This story (ordinarily the type I’d ignore) really struck a chord with me:
I decided, four years ago, to leave London, selling the flat I owned in Dalston and moving to Somerset.
The life I’d been building in London evaporated and I felt broken. The country seemed to offer a gentle place where I could retreat, lick my wounds and start again. After all, the countryside is where I had always been happy. Or so I told myself.
Of course, the reality blew a ten-foot hole in that dream, because of course life in the country isn’t as idyllic as it’s often painted. Read the thing for the details.
Anyway, the reason why this silly woman’s article interested me is that I’m a little like her (minus the foolishness).
I’ve often thought about finding a small place out in the boonies — “small” in country terms, i.e. just large enough to where I could make a short .22 range where I could bang away for hours on end without disturbing the neighbors — but of course there are several factors which have always stopped me from doing just that.
The first is that I’m a city boy by inclination. I mean, most of my life has been spent in the ‘burbs, but the times when I’ve really enjoyed my life was when I lived in downtown Johannesburg and Chicago, and spent lengthy periods in places like London or Vienna. I liked having a dizzying choice of places to eat out and drink, the movie houses and auditoriums, the shops which sold pretty much anything I needed (outside the gun world, of course), and even art galleries: all within walking distance of my living room. For that, I was prepared to put up with the noise of the city, the proximity of neighbors and all the things which would drive other people away.
Likewise when I’ve traveled abroad, I’ve always preferred to stay in the great cities (London, Paris and so on) over the small countryside towns. Then again, it must be said that I really enjoyed living out in rural Hardy Country at Mr. Free Market’s country estate as well — probably the first time in my life that I’ve properly lived out in the sticks.
I have no illusions about living in the city, because I’ve been there and done that, on two continents. Also, having spent half a year out in the company of The Englishman and Mr. Free Market, I have no illusions there too — although it must also be said that the Brits do a good job of making their small towns very livable, as anyone who’s ever been to places like Marlborough or Devizes will attest.
So while I often ask myself the question: if you won the lottery, where would you spend most of your time? the answer is probably “close to or actually in a city” more than “out in a country retreat”.
If for some reason I did choose the country option, however, I know I’d make a better job of it than the stupid woman who wrote that article.
