How many new roundabouts must I be lost around before I reach the serenity of Rosemary Verey’s garden, one of the most celebrated of the 20th century’s Arts and Crafts movement?
I thought this as I trundled past concrete bollards and military-scale supermarkets, reminded of the fact that the Cotswolds aren’t actually round the corner at all, even though so much of London descends on them each Thursday. As close as this patch of rural England is to London socially and demographically, it’s a two-hour drive if the traffic is fine. Which it wasn’t, obviously. And so, being late for dinner at the new Pig in the Cotswolds, the tranquillity of its gardens had to wait.
