UK. Day 2. Broadway. Gloucestershire Warwickshire Steam Railway. Snowshill hike.

Sunday morning started with another surprise — absolute quiet and silence. Not a tiny squeak anywhere in the wooden squeaky old inn.

Outside was gray and threatening with rain. It was relatively early and we were not rushing.

There was no one downstairs. Not a single soul. Dark. Quiet. Kitchen was closed, so was the bar.

We gave the place a slow unimpeded look. So much character in every corner. So peaceful.

On a Sunday morning, in the US, a place like this would be hopping picking up every possible business crumb.

In the UK, cultural traditions and religious Day of Rest are still observed — Sunday mornings are a quiet time.

Even though legally pubs are allowed now to serve 24/7, many of them do not open until later in the day to allow the staff to rest since customers prefer family time at home on Sunday mornings. The customers are probably grateful, too, that there is no pressure to decide between going out or staying home at least once a week.

At that time, we were the only ones staying upstairs in Crown and Trumpet rooms. When ready to leave, we locked our temporary British home with our own keys and took off.

A dramatic difference between Saturday and Sunday mornings — weather and vibes: sunny and buzzing on Saturday, quiet and rainy on Sunday. Glad we got to experience both — both were good.

We had breakfast plans in Broadway with our friends from the Around the World group. After our meeting the day before, some people went home but a few stayed in Cotswolds overnight.

Wet Sunday morning, but somehow the main square of this quiet village felt alive — more alive than our inn anyway.

A short walk through town. In a little while, we’ll follow one of these arrows for the day’s adventure.

We were meeting our friends at the Broadway Deli in the center of town.

Broadway Deli is a picture perfect produce store with a couple of counters with prepared foods. Thoughout the little nooks, some art pieces made by local artists are tucked in. Upstairs, there is a sit down cafe.

Looks like on Sunday mornings in Broadway, this deli is one of the very few — if not the only one — places to sit down for breakfast.

Customers here have options to either pick up something from the counters downstairs and take it up or get a table on the second floor and place an order from the menu.

By the time we finished exploring everything Broadway Deli has to offer downstairs, our friends got a table on the second floor and had the menus ready.

Of course I wanted to try all things English — and as many of them as possible.

Here’s my sausage roll. I tried making them at home myself following the cues from my British friends and now wanted to see what the real thing was like.

Coronation Salad — of course. I did try making it myself, too. Honestly, this one was a bit too heavy for me on the dressing.

And the Scottish egg. This was my third day craving it — somehow they disappear from menus really early.

Our English friends ordered a full English breakfast and it looked pretty good indeed.

After breakfast, we parted ways. Grace and Mel went home. Simon went to work and we took off to explore more of English countryside.

We stopped at our inn and the owners, who were already there getting ready for the day, let us borrow two of their umbrellas.

Look how British Tom looks in this picture. Little did we know that what gave us away — as we later learned — was our footwear. When it drizzles, the mud of English trails is not the one to mess around in sneakers.

The first leg of our trip was a ride on a steam engine train from Broadway to Toddington along Gloucestershire Warwickshire Railway.

A nation of dog lovers — no truer words have been written.

I learned about it many years ago from the book “Roots of Oak” by “Pravda” correspondent in Great Britain Vsevolod Ovchinnikov, a book about a country of quiet and order, where dogs don’t bark and children don’t cry.

To this day, in my head, I have a picture from this book: an Englishman walking his dog under the rain, holding an umbrella not over his head but over his pet. According to Ovchinnokov, animals in England give people that rare opportunity to express tenderness in otherwise reserved culture.

Here we are — on platform 9 3/4 only at Broadway Station in Cotswolds.

The Gloucestershire Warwickshire Steam Railway was originally built in 1900s. After being completely dismantled and abandoned in the 70s, in 1984, it was recreated along 14 miles of tracks on the border with Cotswolds to let people experience the times of the past. The Railway is run solely by volunteers.

The steam trains are moving here now on newly re-layed tracks. At the beginning of the reconstruction, the tracks ran only a few hundred yards but gradually more were added and the railway got longer.

We watched the locomotive being changed and got a whiff of steam and coal.

The railway operates steam and diesel trains with an impressive collection of hundreds of various carriages and wagons from different time periods.

Two one way tickets to the village of Toddington, the main hub of the heritage railway system.

