riding competitor and keeps her horses in stables next door.

Evening meals are either taken with David and Jennie in their home or booked ahead in local hostelries that boast a combination of superb, local food and historic interest. The Bear in the village of Bisley was a sixteenth century courthouse before becoming a pub in 1766. It has a beamed bar room with a large inglenook fireplace and just happens to be Bisley resident and famous author Jilly Cooper’s favourite eating place.

Day two dawned bright and sunny, still with that little chill and a keen breeze. We drove to the village of Stanton, on the other side of Cheltenham and walked along part of the Cotswold Way via Stanway to Hailes Abbey: once one of the most popular pilgrim sites in the country, now, a quiet pile of stones.

Instead of the pale villages of the Coln Valley, the buildings in Stanton are almost gold in colour, but are equally well kept and just as picturesque. The real contrast however, is in the scenery: acre after acre of ancient royal parkland, which, because it was never enclosed or ploughed, still bears the undulating scars of medieval ridges and furrows. The park possesses an air of authority and a royal bearing all of its own. Huge copper beech and oak trees stand proudly, set well apart from each other with plenty of room to spread. David points to one enormous tree, known as the Domesday Oak, still standing nearly a thousand years on from the Norman invasion in 1066. Although clearly a little tired, the oak still produces a full canopy of leaves every spring. It’s another heart-stopping moment: we stand amazed.

On to Stanway House, a stunning country mansion, straight out of a film set, with its original tithe barn, carp lake and fountain. Then, a short detour to look at a pretty, thatched cricket pavilion, designed by Peter Pan’s creator, J.M.Barrie. David attempts to explain the rules of the quintessentially English game to our American friends: their nods and smiles belie their utter disbelief that a game, which lasts for five days, can end in a draw. Finally we drive from Hailes Abbey to the perfect castle at Sudeley, which has a fascinating royal story of its own.

On day three, we drive to Sapperton and walk along the Golden Valley – so called because, in the autumn, the trees are ablaze with colour. The valley has always inspired artists and craftsmen, such as William Morris in the 19th century and more recently, pioneering sculptor Lynn Chadwick and contemporary artist Damien Hurst, who set up their workshops here.

On the last day we start in Chalford, make our way across country to Bisley with its old gaol and seven wells and we come full, royal circle to the gates of Nether Lypiatt House, home to Prince Michael of Kent. We ask the gardener if it’s true that there are a thousand rose bushes here. He tells us it’s more like two thousand - the royal Princess likes to have fresh roses every day in every room in the house. Not a heart-stopper, more like a jaw-dropper.

A Heritage Walk is quite the most charming, gentle way to spend a few days in England, and is suitable for all temperaments. David is a genial and knowledgeable host and his wife Jennie, (the power behind the throne), ensures that everyone gets the picnic they asked for, organises complicated pick-up and drop-off times and also creates the most delicious evening meals. With weather as unpredictable as it can be in the UK, David and Jennie are flexible and will happily drive you to Bath if the heavens open, rather than make you stomp through waterlogged fields. This was such an enlightening experience and an enjoyable one. I never thought I’d say it, but the all-over physical tiredness at the end of a day’s walking in the countryside and fresh air is curiously satisfying.