My England is green and pleasant. In my mind’s eye, the countryside is green and rolling, with occasional villages surrounding leafy, oaked cricket pitches or busy duck ponds. The lanes of my youth lead past scattering pheasants and floral hedgerows which echo the sound of a slightly ropey semi-classic British sports car. Towns are timbered and bricked, with low-ceilinged pubs smelling of log fires.
A drive to the coast, a couple of hours away, is an adventure, and a holiday in another part of the country is like entering another world. Mountains and lakes and dark stone farms replace out-of-town shopping centres. Stony paths leading through awe-inspiring scenery take precedence. Inept politicians, one-upmanship and baying media fade into insignificance.
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