Last week, the Cotswolds; this week . . .

The village of Snowshill, in the Cotswolds.

Last week we explored the quintessential English countryside of the Cotswolds. Idyllic farms, rolling hills, quaint villages, creamy stone cottages, and everywhere you look: sheep.

For centuries, wool was the lifeblood of the Cotswolds.

Inside the Great Hall at Blenheim Palace.

You might think the arrival of a new baby would pause our travel itch. Heck no! When traveling with young children, the newborns and infants are much easier — much more compliant — than toddlers and preschoolers. You need to stop every so often to feed them and change diapers, but mostly they sleep all day. Easy peasy.

The lil' scribbler celebrated his first month anniversary in style at Blenheim Palace. But, of course, he dozed through nearly all of it in his baby carrier. Typical.

The 4¾ year olds . . . those are the ones to whom you have to cater. It's like they've actually become little people, with real wants and opinions. 

Fortunately, this 4¾ year old was happy to explore Blenheim Palace inside and out.

Our cottage.

We rented a lovely cottage in the even more lovely village of Lower Slaughter. Quite a name for a town, don't you think? If you're like me, your first thought was about slaughtering the ubiquitous sheep. But apparently the "slaughter" part derives from an old Anglo-Saxon term ("slough" or "slothre") for mud.

Which makes sense for the village, given its position on a low-banked river that runs through it. In truth, the "River" Eye looks more like a stream, crisscrossed by bridges skimming the surface.

Lower Slaughter cozies up to the low banks of the River Eye.

Jackson biking through the village of Stanton.

From our central location we crisscrossed the Cotswolds, trying to do more than merely skim the surface. We rambled through castles. Delved into ruins. Petted farm animals. Reconnoitered old villages. Chugged on steam trains. Investigated neolithic barrows. Strolled through gardens. Climbed up towers.

Hiked.

Biked.

Drank coffee.

A mid-morning refueling.

Charging up to see Broadway Tower.

Sometimes Jackson grew bored exploring yet another village (e.g., Bibury) and the silliness overtook him. And his grandmother.

Hidcote Manor Gardens were gorgeous even in early spring, before most of the blooming.

The Cotswold Farm Park provides plenty of hands-on experiences.

We searched for hidden gems, like this ancient Templar parish church in Temple Guiting.

Have Kate and baby Finley grown to giant size, or is this the remarkably (and painstakingly) accurate Model Village in Bourton-on-the-Water?

Our train-mad boy steaming along the vintage Gloucester Warwickshire Railway.

'Twas a full week.

For the new baby we've had Kate's mom (i.e., Grammar) staying with us since mid-February. This week we've been joined by my parents (i.e., Nana and Grampa Bill), and the explorations continue. Over the next couple of weeks we'll ramble through Bristol, head south into Somerset for awesome places like Wells, and take a quick jaunt or two across the border to Wales.

Grammar on the steam train.

But I promise, no more month-long breaks in posts around here. Check back next week for more traveling and photographic goodness!

Nana and Grampa Bill amidst the ruins of Tintern Abbey in southeastern Wales.

Monday Exposure: Seaside golf on the Isle of Iona

The first tee marker at the Isle of Iona's golf course.

Cows graze. Sheep nestle in the sand traps. A hidden corncrake mutters its call, like the tines of a comb dragged across wood. The wind is stiff, but the waves lap softly onto shore.

No clubhouse, no fees, no tee times. Nor any golf carts, caddies, smooth greens, restrooms, beer carts. Sometimes, the sheep have eaten the flags.

The cows help keep the course trimmed . . . and fertilized.

To avoid frustration, avoid a white ball. The weeds are voluminous. As are the tufts of sheep fur clinging to the sandy machair grass. For your ball, think pink.

Even so, you're probably gonna lose a few. Perhaps because you hit your ball in the exact opposite direction of the hole, since no flag remained to indicate the hole's location. Or the ball caromed off a rocky outcrop into a deep crevice. Or maybe, given the composition of the soil, you hit your drive and the ball sank into the ground on impact, enveloped by the sandy soil and never to be seen again.

It's like no other golf course you've played on.

Natural. Authentic. Rugged. Serene. The course has been fit to the land, not vice versa. It's the way golf began, hundreds of years ago. Every so often, a professional player shows up, just to reconnect with the ancient mores of the game.

One day in August every year, the course hosts the Iona Open. All and sundry are welcome. Played on only eleven of the holes, the winner is whomever has the best scratch score on any nine of them. Some years, a professional or two play the Open. And lose.

Every other day of the year, it's all yours. Some folks make pilgrimages to visit Iona's ancient abbey. Your pilgrimage, to the windswept golf course on Iona's southwestern coast, awaits.

Typical sheep hazards on the green.