The trees are so alive, such immense, tall structures, bending in the breeze and the raindrops. Straight ahead, between the lawn, the flowers, and the trees and the valley and hills beyond that, there is a small pasture, with farm animals. I hear cows and sheep sounding their greetings. I am transported back to my childhood as well as to the time when Wordsworth roamed these hills with Dorothy and Coleridge. I feel that they are with me as I look out onto this land. . . .
Fresh flowers are everywhere.
The room is filled with Victorian sofas, overstuffed to the point of decadence. On the table beside me sits a pot of steamy hot Earl Gray tea, flaky scones with cream, finger sandwiches-and outside the walls of windows, the gentlest of English afternoon showers is falling onto the petals of perfect English flowers. All are very quiet, almost reverent, in this place. There's one older couple. He's either deaf or pretending to be.