We have just returned from an impromptu few days escape to Somerset. To say it is 45mins away across the border, it feels like another era. Our sleepy sanctuary, the OH’s parents country abode, is in the village of Montacute – it couldn’t be any more British if it tried.
There was a bit of napping, a lot of Sunday supplement reading and a whole heap of sitting under the trees trying to stop the over-exuberant labrador slobbering Country Bebe to death.
When we lived in London we would bolt down the A303 here as often as possible, turn off our phones and a/ crank up the woodburner or b/pour ourselves a G&T – season depending.
Even now, living by the sea in Devon, a weekend here feels like the ultimate escape. Even CB seems more relaxed, sleeping 13 hours a night and being loved-to-death by his doting grandparents.
On Sunday, with a full roast lunch on the horizon, I ventured out in my pyjamas to the petrol station (the only option on a Sunday) for a stack of reading material and was thrilled to see the village had been bedecked in bunting, ready for the Jubilee.
I love reading all the names of the cottages in the village: Fox Cottage, Milk House and my personal favourite:
We’re back now, busy outside planting climbing roses and preparing the chicken pen for it’s new arrivals. More of which next week…
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