As some of you may know*, I’ve recently moved to what I thought was the English countryside. I thought all I would find were farmer boys**, obscure pubs and snooty cows, and instead, any time I am walking down my tiny country lane, it’s not a sluggish John Deere*** I encounter—it’s a bloody Aston Martin blasting way too fast past me.

“Oh, no!” I usually think out loud. “Wasn’t I the first to discover this idyllic place?!”

Somerset is hardly a secret. The gatekeepers unlocked the gate a long time ago. The Londoners are out. Which is probably how I slid into the landscape like the imposter that I am.

As much as I’d like to see myself as a country bum, and all that.

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