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WEATHERING TIDES Through the villages of the good old Cotswold

Where are the wild windy moors of “Wuthering Heights”? And the cheerful gossipy streams and fields of flowers of countless English poets. For a slice of authentic old England, not yet suffocated by chattering throngs of trigger-happy camera nuts or swamped by global shopping chains, try the quiet villages of the Cotswolds.

Set on a range of gently sloping hills in west-central England, these villages were created and sustained by sheep farming right from the 13th and 15th Century. As we left Oxford, driving towards the relatively anonymous Burford in an attempt to dodge the tourist coaches, which inevitably head to the same popular villages every year, we gasp in delight at the Cotswold cottages.

Made of a distinctive yellow limestone, the honey-coloured cottages actually glow golden when the sun hits them at a particular angle. It’s enough to make you want to write poetry. Or buy a couple of sheep and settle down to a rustic life.

The returns aren’t too bad, by the way. Wealthy Cotswold farmers thrived on the native sheep, famous for their wool. As a result, even today, when tourism is probably the area’s biggest income, everything here revolves around the old trade. There are churches known as ‘wool churches’ because they were bought with money from wool, and the street names – such as Upper Slaughter — still represent their original roles.

Lunch, for instance, is at The Lamb, set on Sheep’s Way. An endearingly old-fashioned Inn, it’s got a crackling fire, an uneven, flagstone floor and a blackboard listing the specials.

Even the menu doesn’t seem to have changed much from the 15th Century, which is when it was set up. It’s Sunday and you’re expected to have the roast, with buttery mashed potatoes and warm, rich gravy.

We worked it off with an antique hunt, a popular hobby in these parts. We wander from store to store, crammed with pretty Victorian jewellery, delicate china dolls, valuable frayed maps, charming furniture and – more often than not – the owner’s composedly snoozing cat.

Arlington Row in the village of Bibury is the next on the list, so we spread open a map and argue about which road to take. By the time we get there it’s drizzling gently, but that just adds atmosphere to the striking row of cottages.

Built in 1380 originally to store wool, these cottages were converted into homes for weavers in the 17th Century. A legend goes Henry Ford was so impressed with the scene they conjured up, he tried to buy the entire row, intending to ship it to Michigan to be included in Greenfield Village, a theme park. However, he didn’t succeed and took the 350-year-old Rose cottage from Chedworth village instead.

We walk across the wooden bridge, catching flashes of the Rainbow trout that populate the stream, and curiously inspect the cottages. (All of which are still inhabited by locals who are – no doubt – sick of saucer-eyed tourists peeking through the windows.)

Then, we walk down to the trout farm, where a picturesque store sells local jams, cider and fishing rods, besides other provisions.

The sun sets, and standing outside, the only sounds I can hear are the whistling wind and the gently murmuring stream. The lights in the cottages have come on, and they glow golden in the grey silhouettes. I sigh with relief.

Finally, I can imagine Thomas Hardy’s Mayor of Casterbridge striding past.

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