As the wife of a stubborn Englishman, I am constantly complaining about not seeing more of the UK. So when my husband asked me to meet him in London for a romantic weekend, I was game.
“What about the Cotswolds? You still haven’t taken me." I suggested. And, after admitting that he, too, had never been, a deal was struck.
After over 25 years together, we were finally going to see the rolling hills and seemingly idyllic countryside that has most recently been touted as a playground for the wealthy and connected.
Why the Cotswolds?
© Getty ImagesThe Cotswolds are having a moment. Well known as the home of British celebs and tastemakers like the Beckhams and Jeremy Clarkson, the most recent spotlight has been on a gaggle of famous (and infamous) Americans like Ellen DeGeneres and Portia DeRossi, Kourtney Kardashian, and even VP JD Vance (whose 18-car motorcade caused a lockdown in the vicinity).
But for me, it’s definitely less glossy and more traditional English. My obsession with the region started when I picked up the recently departed Dame Jilly Cooper’s books and devoured the Rutshire Chronicles. Set in the '80s, there were horses, ancient limestone manses, fabulous house parties, award-winning gardens, and lots and lots of devious sex.
© Tobey GrumetIn my New York-centric mind, I imagined the Cotswolds as a more civilised brethren of The Hamptons — replacing the beach clubs, tacky glass mansions and WASPY prepsters with historic pubs, centuries-old stately homes and loads of silk, tweed and jodhpurs. To my absolute glee, one of these books was recently made into a TV show called “Rivals” on Amazon Prime, which simply ratcheted up my infatuation.
When it came to booking, we decided to eschew the super high-end resorts, like the Soho Farmhouse and Estelle Manor, and booked a room at The Bull Burford, an uber-stylish, 18-bedroom hotel nestled in a walkable, nearly picture-perfect medieval town.
Getting to the Cotswolds
Since we were coming from London, we decided to be the New Yorkers we are — and boarded a train from Paddington station instead of renting a car. The ride was just over an hour to Charlbury, and when I booked our room, I was told that the hotel has its own Defender, which picked us up from the train for the 20-minute ride to the hotel.
Driving into town felt like entering a postcard. We came in from the bottom of Burford, which we knew because the high street is a sweeping hill, buttressed by those ancient Cotswold limestone houses, pubs, shopfronts, and inns all gussied up with fairy lights.
The Bull Burford is more than just a boutique hotel
© Tobey GrumetThe Bull Burford is darling. A 16th-century coaching inn that was transformed into an 18-room boutique hotel, it’s like finding a laptop in an ancient cave. Walking through a labyrinth of cobblestoned twists and turns, then climbing some old stone steps, spits you out into a warm reception area, resplendent with roaring fireplace, earthy-toned couches and armchairs, a chess set, and sublime modern art (um, is that a Basquiat?). The mix of old and new was just right, and in addition to our room key, we were also handed a WhatsApp number in case we needed anything.
© Tobey GrumetOur suite was just what we were craving: comfort and quiet. Linens and velvets prevailed, fluffy bathrobes were hanging, no TV, and the heated bathroom floor was bliss. We immediately got changed and headed down to Vincent’s Cocktail & Wine Bar. After dinner at a nearby local pub, we decided to check out The Cotswold Arms, which we were told held the liveliest crowd in town. Here we were rewarded with tables of revelers surrounding a man with a guitar, belting out American western sing-along tunes like "Take Me Replica Luxury Handbag, Country Roads" and "The Gambler." Not a bad way to end the evening.
First peek at Butford High Street
© Tobey GrumetThe next morning, we awoke early and ready to explore. After gorging on The Bull’s gourmet spin on a full English (no black pudding, thank you) under the sparkling mirrors of Banksy’s Met Ball, my husband and I took a wander down to the St. John the Baptist Church, which anchors the town at the bottom of the hill. A Grade 1 Anglican parish church with claims of origins as early as 1175, it’s a stunning piece of architecture and a peaceful place to appreciate the huge spire, Victorian stained glass, and early morning fishermen on the fog-shrouded River Windrush. And no, this kind of history just doesn’t exist in the US.
Scrumptious lunch
Knowing we had one more day to enjoy the town, we asked if our Defender driver could take us to our first stop, the Killingworth Castle in Wooten. She was happy to oblige and dropped us at this 15th-century, preeminent Cotswolds gastropub with three AA Rosettes. We were given a table by the window and treated like long-lost family members. I truly can’t say which was better, the service or the food, but we feasted on an exquisite two-course meal and shared a luscious dessert.
Touring the only non-royal palace in England
© Tobey GrumetAnd good thing we were fortified because our next stop was Blenheim Palace, a UNESCO World Heritage site, but best known as the birthplace of Winston Churchill. The folks at Killingworth were nice enough to call a taxi (if you do decide to go sans vehicle, be forewarned: Even if Uber says they are coming, they are most definitely not).
Blenheim Palace was gifted by Queen Anne to the First Duke of Marlborough, John Churchill, for his victory at the Battle of Blenheim (in Germany, not England). It’s also the only non-royal palace in England, which I found interesting as an American.
Next, we moved on to the Churchill Exhibition because it turns out Winston Churchill is fascinating. As Brooklyn residents, my husband and I did know that Churchill’s mother was born in Cobble Hill, then married into the British aristocracy as what is known as a “dollar duchess” (Gilded Age fans will know the phrase) to help save the family’s fortune. But, I bet you’d never guess that Churchill also gave us the very first romper? Dubbed the Siren Suit in WW2, he created this now-popular one-piece to easily get on and off during air raids. Wartime prime minister and fashion icon: who knew?
By the time we were done, it was nearly dark, so we set out to see as much of the acres of grounds that surround the palace, sheep included.
Last licks in the Burford, and the Cotswolds
© Tobey GrumetThat evening, we stuck close to the hotel and had dinner at Horn, The Bull’s signature restaurant. I hate to admit it, but there’s nothing I like better than a savory pie, and nobody does it better than the Brits. So snarfing down the Bull Pie, which was buttery pastry filled with beef and gravy, was like a giant English hug. If there’s one thing I can promise? You will eat well in the Cotswolds.
Our train back to London was at 4pm, and the concierge suggested we take a trip to the Burford Garden Center, which, if you didn’t know, is what lots of English people do on weekends. Just a 15-minute walk up the Burford hill and through some small lanes meant we also had a chance to see the top of the village — which was lined with picturebook-perfect stone houses and Pollarded Lime Trees. The view from the top of the hill was a fabulous panorama of a snapshot in time. We also got to peek at some of the larger, more spectacular homes in the neighborhood, and we dreamed out loud about how we might be able to retire here someday. Or at least get invited in for tea.
The Garden Center was a trip. We had a grand time people-watching and eyeing up grossly overpriced furniture and gourmet goods.
Finally, it was time to get back to London, but not without a stop at the Royal Oak pub just steps from the Bull. If you couldn’t guess, this too is a 17th-century inn, and was heaving with crowds for Sunday lunch. We had a quick chat with the bartender, sucked down a few pints, grabbed our bags, and hopped in our taxi. As we left town, we felt as if we were saying goodbye to an old friend. Would we be back? With so much more to see, the answer is a definitive yes. In fact, I hear spring in the Cotswolds is delightful.
