Country Life

My Next Garden & Other Anticipated Expenses

Yesterday, the dogs and I drove to an address outside a small market town in Gloucestershire to see a potential garden. There’s a cottage that goes with the garden, of course, where we’ll make food, bathe, and sleep, but really I was there for the garden.

There exists a members-only version of GumTree for the very posh, and I am a somewhat-self-conscious, somewhat-middle-class (don’t tell them) member. Having lost out on the last cottage in Devon, I decided to get proactive. I posted an ad on Posh GumTree as follows:

[ My next garden? ]

“Your potential tenants:
- Lucy, age 36, very responsible former barrister who now gardens and writes about gardens
- Leo, age 4, Maltese Terrier with impressive Kennel Club linage and unimpressive intellect. Best friend to all.
- Bella, age 3, Miniature Dachshund despite broader-than-breed-standard waistline. Sceptical about being your friend, but do you have any treats?
We have been looking for a short- or long-let in Dartmoor National Park for a few months without much luck. Looking ideally for a period property with 2+ bedrooms and modern-ish plumbing (indoor bathrooms are a dealbreaker).
Awkward tenant for only one reason: you have to let me garden and grow things at your property […]”

To my surprise, I was inundated with messages from all over the place - Yorkshire, Dorset, Cumbria, Sussex, Normandy, Cornwall, Limoges. One or two were in Devon, including the most perfect cottage on Dartmoor that I would have given my right arm to move into, despite the owner’s emphasis on its ‘rustic’ and ‘off-grid’ character. But after an initial exchange of messages I heard nothing.

Then, there was a message about a cottage in Gloucestershire.

I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve been to Gloucestershire. And all of those were for court cases in Gloucester Family Court. Not my fav.

I had not considered a move to the Cotswolds. It’s nothing like Dartmoor. Dartmoor has proper magic. The Cotswolds has mostly Range Rovers and people with clean shoes. Performatively pastoral. Not to mention every time I hear “Cotswolds”, I hear it in the voice of Cameron Diaz in The Holiday: ‘Cats-walds’.

I love Dartmoor with my whole heart, but as I pondered the invitation to view I wondered if perhaps being 2hr 30mins from London would be a better way to trial-run my leap into rural living than living 5hrs from London.

Not to mention, the couple who own the cottage (and live next door) own and run a fabulous wallpaper and fabric company, and have used the cottage as their ‘set’ for photo shoots. It is, therefore, decorated perfectly for my maximalist tastes. Surely worth a visit, I thought.

The owners, understanding my priorities, showed me around the garden first. It is nothing but potential. Currently it is entirely laid to lawn. It is not enormous, but there is plenty to be getting along with, and just a few metres away, an orchard where a local apiarist tends to a beehive. Possibly my daydreams of floating down to the hive on a summer morn to harvest fresh honey for my home-baked bread is a bit much…

The cottage and garden look out onto a field of picture-perfect sheep, separated by a ha-ha. This bamboozled my beautiful bimbo, Leo, but he and Bella both enjoyed standing at the ha-ha’s edge shouting at the herd from a safe distance.

The soil is clay, they said. This sent a shiver down my spine. I have heard much about clay on Gardeners Question Time. But given the frequency of discussion on the topic, I assume there is plentiful advice on tackling this clammy ground and that one can still achieve horticultural greatness with sufficient determination and knowledge (and mulch).

I am getting way ahead of myself and already sketching out planting plans. No, there is not yet a tenancy agreement in place. As if that would slow me down.

I am pondering whether to pitch this as a book or column or podcast or something(/anything). You know, dyed-in-the-wool Londoner moves to deepest Gloucestershire to garden, hilarity ensues. Perhaps a tragi-comedy that ends when she starves to death because she doesn’t know how to feed herself without Deliveroo. Anyway, I’ll need to find some way to pay for all the plants.

I have also been browsing the stupidly expensive garden smocks and aprons that seem an entirely necessary investment for a move to Gloucestershire, wondered where I could fit a greenhouse, wondered where I would position a desk so that there is a space where I can sit and write these rambles, wondered whether Bold Beans Co sell bumper packs of Queen Chickpeas (see above re very real fear of starving), wondered if I would bump into Ellen and Portia at a local farm shop, wondered if the dogs would like being rural dogs, wondered how easy it is to keep a terracotta tile floor clean, wondered whether the neighbours would be able to see if I sunbathed naked, wondered if sunbathing naked is wise given the local bee population (see above re apiarist), wondered if my step count would go up or down given rural reliance on cars, wondered whether the owner’s issues with moles and voles would carry over from their garden to mine, wondered whether I would have room for the Raj Tent Club four-poster daybed and tea tent I’ve always wanted, wondered whether I should have held out for a cottage in Devon as originally planned because I at least vaguely know my way around there and know where to find the good coffee, wondered whether moving to the country would make me more politically conservative, wondered whether Trump’s nukes would reach me in my field in Gloucestershire, wondered whether I’d ever see my family and friends again if I leave London, wondered if I would always be cold living there…

So, there’s a lot going on. Not in reality, but in my brain. The pinball machine is in full chaos mode. But, a lot of the noise is excited.