Whenever I think of my perfect vacation, I usually go right to the cliché: tropical beach, quiet, peaceful, etc. Clearly, I have been watching too many Corona advertisements on television. And I do love the sea – whenever any ocean-based movie is on, I have to watch it, whether it’s the brilliance of Jaws, or the utter hideousness of Deep Blue Sea (yes, you may judge me). But I’m English. I need my seasons. Much as the idea of being at sea delights me, I can’t imagine that I’d want to spend eternity there, and paradise is supposed to be forever.
So, I think to myself that I need to retool the question: supposing money wasn’t an issue, and that I never had to work, I’m thirty two years old, and have the rest of my life to live wherever I like, as I please. What pops into my head is an advertisement in The Sunday Times (of London), that I must have seen years ago, and simply can’t forget. It was an advert for a relatively small, nineteenth century house in the center of England, right in the heart of the Midlands. The house is square, with faded red brick, and reminds me of the house in the BBC Pride and Prejudice. The house is quite simple, and I suspect, not very fancy. I think I might want to put in a little annex on the side with an indoor pool (this is England, after all), but it would be dishonest to the look of the house, so I suppose I’ll just have to imagine a nice lake nearby to swim in during the summer.
What I remember most clearly about this advertisement, and where the charm is for me, is the garden. The house backs onto the site of a ruined twelfth century monastery. There are enough ruins for it to be a stunning backdrop to my new back garden, but not enough for it to be creepy and keep me awake at night! If I remember correctly, the picture I saw had a good-sized garden, surrounded by a low brick wall, with a gate at the end, after which were fields of long, wild grass, turned yellowish green in the late summer sun. I can’t imagine ever becoming bored of a view like that, and if I’m pushing my vision of paradise on it, we’ll pop a couple of ponies in the field behind, so that they can wander around, whinnying and swishing their tails, lazily.
In my paradise, my lovely little home (which would have a name like “Cornfields House”) would be on the edge of a small village, with a local store and a pub that I could walk to in the evening for a roast beef dinner. I come from a tiny little town in England called Woodham Ferrers, and after living in New York for ten years, the idea of small town appeals. Of course, we’d also be near enough to Stratford-Upon-Avon so I could get my theatre and shopping fix when I needed to, but I’d have somewhere old and pretty to relax in when I have people-fatigue.
That’s paradise to me.
LG
