I stay on an English farm for a night or two. It’s tucked behind Bristol and rests on a plush green carpet. This is an English farm for you. The lane it’s on is a Roman road. Created long and straight and thin. This is history for you.
The cottage is called Quince, and the lady of the house has legs as long as my body. She is always surrounded by her shiny-black-coat labradors. They dance around her and praise her care, praise her devotion and affection. Her name is a herb, and I think she grows her namesake in the vegetable garden. She grows everything in the vegetable garden that is needed for a hearty dinner meal. ‘Fetch the red cabbage for dinner’ she says, and it’s there growing strong and plump.