We came to the station late and the best seats were already taken. We got into the very last car and walked through the train checking out different seating arrangements.

Inside, all the carriages were in perfect condition: comfortable seats, beautiful wooden paneling.

A restaurant car with tables for two and four.

Our comfortable seats made me regret that we had only one stop to travel. Ever since I was little, I do love trains and that moving scenery out the window so much!

In twenty minutes, we got off in Toddington, the place where the Gloucestershire Warwickshire Steam Railway started.

Toddington is the hub where locomotive engines are restored and maintained by a team of skilled volunteers.

The day was rainy but there were quite a few people on our train. A group gathered on the platform to watch coal being thrown into the furnace.

On the other side of the tracks, in those yellow locomotive sheds all the restoration work is happening. On certain days, they have guided tours here but we declined and stuck to our own plans.

Instead, we wandered through the train and checked out compartments that were previously occupied by other passengers.

This one felt like such a Hogwarts express. Where’s the trolley with the snacks?

Since Toddington is the main hub, trains stay here for a while. We even had time to sit down and map out our route.

The plan was to walk back to Broadway and the inn where we were staying through Snowshill Village.

On, through the beautifully restored station office and through a field, we walked onto the B4077 Highway.

That highway turned out to be a true long-distance route but English style. 

At first, we wanted to stick to the paved road because weather: it was drizzling and walking on the pavement seemed better than in wet grass. We were looking for the beginning of the path. Quickly we realized that we better get wet than dead. The pavement was slippery, there was no sidewalk, the road was winding in every which direction. The cars were flying towards us at a highway speed. At sharper turns, edges of the road were flooded and we constantly had to step into those puddles not to get hit.

No pictures of that highway — that stretch was so tense I forgot I had a phone.

From the fields on our left and right, these locals were staring at us and probably thinking: what are those idiots doing here. And rightly so.

In this fashion, we made it to Stanway and decided: enough. There has got to be another way. At the Old Bakehouse, we stepped off the highway onto a small country road.

We were probably breaking some local rules walking through this field but, at that point, it seemed to be the only way to the footpath network.

Narrow lane with romantic thatched houses and stone cottages eventually took us to the path.

A long and quite steep climb uphill along the slippery road. We were already so wet that opening the umbrellas seemed pointless. Instead, we were using them as walking sticks.

At the top, Jane Austen-worthy views rewarded our efforts.

”I call it a very fine country — the hills are steep, the woods seem full of fine timber, and the valley looks comfortable and snug — with rich meadows and several neat farm houses scattered here and there.”

Moss was blooming brightly creating a thick furry cover for the old stone walls.

A little higher up the hill, we hit some serious patches of fog. But despite that, paths were still clearly visible.

At a certain point, we encountered a cultivated neat field of something. Curious I had to taste. The leaf tasted like broccoli rabe. And that’s what I thought it was.

Back then, we did not know that we were standing in front of what was to become Cotswold Gold, a premium extra virgin rapeseed oil made here of locally grown crops and extracted using traditional cold pressing methods.

My white shoes were meant for walking London but who knew. All what I could do here was to raise my eyebrows, tilt my head to the right, shrug my shoulders, and keep going. Lizzy Bennet way.

In a couple of hours, we reached the village of Snowshill.

The Village of Snowshill is famous in England and all over the world for being a filming location of “The Bridget Jones’s Diary.” This is the village where her parents lived and where the infamous Christmas turkey curry buffet took place.

This is the actual house of Bridget’s parents. I took a picture of it before we reached the sign advising not to do that.

St. Barnabas Church. With its beautiful stained windows, it blends so well into the landscape of rising hills and fairy tale cottages.

The green and honey-colored village is small and, according to the last census, there are only 159 residents listed here.

When Snowshill Arms tavern appeared in front of us, I almost had a nervous breakdown with excitement. We were tired, dirty, cold, wet, hungry. At this sight, my mind created a fireplace, a large plate of mash, ham, and peas. I almost cried so happy this made me feel.

Wait a minute. Not so fast.

Looking at their website now, I am reading about “a typically friendly English pub serving excellent local beer and good pub food from a range of sandwiches to full meals… a range of real ales from the Donnington Brewery and real English pub food.”  According to their site, they looked forward to welcoming us to their hostelry. Reviews continued that it was the ‘best pub in the Cotswolds’ with ‘amazing food’ and ‘generous portions’, someone saying: ‘One of the best Roast Beef dinners I have had.’

