I’ve lived in England for almost 5 years (yikes, 5 sounds like a lot, right?) and I’ve been on countless walks in the countryside during this time, so I don’t know why I’m still surprised when I stumble upon scenes like this one: a beautifully symmetric and grand Georgian manor house, set in green rolling countryside, with cows enjoying some shade in a nearby field, and all is calm and beautiful and charming.
I think it must be because I’ve spent a large part of my life reading about places like these in novels, and watching films and tv adaptations, and basically just dreaming about them, that I now struggle to believe that they are real and they exist and I am lucky enough to actually walk there.
This particular picture was taken on a walk during my stay in Suffolk last month, on the outskirts of a sleepy village. The sun was shining, the bees were buzzing, and the cows were lazing on the grass. This stately home looked as beautiful now as it did approximately two hundred years ago when it was built. I half expected Elizabeth Bennett to come walking round the path, lost in the pages of a novel.
I love the englishness of this kind of setting. I hope I never get over my fascination with the beautiful english countryside; I never want to stop comparing the places I visit to what I’ve read in Austen or Gaskell, or of course, the places my beloved Bertie Wooster visit in P.G.Wodehouse novels.