I am completely taken with the notion of living in an old farmhouse or country estate or somewhere with vast, lush rolling grounds, ideally a peacock or two, roaming deer, a large wrought iron gate, a circular driveway and stables.
We would have a magnificent garden that I would wander through mid-morning with a clean pair of secateurs and a straw basket collecting roses to bring inside.
and all sorts of magical things would happen under stairwells, in attics and by the soft glow of table lamps.
Perfect for entertaining.
and keeping hounds.
"Thou art not, Penshurst, built to envious show
Of touch or marble, nor canst boast a row
Of polished pillars, or a roof of gold;
Thou hast no lantern whereof tales are told,
Or stair, or courts; but stand’st an ancient pile,
And these grudged at, art reverenced the while."
Poem, To Penshurst, by Ben Johnson
