The Cotswold Way, Part Two

More minor catastrophes and coincidences along the trail

Before we pick up the trail again, some news: my professional obligations will soon be changing in a way that will allow me to make this newsletter more regular, and hopefully more frequent as well. So many of you have kindly become paid subscribers that I’ve been able to turn what started as a goofy little experiment into a real project that is, I’m proud to say, getting some traction in the wider world. But while I hope this newsletter is proving that it’s possible to travel without the internet, it hasn’t quite managed to come up with a way of doing it without a wallet. So starting Jan 1, I’ll be putting roughly three out of every four essays behind a paywall (the remainder will be open to everyone), and raising the price of a new subscription to $6 per month or $60 per year. If you subscribe before then, however (or you are already a paid subscriber, in which case, grazie mille), your rate will be locked in at the current $5/$50 forever and ever (or for as long as this newsletter lasts, whichever comes first). Either way, I hope you’ll stay with me.

Onward. In our last installment, I had just discovered Bob slipping unannounced out the door of our shared B&B. Now, as I myself prepared to depart, the owner, Sarah, pressed a slip of paper with her phone number into my hand. I had been pleased to learn over breakfast that the other guests would be staying that night at a hotel in Cleeve Hill, so I at least knew that there were actual, marked accommodations to be found there. But Sarah was still worried. “If you can’t find a place to stay, you can always come back here,” she said. If nothing else, I had my plan B.