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The first day in the Cotswolds is cold, but the sort of cold that is just right. A chill that nips through a jumper and you to bury just a bit more into your coat, your scarf pulled just a bit tighter. It leaves your nose a little rosey, your cheeks pinched taught, and when you take a deep breathe of cold air, it’s followed by a sweet sigh and your misty breath exhaled in the wind. Everything is clear and fresh.
It’s morning and that blue period of twilight is making its way across the clear sky. I maintain that the greatest alarm clock in the world is that of a dozen different birds chirping on the roof. When I was little, Koel birds used to reside in the dense trees near our house in Singapore and make their distinct ‘uwu’ call before sunrise. If there was a morning soundtrack to my childhood, that would be it.
These days, my mornings are punctuated with the sound of London traffic and ambulance sirens, and I wonder how anybody could love the city so much.
The drive along the roads are long and winding. B has to kick the car into third gear and even then we have to hit the hill at speed if we want to get to the other side of it. We laugh when the car sputters and I grip the door when we hit a pothole, terrified the wheel might just pop off from underneath us. Either side of the road is flanked by endless fields in startling shades of green and brown. In the summer, I’m sure it makes for a romantic drive. Along the river banks, dense brambles and thorns weave their way up the side, hanging like wet clothes over the edge of the bridge. As the morning sun peeks through the clouds, the tiny villages explode in shades of gold and yellow. I’m in love with the big sash windows painted in either a sage green or a dark blue. The sort of houses with stone tiled flooring, and dark wooden beams that skate across the ceiling.
When I glance in the rearview mirror, I’m greeted by rolling hills and for a second all I think about is how much I want that feeling to stay. This soft, pillowy contentedness; the quiet and unbusyness that seems to blanket me. I think that I could get used to this. Life here seems unencumbered. I imagine taking the dog for a walk on muddy paths, morning coffees at places like Henry’s Bakehouse or Martha’s tearoom, coming home to a roaring fire and tending to the bloom of flowers in the garden. I’m romanticising it, I know life anywhere is not like that, but it’s a soft thought, one to hold onto and let go in the same breath.
We stop in at Bibury village, six miles northeast of Cirencester. On Arlington Row, a throng of cottages with brown mossy roofs are nestled neatly into the hill side. It reminds me a bit of the hobbit houses. The river Coln snakes its way through the town, under bridges and runs parallel to roads. The water is crystal clear and the blue sky above is reflected back in stillness.
We keep looking at for sale signs, stopping at every estate agent around. “Five bedrooms!” I shout and B points to another with several acres attached to it. It’s like a game, find the biggest house that is entirely unaffordable and come up with ways we would make it our own. We can’t afford to move, but we look nonetheless. We tell each other what we would do if we could. We’d each have a home office, a space in the garden for me to grow my vegetables, a floor-to-ceiling home library with a hidden door. I tell him I want a big kitchen and he tell me he wishes for a rocking chair. We think that we’ll move and open an B&B in our late forties. Perhaps we could have a small farm with ducks and chickens, and I can open my coffee shop in the village. “I want a Shire horse,” B says. Neither of us know anything about farm work, or horses.
It’s now past eight p.m., our bellies are full of wine and local beer and the sort of delightful charming pub food that only the Cotswolds could produce. There are no road lights, the entire countryside is under a velvet throw. I’ve been searching the sky all evening for stars. The clouds move lazily across and eventually a handful of little glimmers appear. I stare up at them for a while, Orion’s belt makes its usual appearance. It’s the only constellation that I know of.
Love this, Natalie! Reminds me of when I would drive through Connemara in Ireland to get to my cousin's house.
You took me there ! Danke!