In the Cotswolds, it felt like the walk we did was a walk we could have done in 1683: same hedges and walls, same shops, same dead people, same high streets, same pubs, same horrible beds. Because the beds — my lord, were I to complain about only one Costwolds thing it would be the beds (well, and the Covid). Soft, those Cotswolds beds, like sleeping in a hammock made of blue cheese. Now, I must admit: I am a fully converted thin-futon-atop-tatami kinda guy, a lay-down-and-have-gravity-splay-a-body’s-spine-out-upon-an-unyielding-mattress kinda guy. I don’t like to struggle to get out of my bed but the Cotswolds folk seem to adore it. My limited empirical data indicate that they desire to sink into a squishy thing that envelops the limbs, that places pressure on random points along the torso, to have no airflow around the skull. The data evidence desires to inhale the face-goo of a million other oily noses rubbed about the pillow, and to then, come morning, to roll themselves out of the contraption like a sausage escaping a hotdog bun. Anyway, I did not like the beds.