In our case, we were taken aback by the cold shoulder and we-don’t-see-you-but-watch-you vibe. There were barely two and a half people inside but no one greeted us, asked anything, or even said a word.

Next came the real shock — THERE WAS NO FOOD! NOTHING! Not even a scoop of mash, or pasta, or a slice of bread. Lunch time was over and kitchen was closed until dinner. I was ready to cry. We’re definitely spoiled by the New York 24/7 dining options and “what would you like” welcome no matter where you go.

What could we do? We got beer and we were sipping it in the corner to the hushed comments about “American accents” from the people at the bar.

Ha! American accent! Little did they know who they really got among their midst…

But I have to admit, there was a pair of friendly eyes at the place.

Most of the pub was empty — Sunday, after lunch, before dinner.

We did not stay there long — just one glass and a little break inside on the bench. Once out again, we made another circle round the center of the village, the church, and the graveyard.

This is a downhill road past the residential cottages that overlook the Cotswold Edge and Severn Vale.

A war memorial in the churchyard.

It didn’t take long to walk around the village but the impression it left was lasting.

One final look at Snowshill cottages. It must be so beautiful here during summer months.

Back to the rolling hills and views of English countryside. How can you ever have enough of this?

At this point of our journey, we hit a fork in the road and the footpath map got us confused. The trail to the left was taking us too much west of Broadway, the one to the right — too much east. Order obedient Tom picked the one to the east hoping it would bend at some point to our benefit. It didn’t.

During our entire seven hour journey, we met only one couple somewhere in this area. Otherwise, the paths were completely deserted. Probably rain.

Not being sure about our whereabouts and directions, still hungry, we started losing our morale.

When our chosen path started bending way east off our way, I lost it and climbed over a fence obviously to the field where we were not supposed to be. On the other side of that field, there was the path not marked on the map but it was the one going straight to Broadway. After a moment of hesitation, Tom followed.

We lived to tell the tale. Successfully crossing illegal area, now on the right track, we perked up and moved on with new energy.

Finally back to Broadway but still a ways to go to our pub.

Stopping for some pretty pictures.

More fields. More sheep.

Getting close to the animals felt a little unnerving. They do behave like they own the place and question your presence here.

On our walk, we did navigate quite a few wooden stiles. They are here to prevent animals from escaping but, for walkers and hikers, they are stairs to climb over.

At one point, we stumbled upon an herd of Belted Galloways. These oreo-looking cows with a distinct white belt around their body are bred for their high quality beef.

More fields.

More sheep.

Some cute babies.

And the final stretch to our pub.

Once safe and sound in Broadway, a bold New Yorker spirit kicked back in — who eats twice at the same place in New York? Why do it here?

The night was young — it was just after 7 PM on Sunday. Let’s try something new — we ate at our pub yesterday. 

Not so hasty…

The Swan restaurant sounded interesting. Sorry, reservations only.

The Coach House Indian — same story.

Russell’s Fish and Chips — closed.

The Broadway Hotel — nothing there.

The Lygon Bar and Grill — closed.

The Boadbean — closed

Hunters Tea — no one there.

The Horse and Hound — closed.

At 8 PM on a Sunday night, in affluent Broadway, Cotswolds, of the United Kingdom, there was no place for us to get food. Here’s the stretch we walked in search of it. Nothing.

Back to Crown and Trumpet:

— Sorry, kitchen is closed.

What?!? I thought I was going to pass out. We have not eaten since 9 AM and walked almost nine miles in the rain. Nothing?

Probably the look on my face — not a good actress I am and tears are so close — stirred something in the man at the bar:

— Let me see if we have something.

Oh, they did!

They had smelts. We shared.

They had Scottish eggs. We shared this, too.

There was Stilton and bread. Tom took that.

And fish and chips! Glorious fish and chips! Tom saw on my face that I was not in the mood to share and didn’t even ask.

Relaxed, warmed up, and no longer starving, we stretched the legs and looked around.

Back in the room, we tallied our losses. My London-designated white walking shoes were done, so was my most comfortable pair of jeans. But that all faded next to the memories of probably the best hike of my life.

And here’s our route. I turned the phone on a little late, after we got off that scary highway between Toddington and Stanway. And there’s our frantic search for food in Broadway, right at the top.