Cheltenham or "'Nam" is a dreamy Regency town which advertises itself as the "heart of the Cotswolds" and perhaps it is. I've always thought the center of town was like a park, with Montpellier and the Promenade running through the midst of it, surrounded by Georgian town houses and substantial villas. What's not to like, in a rus in urbe kind of way and that's where I went after the RSC and good old Edinburgh.
First things first, catch a cab from the station to Hotel 131, which is across the road from the Queens Hotel, facing Imperial Gardens. 131 is new and occupies three substantial buildings which would once have been owned and lived in by people of quality. It's a hotel now and not a bad one, despite annoying dance music being played on its otherwise pleasant terrace. Get over that and the fact that the place is like stepping into a Soho nightclub in the late '90s and you're ok.
Nostalgia for central London 30 years ago aside, step out onto the Promenade like a boss and make your way down the leafy, almost ritzy Promenade to the High Street. It hasn't changed all that much since I lived there back in the mists of time apart from restaurants, which seem to be everywhere, annoyingly. Ignoring them, head to the Cotswold Inn to meet an old friend.
Now the Cotswold is, I think, the last biker bar in central Cheltenham, favored by what used to the Wolves Outlaws and now simply the Outlaws. They dropped the Wolves thing and rolled into a greater transatlantic beast, at least that's my take.
Whatever the case, they seem to like me there and it was all very, "Alright, Padre!" I've become, curiously, an unofficial chaplain, and I told one of the probationary Outlaws that the Cotswold was the last biker bar in town. He looked at me and exclaimed, "Tradition's important!" So it is, they train them well there. You'll be pleased to know I stuck to traditional Outlaw MC Padre rig, a single breasted blazer, open neck shirt, smart slacks and loafers. Gotta show respect, don't you think?
A few pints later, it was time to head off for Moroccan food, and man was it tasty. Who knew, right in the heart of the Cotswolds, delicious, and it was great to catch up with my old friend. He's had a hard time but hasn't sunk beneath the waves, sort of thing.
The next day, a friend came to visit from Hereford and we had fun strolling around the pubs and leafy boulevards of the place. I cut to the chase, "Tell me, PHA, is this country Communist?" He looked at me with apocalyptic folk music wisdom and asked, "Does it look that way?" We glanced over at a Lexus, a Mercedes and several BMWs, "Yes, if the Politburo's anything to go by."
My pal, in fairness, is probably mostly a Commie, even though he's a bell ringer, and doubtless thinks England isn't Red enough. I dispute this, believing it's far too Bolshevik already, but we didn't argue and enjoyed our pints as we walked this incredibly beautiful country town. Go there if you can.
Next evolution? Back to London and then home to the great state of Texas.
LSP
