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The Independent UK

World

Gabriel Stewart

I travelled by local bus from London to the Cotswolds and discovered the joy of slow travel

Cotswolds London Cotswold United Kingdom Christine Sue Beaconsfield High Wycombe Wallingford

The Crown Hotel on a lovely sunny afternoon in Blockley in Gloucestershire - (Gabriel Stewart)

“Free coffee and tea inside!” I mopped sweat from my eyes and read the Bradenham church sign with delight. The door creaked open and a chorus of crows erupted in response, their “kau-kaus” reverberating across each stained-glass window. I ploughed towards the refreshments, deciding that if I was going to meet my end via the beak of a crow, it might as well be while scoffing down a custard cream.

This was day two travelling the UK by local bus. I had set myself the task of not using trains, coaches or cars, leaving myself just the local bus networks to get around. A trip that would be a test for both my own patience and the transport that so many in the UK rely on on a daily basis.

The first leg of this journey was from my doorstep in London to the Cotswolds, a journey which took four days. I knew a train would have got me there in under two hours, but that was far from the point. This was slow travel, but purposely so. I didn’t have a schedule; I had the luxury of time.

Writer Gabriel’s route allowed him to see a snapshot of village life and many beautiful churches, such as St Denys Church in Little Compton, Warwickshire (Gabriel Stewart)

A luxury needed when escaping London. It would take four buses and five hours just to leave the M25. The sun-bathed, sticky seats of the SL8 Superloop were an early reminder of the less glamorous parts of travel by local bus. Yet the forced stasis brought interactions you’d rarely find elsewhere. En route to Little Compton in Warwickshire, I found myself the sole passenger on the bus and the driver told me she was happy to drop me anywhere, as long as it was safe to do so. Certainly the cheapest taxi ride I’ve ever had.

Travelling by bus gives you the ability to stop off wherever you want. Moreton-in-Marsh, Bourton-on-the-Water, Stow-on-the-Wold, Bibury – all places that have suffered with overtourism in the years since the Covid pandemic, but whose residents were extremely welcoming and intrigued by my adventure. In Bibury, village leaders are working on a plan that could see coaches banned for good, after visitor numbers have soared, with up to 20,000 descending on weekends, and up to 50 coaches arriving daily. In contrast to this kind of tourist, I was seen as something of a rebel.

Travelling by bus allowed Gabriel to discover the bucolic landscape of the Cotswolds (Gabriel Stewart)

Hopping between towns and villages each day, I began to fall for the weird and wonderful corners of this country I grew up in. In West Wycombe, Buckinghamshire, I happened upon The Swan Inn. A pub like no other. A pub with no pumps. Each ale was gravity-fed straight from the barrels and served at room temperature. Not to everyone’s taste, but a quirk the patrons seemed more than happy with. The interior looked much like that of someone’s living room. Two armchairs and a sofa sat facing a TV in the corner, and tables and chairs were spread across the rest of the room randomly, apparently with little consideration or attempt to impress.

The armchairs were occupied by landlady Christine and her friend, Sue, with whom I spent the evening watching EastEnders and Race Across The World. Each time the group in the back room dared to order a drink, it was treated as an affront.

“They made you miss the best bit!” Sue declared after her friend returned from serving a round.

Occasionally, locals would pop in and out for a chat but never order anything. They’d catch up with Christine about their days and fill her in on the village gossip. It seemed as though I had accidentally found myself at the heart of West Wycombe life.

Throughout the trip, I found that most of these hubs were pubs. In many villages, they were one of the few communal spaces for people to gather.

Gabriel took a No 31 bus from Beaconsfield to High Wycombe (Gabriel Stewart)

“We all love a drink, don’t we?” Jess, a resident of Eynsham, Oxfordshire, told me outside The Queens Arms. A village that certainly did – its six pubs proving the point.

“Are you the writer we’ve been hearing about?” One man said this with a mischievous grin as I entered The Jolly Sportsman, my fourth pub of the night. Word about my travels had spread fast.

Eynsham felt like a real community. It was a place where age differences didn’t seem to matter. Young mixed with old and groups moved freely between tables. Whether you were a pensioner or fresh out of school, you were taken along for the ride. Coming from the anonymous megacity of London, I was almost tempted by this life. It seemed remarkably easy to feel at home there.

The following day, I trotted on to the Cotswolds, a region where bus travel truly came into its own. Riding from Witney to Chipping Norton, the green pastures and rolling hills flowed past each window. The gold limestone brick buildings dotted across the landscape looked like the postcard version of the English countryside, except it was real. It seemed too idyllic for a journey that only cost £3, the national cap on a single fare.

On the whole, travel by public bus was a joy. And despite the unreliable reputation of rural bus services, there was usually another one coming within the hour to take you onwards. Apart from on Sundays. I found this out the hard way in Blockley, when my one-night stay turned into two thanks to a bus that never materialised. But little matter, I had nowhere to be in any hurry.

Bekonscot Model Village and Railway is among the attractions of Beaconsfield in Buckinghamshire (Gabriel Stewart)

In a life so overwhelmed by what’s coming next, keeping up with those around us and satisfying our overstimulated senses, something felt refreshing about being forced to slow down and take time to appreciate the journey. And also to know that the decisions were often out of my hands.

Commenting on my missed Sunday bus, Joe, a cheery Blockley resident, offered me a pearl of rural wisdom: “Sometimes the buses don’t come, and that’s okay. You just change your plans.”