I was in a small pub in Chipping Camden the evening before a week long hike through the English countryside. I was tired, having spent the better part of that day trying to get from London to this little village at the start of the trailhead. I had convinced myself that a hike along the Cotswold Way would be a great thing, a wonderful solo adventure with everything I needed for the week in a small daypack. The Plan was to hike between several small towns, enjoy the scenery and my own company, stopping each evening at small bed & breakfasts and pubs. But first, I had to get to the damn trailhead. It had been a challenge but after two trains, a bus and many curious looks I found myself deposited, slightly disoriented, smack dab in the middle of what looked like a movie set of a typical country village. I had hoped to start hiking that afternoon but as with most best laid plans, it didn’t quite work out that way. It was rainy, a little chilly and I stumbled upon what was to be the first of many picturesque pubs in the middle of somewhere. Hiking would have to wait until tomorrow. A few pints of ale and a hearty shepherd’s pie did much to improve my mood. Feeling warm and fuzzy and not quite ready to venture out into the rain, I ordered a dram of something burning and perused the dessert list. The usual suspects: sticky toffee pudding, some kind of custard, an apple cake. And Banoffee Pie. Banoffee? What the hell was that?
