As a young girl, I led a dreamy, impressionable life influenced by Jane Austen and Goodbye Mr. Chips and other similar classics filled with sentiment and loveliness, and I would imagine myself living in England and attending pony club meets in cobbled yards and grassy fields or gathering handfuls of shiny chestnuts and always, the name 'Cotswolds' shining brightly in my heart. How I longed to visit that green and pleasant land known to me with such vivid clarity of feeling and impression, through films or books I had read. But living on a smallholding on the mountainside in Cape Town meant my reality was so far removed from this vision that I always saw it as just that—a dream.

And yet, life, in all its mystery and wonder, has a way of shaping one's reality if the longing is one of devotion and true purpose, and that is how I found myself, in my mid-50's, post COVID, leaving South Africa for the UK and settling in a village deep in the rural heart of the Cotswolds. It wasn't my first residency in England, I had lived in London in my late 20's, so in some ways, my return to the UK was a homecoming of sorts.

And this time, I was older and hopefully wiser, and able to appreciate things in the way that comes to one with experience and the passing years, and it was truly so much more than I ever could have imagined. The beauty of the patchwork fields and ancient hedgerows, the streams flowing through bluebell woodlands, flocks of noisy rooks or visiting fieldfares, and the  night-time sounds of tawny owls and foxes ‘barking clear and cold’ are now part of who I am, and my heart will always remain among these landscapes of my soul, where I can walk freely along dirt tracks or sit in the shade of a friendly oak and let my thoughts wander at ease.

​How many times have I filled the flask with hot tea, packed the picnic blanket, and taken to the lanes, with Vaughan Williams playing quietly in the background and the route ahead wide and winding as we explore the hills and valleys, the rivers and streams of this remote, magical corner of the world. Or longer trips into Bath, to sit on a wooden bench soaking in the feeling of the River Avon as it flowed with such dramatic ease through this historic town...

Could I have known during those childhood years that one day, in the far future, I would live a stone's throw from Highgove Estate with its walled garden and green pastures, and that I would visit it over the seasons, so that I saw the renowned thyme walk and the kitchen garden in all their seasonal glory? Or that my weekly grocery shop would entail a 10-mile drive along narrow rural lanes ending at a Waitrose on the outskirts of an ancient market town? 

Of course, it hasn’t all been picture perfect and filled with resonance or happiness. I am appalled by the fox hunting. I feel deeply hurt by an indifference to the suffering of wildlife that feels pervasive in many rural hamlets around the county. For someone who has devoted their life to speaking out for wild animals who do not have a voice, hunting has been exceptionally difficult for me. 

But during those dark months of the year when much of the Cotswolds rings with the raw, harrowing sounds of gunfire or packs of baying dogs, I refocus my energy and find solace in a quiet walk among the leafless wintry trees,  deepening my bond with a land that is still fresh and glowing and truly beautiful to me. And I carry with me, wherever I go, a sense that I am honouring my younger self, who, unbeknownst to me back then, was creating an intention for where my life would one day take me.