The village where we live is tiny and adorable. There are probably no more than 40 homes, and our house, at 200+ years old, isn’t even close to the oldest one. Our neighbors’ house has original sections that date back 400 years.
The church next door is 700+ years old.
The pub (every good village in England has one!) is located right in the center of the village. There’s been a pub operating continuously in that location since 1352. There are areas inside where Matt, at 6′ tall, has to duck under the beams that support the the low ceiling. Even in the places where he can stand up straight, the ceiling is only a few inches above the top of his head. A sign hanging by the taps states that no one under age 14 is allowed to sit at the bar. There’s a pub cat named Amber who snuggles by the wood stove and winds her way around people’s feet when they come in the front door. I love it.
Our little village is sitting right at the top of one of the highest points in the county, and all around us, farm fields stretch out for acres in every direction. There are public footpaths all over England that wind their way through land both public and private, so you can basically walk across the country on publicly protected trails.
There are also public bridleways everywhere, so we get nearly as much horse traffic as we do car traffic. I will always and forever love that I hear the clip-clop of horses going by my house on a regular basis. For the first few months we were here, the kids would basically all run to the window to look out every time we heard the hoof beats. But now it’s become second-nature.
The clock on the tower of the church next door chimes the hour, every hour, all day, every day. Most of the time I don’t even hear it anymore, because it’s become the background music to my days and nights. When I do notice it, it always makes me smile.
It’s not our home forever, but I’m so glad it’s our home for now.