Johnny Town Mouse v Timmy Willie

I was introduced to this debate, urban v rural living, young by Beatrix Potter. Timmy Willie looked so adorable sheltering under his strawberry leaf umbrella and Johnny was sophisticated in a fine suit. Timmy was frightened of noise and Johnny frightened of silence. 

It played out on a grander scale in my life. My father lived in London and seemed to do life with such dynamism. Always working or reading the guardian or having a dinner party or going to the theatre. He’d even learnt how to package the country up into nice morsels, via a landmark trust cottage or biking holiday in Italy. Me at the Timmy Willy end of the spectrum felt I had not got in down pat… life that is. 

We spent a lot of time watching the rain, wondering how to spend our day or turning anything flammable into a cigarette. When I eventually got out from underneath my strawberry leaf I headed for the city. 

But the flora and fauna of home had seeped into my veins at some level. I knew a different pace of living and had discovered where the wild things grow. Nothing beats finding green winged orchid scorching a meadow pink or night jars skimming your head by dusk in deep woodland. 

However I did find great solace in the cities I’ve lived in - Cheltenham, Sydney, London and Oxford. They still an anxious mind with diversion. Which makes it strange that I’ve turned my back on all that and headed back to the rain filled days…

Seriously I hope it doesn’t rain all the time here!

We yearned for horizons, a contemplative pace, exploration and better air. 

Currently poised in Raglan down a windy track we are waiting to buy our new house. In fact it’s near Monmouth which gives me great comfort. I’ve eagerly sort out the coffee shops they have to offer and then even found Home bargains hiding down a back alley. It felt a bit like discovering a drug den but cheered me up NO END. 

We are in a holiday rental, as the links in our chain fell apart. It’s a beautiful medieval cottage with thick white washed walls, many undulating levels and flagstones and low beams to thwack your head on. But we’ve done that and now learnt when to stoop and step.

The immensely impressive Raglan Castle is around the corner. When I was bleating about how we must go and visit it Willow announced sensorially ‘I do NOT like castles, they are broken!’ 

It’s rather refreshing to write off a whole tranche of history. Poor Willow it may be that our new life includes learning to love broken things. The Welsh marches are littered with castles.

Anyway something my country upbringing also taught me is…there is nothing as beautiful as imperfection. If we can’t embrace flaws we can’t live fully.