I hate leaving Wales, especially in the sunshine—with no wind.  It hardly seems fair that the weather waits for us to leave to decide to turn beautiful. And I believe Michael is finally getting used to the tiny roads; the cursing has all but stopped. If anybody asks, I would say, “Go to Wales. Throw a dart. Rent a cottage. Stay by the sea. Stay in the country. Stay in a village. Just throw a dart!” Everyplace we went, everything we saw was pretty spectacular. I wonder if we will ever see it again.  I hope so.

Serendipity dumps us into the Wheatsheaf Inn. The Wheatsheaf Inn automatically dumps us into Northleach. I came for the restaurant, stumbling on a review by a London journalist, when I was searching for something else. I was too intrigued to look beyond the words on my computer screen.

From afar, Michael tells me, “It is the redbrick building way down there.” But when we arrive it is not brick, but walls covered in ivy—turned scarlet. He confidently proceeds down a narrow drive like he has been here before, parking in the last space available in the hotel car park at the top of the hill.  Checking-in at the bar we are shown to room #1, upstairs at the end of the hall above the pub. The bed is wide, dressed in white sheeting and topped with gray wool blankets.

Once I figure it out how to deal with the immense flat black wooden wall beyond the bed, I open the double doors to the bath and am faced with the most awesome bathtub I have ever seen. I feel like I might have hit the jackpot—the bath being almost as big as the sleeping room. There are magazines and crisps and jars of peanuts and jellybeans and more.  Everything any girl could want. I feel decadent. Indulged.

Returning to the pub, we order gin and tonic and crisps, sitting in the two comfortable chairs facing the large window, looking out over the street and the ocher colored buildings beyond. Feeling like an impostor of someone else’s life, I can’t help but think this is the way things are  supposed to be—at least occasionally.

Lingering long enough for Michael to get antsy, he asks me if I want to explore. Our feet take us up and along the main street/highway that we drove in on.  It feels like this is as real a town as you can get in the tourist heavy Cotswold’s. Looking at Michael my thoughts take form, “This is charming—I’m not sure about what lies beyond on either side of the street, but this is charming.”

In an effort to find out we turn down a tiny lane between homes, following the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel. We emerge at the edge of wide green field that sports a lone bench where we quickly take up residence. Continuing on we turn left and right and left till Michael sees a church tower. We follow its beacon. I’m amazed. For such a tiny hamlet it is massive—there’s that word again. It is beautiful, and seemingly hidden from those who don’t know where to look.

Michael immediately walks through the church doors, I linger outside, amazed at the number of plants that seem to hold droplets of water on their leaves—forever. And the old gravestones that are so timeworn and full of decay and moss and algae that you need a large sheet of paper and a piece of charcoal to release what is hidden beneath.

Inside the church I should probably be taken with many things, but I am charmed by all of the needlepoint pillows on which to sit and kneel and the area set aside for small children during Sunday service and the grave marker on the church floor for a man and his wife and their fifteen children. The dates of birth and death hardly make sense—they span only 20 years—and there is no one here to explain the conundrum.

As we leave the church grounds we bump into the only American’s we have seen on this trip, from North Carolina they just got into town yesterday, spent the night in Wales and have a tight schedule to run before they board a cruise line for the north coast of Africa. On their way to Northleach they stopped off at Burton-on-Water—they say it is well worth the stop. I check Google Maps, it is on our way to Whitby. I try to remember the name.

The birthday dinner I planned for Michael in the old pub dining room is exceptional. I order a Twice Baked Cheddar Soufflé with Spinach & Grain Mustard for my first course while Michael opts for Burrata with Heritage Beetroot & Maple Roasted Walnuts. Whiltshire Lamb Rump with White Beans, Peppers & Salsa Verde is my choice for an entree, while the Butts Farm Gloucester Old Spot Pork Chop with Mustard Runner Beans calls Michael’s name. And because it is on the wine list, and because we are in England, we order a bottle of claret to go with our meal.

I’m in love with the cheddar soufflé—rich and decadent, sitting on a bed of wilted spinach and coated with a creamy mustard sauce—the word sumptuous doesn’t do it justice. When Michael’s pork chop arrives it looks so good I want it, but my lamb is perfect, and the white beans and julienne red bell peppers in their brothy sauce are not only delicious, they make me feel like I’m being good. When there is nothing on Michael’s plate but a shiny clean bone, and I feel I can’t stuff another bite in my mouth, we order dessert. I notice that a ten year old Malmsey Madeira is on their list of “Stickies” (don’t ask me), we order a suitable dessert to share that is rich enough to work with the golden amber liquid.

Not wanting the evening to end, we once again take to the streets, making our way to the church and the bench at the end of the graveyard, just in time to hear a short symphony of bells. It is almost total darkness—bible black—except for the softly lit church.