The Cotswolds, and a cream tea, or two

Is it too early for a cream tea? Said no one ever. A cream tea is the little sister to the traditional afternoon high tea. Something we are very partial to and a topic I have written about previously.

For the uninitiated, a cream tea involves two warm scones, preferably just from the oven, strawberry jam, and lashings of clotted cream. Now, here is the key point. Clotted cream. Not whipped. Clotted. Cream so thick it could be mistaken for ice cream. And a cream tea is not a cream tea without clotted cream. 

But why am I making such a fuss over the cream that comes with our scones? Because, despite having many, many high teas in Australia, I have yet to find one that does clotted cream. I mean, what is so difficult about clotting cream? In truth, I don’t know. Maybe I should investigate. There has to be some reason that “traditional” high teas in Australia are just not, well, all that traditional.

What is definitely traditional is the part of England called The Cotswolds. Situated about an hour from London, and three hours south of our native Yorkshire, The Cotswolds are deemed an “area of national beauty”. And walking around it is obvious why. Cottages dating back centuries. A pub reputed to be the oldest in England. Rolling green fields, hemmed in by dry stone walls. 

We recently spent a glorious three days exploring The Cotswolds.. And cream teas are something that quaint little tea rooms in The Cotswolds do well. Extremely well. 

With excellent cream teas, and so much history and beauty, I am left scratching my head as to why I have never visited The Cotswolds previously. I spent the first forty years of my life living in England, and saw much of the world. Ten years living in Australia and now I start exploring England. Better late than never. And what better place to start than the historic Barnsley House and Spa. Built in 1697, Barnsley House has been run as a hotel since 2003. 

We had two nights in room 5, up in the eaves of the main building. Carrying our bags up the flights of old wooden stairs, creaking with every step, you immediately start getting a sense of the place. Our room was huge. A vestibule. Large bedroom to the left. And a very impressive bathroom to the right. Complete with a sumptuous free standing bath. I had my afternoon already planned out. 

Downstairs in the hotel is the “Potager” restaurant, a word I later learned is French for “kitchen garden”. And wandering around the garden, I came to see where the name comes from. A garden replete with herbs and vegetables, no doubt destined for the kitchen. We had an excellent dinner in the restaurant, with Mrs C proclaiming that her lamb was the best she has ever had. I have to say, the steak I had was tremendous. 

Breakfast both mornings was also in the restaurant. Imagine my delight when we came down on the first morning and I saw that the menu included a “full English”. If you have ever visited England you will be familar with what a “full English” is. The fact that it is traditionally served with black pudding is an added bonus.  An acquired taste, black pudding is something I love and can’t get a good version of in Australia. Who would have thought something made predominantly with pigs blood could be so hard to come by?

By day three we had departed Barnsley House and checked in to the Wild Thyme and Honey, a boutique hotel in the tiny village of Ampney Crucis. Attached to the excellent Crown pub, we ended up debating whether to cancel our onward plans and stay longer. It really was that delightful. 

And if I thought I had hit the gastronomic highs at Barnsley House, they were just about to go into orbit. Dinner at the Crown pub was a “luxury fish pie” so good I decided that if I ever find myself on death row, which I sincerely hope I don’t, I now have a new “last supper”. Packed with all kinds of creatures from the sea, and a hard boiled egg squeezed in, and topped with Duchess potatoes, this fish pie for one could have fed a family. It fed me, and I just about managed to roll out of the restaurant.

The rolling had changed to walking by the morning and we spent our final hours exploring the tiny village. As with our whole stay in the Cotswolds I was blown away by the houses, the cottages, and the overall look of the area. Never has the word, “wow”, been so overused.

It may have taken me 50 years to finally visit the Cotswolds. I will not be waiting quite so long next time.