I think of having a ploughman’s lunch beside a log fire in a cosy and curtained-off mock-Tudor pub.
When the sun is shining, you can sit out in the garden; when there is a chill in the air, you can sit inside where there is a log fire.
As a teenager, my first travelling venture was to cycle with my sister to France. From our home town of Boston (the original one) on the east coast of England, we pedalled down to Lydd airport on the south coast, loaded our bicycles on a smallish but wide-bodied plane, landed in Le Touquet, and made our slow peddling way to Paris.
The thing that struck us first about France, as we cycled through the streets of Le Touquet was that you could see into the living rooms of houses. If there were curtains, they were drawn back. In England, I had grown up behind net curtains.
