When I emerged from the underground station near Big Ben, I was surrounded by thousands of people, most wearing red poppies in their lapels.

Some wore medals pinned to their suits and military berets on their heads. Others were in uniform.

London bobbies were everywhere, guarding the barricades and warily eyeing the crowds. Whitehall and its side streets were closed.

It was Remembrance Sunday.

The Cotswolds of south central England is known for its rolling hills, stone villages, and hyphenated names, such as Stow-on-the-Wold and Bourton-on-the-Water. An extensive network of trails connects its small towns, many of which seem untouched by time.

Hiking through the Cotswolds became especially appealing when I found a tour company that would arrange the lodging along the route and transport my bag each day.

All that was left for me to do was walk.

It’s an old story. Father sends son away to college. Son returns home with a social disease. Son is thrown out of the house.

In this telling, the father is the king of ancient Britain. The son is a prince and next in line to the throne. The disease is leprosy, once greatly feared.

The son, named Bladud (meaning Wolf-lord), returned home from Athens, Greece, after hearing of his father’s death. Instead of being crowned king, he was treated as an outcast, due to the stigma associated with leprosy and the unsightly sores on his skin.