From Muddy Trails to Majestic Bath.
Day 12: Cotswolds Trail – Cold Ashton to Bath – 17.5 km
Last night, just as I was drifting off, I heard the rain tapping on the windows like a persistent little drummer.
I crossed my fingers and made a deal with the weather gods: just give me one more dry day for the grand finale.
And guess what? They delivered! I woke up to glorious sunshine—perfect for the last stretch of my epic journey.
After a warm send-off from Lucy, the hostess with the mostess who made me feel right at home, I hit the trail.
The sun was on my side, but the ground? Not so much.
The rain had transformed the grass into a soggy sponge, and within 25 minutes, my socks were soaked through.
Nothing says “hiker’s nightmare” like wet socks. As if that wasn’t enough, the path had turned into a mud-slick obstacle course.
I found myself doing a not-so-graceful gymnastics routine to avoid face-planting into the muck.
Then came the next twist in the plot: I realized I was off track.
My notes clearly promised an uphill climb, but instead, I was headed downhill—way downhill.
Cue the déjà vu of circling the same field like a confused sheep, avoiding nettles like my life depended on it.
Eventually, I discovered the culprit: an overgrown hedge that had completely swallowed up the crucial path marker.
Lesson learned: never underestimate the sneakiness of Cotswold foliage!
With my path back on track, I trudged on to the historic Battle of Lansdowne site from 1643—an epic clash between childhood friends turned enemies.
Royalist Lord Hopton and Parliamentarian Sir William Waller. Talk about awkward reunions.
The battle monument to Sir Bevil Grenville stood tall, marking the oldest war memorial in Britain.
(Side note for the Outlander fans: Grenville’s grandson ended up a Jacobite supporter and had to hightail it to Paris. Drama clearly ran in the family.)
The rest of the hike was stunning—rolling hills, scenic views, and, of course, a detour through yet another golf course.
Seriously, golf is practically a Cotswolds religion!
Then, as I crested the final hill, Bath sprawled out below me like a picture-perfect postcard.
Just one catch—it was all downhill from there, and my knees and ankles were screaming in protest.
When I finally reached the bottom, I found myself not in Bath, but in the tiny village of Upper Weston.
My body practically wept. So close, yet so far! But I couldn’t give up at the eleventh hour.
A quick breather, some magic ointment for my aching joints, and a sip of water later, I pressed on.
The final stretch took me through Bath’s most beautiful spots—Victoria Park, the Royal Crescent, The Circus—each more breathtaking than the last.
And then, there it was: Bath Abbey, my triumphant finish line.
What a way to end the adventure! As the bard said: All’s well that ends well.
