Living in an English idyll

Logically, now is about the time I should be sitting down to compose my thoughts on a year living in England. Realistically, I find it hard to reflect on an entire year and translate those feelings into a single blog entry. For the first six months we lived a little like nomads, in three different temporary places, our shipment from Australia frustratingly still in boxes in an Oxford storage shed. But these past six months of being settled in our own space, has allowed for a proper sense of living in England. I feel better able to articulate the last few months, rather than a whole year.

You can recap on the anticipation of moving, here if you like.

As I type, over six months have passed since we moved into this Cotswold cottage next to a brook in what is often described as "the prettiest village in England". We are feeling more and more at home; our neighbours recognise us and chat to us if we pass them on a walk in the woodland. We've volunteered for the village charity car boot sale. And we are very excited to attend the next few Christmas social events organised by the social committee. I am particularly looking forward to Carols by candlelight in the village church. 

As village residents we've seen three seasons, and all the delights that they each have to offer. We moved in at the very beginning of spring, when the daffodils were blooming en masse on roadsides and along the brook, seemingly welcoming us with their endlessly cheery disposition. Primrose carpeted the churchyard, vines unfurled. Wild ramson shoots scented the air, lambs bleated in nearby fields, ducklings appeared on the brook and bluebells in the woodland. I clipped whatever was in the garden to bring spring indoors whenever I could.

Summer swept in with warm breezes that swayed the branches in the towering trees around the cottage, windows were flung open to let in the grassy scent of summer and the rustling noise of the tree canopy. Farm traffic thundered through the village multiple times a day, a frenetic energy took hold of this beautiful agricultural region as farmers used every second of the long days to harvest & bale and plough & sow. Sunlight stretched long into the night and the birds anticipated dawn sometimes as early as 4am.

Autumn has gripped now. Misty mornings are frequent, smoking chimneys the tell-tale sign that fireplaces are being put back into use. And those lush green trees I gazed up at all summer long? Some days I silently curse them as another burst of wind leaves the doorstep inches deep in leaf litter. Again.

A couple of days ago I lit our first fire since moving in. 

Our basket of woollen hats and gloves is back next to the front door for easy reach as we walk outside into crisp morning air. And there is a lovely comfort that comes with walking through the house at dusk drawing the curtains and switching on lamps.

We're still buying pieces for the house to completely make it a home, but I think i'll start sharing pockets of the house as we find items and style rooms. I had intended to photograph and share more of the interior of the cottage- an 18th Century building is interesting after all. In truth, it's been a slower process than I anticipated to find furniture we truly love. But with a few recent, much dreamed of finds, I hope to get some photographs taken before the autumn sunshine is dimmed by winter fog and it becomes too dark to take pictures indoors.


Kate  x

William Morris's country retreat

A couple of weeks ago when we were in the Oxfordshire Cotswolds for a wedding, we stopped by Kelmscott Manor on the drive home. Kelmscott village is a lovely, quiet village surrounded by far-reaching and lush agricultural land. But visitors come to Kelmscott primarily to see the country home of William Morris and his family.

It was such a beautiful late spring day- rain showers and bright sunshine- with a hint of early summer in the air. The manor house is handsome and some of the furnishings are very beautiful (large hangings depicting Morris's much loved Strawberry Thief chintz amongst them), but I really loved the garden the most. Iris, peonies, delphiniums and roses were blooming, showcasing the best that an English cottage garden boasts in early summer.

This is a portrait of Mrs Morris- painted in 1868 by Dante Gabriel Rosetti. It hangs above the family's ornate piano in a downstairs family room. It is much admired for the way the blue silk of her dress catches the light, giving it a luminous quality.

One of the very best items in the home are the bed curtains and pelmet embroidered lovingly by Jane Morris for one of her husband's birthdays. Helped by their daughter Jane, and Lily, the sister of poet W.B Yeats, it is an intricate and beautifully personalised gift. The bed is draped in a delicately embroidered quilt, done after William's death. In the corner of the quilt is a motif you would miss if it wasn't pointed out- Kelmscott Manor itself depicted in embroidery thread. The pelmet is stitched with the words of a poem that William himself wrote called, 'Inscription for an Old Bed.'

More details and image HERE.

The gardens were incredibly lush and full of new season growth. It was easy to get a sense of why the family cherished the property and surrounding countryside so very much.

Kate  x

Thoughts on nesting

I am a nester through and through. There's no place I would rather be than at home, pottering, and fluffing my nest. So, after a little over five months of nomadic-like living since moving to England, I am bursting at the seams at the thought of finally moving into a little Cotswold cottage to call home for a while. There's still a week to go, but I can just about hear those keys jangling in the lock. For the months we've been waiting for this lease to start I've had a hard time suppressing a feeling of dread that something, for some reason, would prevent us moving in at the last moment...So far, touch wood, it all seems to be tied up and a 'sure thing'. Even typing out that thought seems like tempting fate.

I read a quote online the other day.

Everyone has,

I think,

In some quiet corner

Of his mind,

An ideal home waiting

To become reality.

-Paige Renee

For me, this cottage is that home. If I could draw to save myself, and someone had asked me to illustrate my ideal home upon moving to England, it would have looked a lot like this place. Almost identical. I might have dreamed it into existence. Right down to the farmhouse kitchen sink.

We didn't realise we would end up living so far west when we arrived, but we've fallen deeply in love with the West Country, the wide, green farmland of Wiltshire, the darling little villages of the Cotswolds that time seems to have forgotten. I am in a real-life rural idyll out here, like I've somehow stumbled into a life befitting Beatrix Potter (albeit a long way south of the Lake District). 

The village that fate has gifted us nestles into a small valley, a brook babbles past the cottages, and the whole settlement is surrounded by ancient beech woodland. There is no shop, no newsagent, or petrol station. Just two village pubs. Some people would baulk at not being able to pop around the corner for milk. Or be unnerved that there is no grocery store to do a thrice weekly shop at within five minutes of home.

I, on the other hand, am relishing the idea that I will have to live more thoughtfully. I will need to have a fully stocked larder, make use of my slow-cooker, bulk cook, and freeze emergency meals. I am hoping this makes me more mindful of the ebb and flow of the seasons, the beginning and the end of each day, to slow down and notice how the light is different from month to month. I will have to exist contentedly in a little village free from modern trappings. No neon lights, no billboards or advertisements of any kind. Not any street lamps (I must buy a torch asap), or even numbers on the houses for the postman. Just the village noticeboard outside the churchyard. 

I know as an Australian (even one raised by English parents, with centuries of British blood in me) I am probably guilty of romanticising the English countryside and village life. The thing is, the line between romance and reality is so thin in this part of the world, I almost doubt its existence. It is very possible to drive through a Cotswold village and be completely convinced you've accidentally stumbled across a film set. Every English cliche is right before you at one time or another; gentlemen in tweed suits, bunting flapping in the breeze, woodland brimming with the latest seasonal offering- snowdrops, wild garlic, bluebells.

My nesting heart is going to be so full and satisfied once we get those keys. It might be a while before I come up for air...

Kate  x