The sheep on the hillside, the deer in the park, the otter who lives in the lake...these are all part of my England.
Afternoon tea in the garden of a friend
or in front of an Inglenook fireplace in a centuries-old mansiond.
Dining on raspberries, strawberries and cherries I picked in the field. English asparagus...and soup made to order.
Villages of honey-coloured stone where the craftmanship and traditions familiar to Shakespeare must adjust to an invasion of cars and the computer-savy generation.
The library which opens every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon, the roadside stand selling cabbage and tomatoes on the honor system, and movies in the village hall once a month.
Beginning every conversation with a comment about the weather and dining strictly between the hours of seven and nine.
‘Locals’ filled with smoke and conversation and dining pubs serving sophisticated fare from Europe as well as local dishes of pheasant. No, thank you. I like mine in the field, please.
Spelling honor with a u and pronouncing Bath with a soft vowel.
Driving for forty minutes after dark without seeing one neon light.
Watching the sunset over Wales from Ilmington Hill and thanking God that I was able to see such a sight just once in my life. And most of all the walking paths...
and the company of friends.
It’s a place to be quiet. To be still and to know that God is God
... a world apart.
... a world apart.
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