We arrived in the UK at the end of August, very much looking like people who had just stepped off a long‑haul flight—which we had. A van was waiting to take us to Nailsworth, where we’d booked a few nights at The Garlic Rooms. Tucked into the middle of town on the top floor, it felt like a quiet little perch above the streets below—just the right kind of hideaway for two adults and two kids fighting the jet‑lag battle with varying degrees of dignity.
The drive there was our first introduction to the Cotswolds’ particular brand of charm. We wound our way over Minchinhampton Common, still half‑asleep, when the taxi van came to a sudden stop. Cows—actual cows—were crossing the road with the confidence of creatures who clearly owned the place. The kids were delighted. We were too tired to do anything but stare, wide‑eyed, as if this were some sort of pastoral welcome committee. It was our first hint that life here would be a little slower, a little quirkier, and full of moments we could never have planned.
That first evening, we wandered across the street to Oldstone Pizzeria for take‑out. The place was quaint and welcoming, the kind of spot where you instantly want to sit down and stay awhile—but we were far too tired to be around other humans. So we ordered quickly, retreated to our room, and ate authentic, delicious pizza in a jet‑lagged haze. It was simple, comforting, and exactly the right way to begin this new adventure.
The next morning, we picked up our rental car, which immediately became both our lifeline and our greatest source of stress. The lanes were impossibly narrow—more like scenic corridors than actual roads—and the hedges stood tall and immovable, as if guarding centuries of local secrets. Coming from the US, where roads are wide enough to host a parade, this was… an adjustment. I wasn’t driving yet (wrong side of the car, wrong side of the road, wrong everything), so I rode in the passenger seat offering moral support and the occasional involuntary gasp.
And then, on the first of September, we moved into our rental in Brimscombe. A beautiful old house set alone on a hill, overlooking the valley—the other side of Brimscombe, Brimscombe Hill, and Burleigh Court all unfolding in layers of green and stone. It felt both grand and quietly tucked away, the kind of place that makes you pause at the window because the view insists on being admired. We were still living out of suitcases, still jet‑lagged, still figuring out which light switches did what, but stepping into that house felt like the first real exhale.
Not long after settling in, we found our local pub: The Ship Inn in Brimscombe. Getting there required walking down an impossibly steep, dark footpath that somehow used to be a road—something we still can’t quite wrap our heads around. But at the bottom waited warm lights, friendly faces, and the comforting hum of a place that had been part of the valley long before we arrived. It became our first ritual, our first “this could be home” moment.
By then, the jet lag had fully set in. We fought it bravely, then poorly, then not at all. But even through the fog, the beauty around us was impossible to ignore—the hills rising and falling in every direction, the rooftops stacked like a patchwork quilt, the footpaths slipping between houses like secret invitations.
Those first days were a blur of awe, exhaustion, and Google Maps. We needed navigation to go anywhere, even places we’d already been. Every outing felt like a small expedition, even if it was just to the nearest shop
And then there were the hills. Beautiful, yes. But also steep enough to make us question our fitness levels. Every walk felt like a workout. Every errand was a mini hike. We enjoyed the challenge—truly—but there’s no denying it: in Stroud, every day is leg day.
Slowly, the pieces began to settle. A familiar stall at the market. A footpath we could walk without checking our phones. A hill that no longer made us bargain with the universe. The kids settled first, as they always do, and we followed—more slowly, more cautiously, but with growing confidence.
We didn’t feel fully “at home” yet, but we felt the beginnings of it. A soft landing. A gentle rooting. One steep hill, one narrow lane, one cosy pub evening at a time.
