The Cotswolds are much more than the poor mans Dordogne

THE Cotswolds are sometimes referred to as the poor man’s Dordogne — rolling fertile landscapes, honey coloured stone villages, eye-wateringly beautiful medieval farmsteads, more chateaux than you can shake a walking stick at and great food — yes, not just good, great food. For ordinary mortals this is heaven. For a connoisseur of pie and ale such as myself — it’s much better than that.
Mind you, at an exchange rate of 70p to €1 I don’t know about the poor man bit but as I write, the credit card bill hasn’t dropped on the mat so I can go along with the pretence for another few days that the pixies paid for it.
I was summoned to the lovely village of Tetbury to attend a niece’s wedding. A Corrandulla girl now plying her trade as an equine vet to the royalty and gentry over there and marrying in — not to royalty I hasten to add.
The wedding went along swimmingly, apart from a minor diplomatic incident when my younger brother told a member of the household cavalry that he thought they’d given up on that lark after the Charge of the Light Brigade, led incidentally by fellow Castlebar man Lord Lucan as it happens. We’re everywhere.