This is a village of such eye-popping gorgeousness that you feel slightly guilty for being there and sullying it with your human presence. Everywhere you turn is a vision of such ravishing beauty that your head hurts. The row of weaver's cottages at Arlington Row are positively begging to be the backdrop for your magnum opus murder mystery (think Agatha Raisin meets Agatha Christie).
The Swan Hotel is in just as attractive a building but is still, thankfully, being a Cotswold Inns franchise kitted out for the twentieth-century as far as access goes. Plenty of flat surfaces and space, although if you choose to go to the bar via the main entrance and the reception, there are some tight corners to negotiate. There was, however, no mobile phone signal or wi fi. I gather that is not typical, but just a heads-up. This is the depths of nowhereville. While that means a passable, if somewhat lava-hot latte, there's nothing for it but to watch the swans and cygnets, listen to the babbling of the river, the splash of leaping trout, the haunting cries of birds, the lowing of cattle and the rush of wind in the trees. Just generally contemplate nature. In all its glory. And majesty. And stuff like that. As you do.