The Bucket List
Bif Naked’s Running Playlist
READ OUR FULL INTERVIEW ON P.84 Whitesnake
“Don’t Break My Heart Again”
Madonna “Get Into The Groove” Queens of The Stone Age
“Sick, Sick, Sick”
Queens of The Stone Age
“3’s and 7’s”
Tiësto (feat. Kyler England)
“Take Me”
Tiësto (Tiësto’s Club Life Remix)
“I Love It” Bally Sagoo “Jungi” Bally Sagoo “Ajaa Nachle” Depeche Mode “I Feel Loved” Lady Gaga “Sexxx Dreams” GOT A BUCKET LIST? Email michael@runningmagazine.ca
The taxi dropped us off at the racetrack pub on a hot spring day. But as tempting as it was, local running expert Andy and I weren’t here for a pint of English ale – nor were we dressed for it. Instead, we ducked under the track boundaries and marched across a grassy field to find the trails leading back into town, about 10k in the distance along the Cotswold Way, one of the United Kingdom’s 16 National Trails – long-dist ance footpaths and bridleways that cover a total of more than 4,000k of picturesque countryside and quaint villages.
It wasn’t my first time on the Cotswold Way. About 18 months earlier, I’d travelled the region with my mother and sister and walked about 15k of the 160k route that leads from Chipping Campden in the north to Bath in the south. Just that short section had taken us across hugely varied terrain. We’d followed the signposts and our printed directions, which included descriptions like “cross the horse paddock diagonally then follow the hedge line westward.” We passed through perfect country villages built from the yellow stone the region is known for. We traversed vast fields of hay glowing golden in the sun and grassy hills where sheep grazed contentedly, barely raising their heads as we walked by. We passed by an 18th-century stone tower, the tallest in the region, and a nuclear bunker next door now open to the public but which once housed staff tasked with
monitoring radiation levels i n the air during the Cold War. All this on wellmarked footpaths that meander across both public and private land – sometimes, to Canadian sensibilities, surprisingly close to houses and farm animals. This is thanks to right-of-way laws that require property owners to keep trails both open and useable, part of a centuries-old longdistance walking tradition that makes the best of a small, densely populated country and mild climate by maximizing its outdoor leisure space.
We’d ended our first day in the village of Broadway at Abbots Grange, sipping tea and snacking on scones while learning about the history of the 14th-century building, now home to a family-run bed and breakfast. It was at that moment that the contrast hit me – the Canadian wilderness hiking that so many Europeans fantasize about but which inevitably involves bear (or at least bug) spray, and the civilized English version, complete with country pubs, cream tea and a chauffeur shuttling us and our luggage from point to point. I vowed to come back to see more.
It was that contrast with Canadian trail running that led me there. We’re running across a racetrack field to find the acorn symbol that marks waypoints along the Cotswold Way and other National Trails. I’d sought out a runner to guide me along the southernmost section of the trail, intending to end at the route marker in Bath, the mystery-to-me counterpart to the stubby stone pillar I’d photographed in Chipping Campden. Andy, who’s participated in the Cotswold Relay multiple times, volunteered to take me on a tour, and we stashed our things in his office near Bath Abbey before making our way to the start.
It was still early in the season, and the route was virtually deserted, leaving us plenty of breathing room to chat about the local running scene as Andy demonstrated his prowess on hills and I showed off my advanced skills in stopping to take photos. The tops of the hills offered views that stretched to nearby towns. As we wound our way down to Bath at the bottom of the valley, the mostly narrow trail took us through meadows strewn with wildf lowers and across fields that were, unfortunately for our shoes, well-used by cows, until finally we hit the edge of town and switched from dirt (and manure) to pavement.
In Bath, the sights turned decidedly more urban. Houses and schools gave way to classics of Georgian architecture and sidewalks bustling with tourists, street performers and the lunchtime crowd. We made a last turn into the plaza i n front of Bath Abbey, and stopped at the route marker right in front of its doors – not a stone pillar here, but a circular plaque set into the ground, the familiar acorn emblem in the centre. “Stand ye in the way and see,” it read. “Ask for the old paths where is the good way and walk therein, and ye shall find rest for your souls.”
And so, I asked directions to a good pub. It was time for that ale after all.