In the original dust jacket. Brown board binding with gilt title on the spine.

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When I mentioned to a friend in the U.K. that my Australian wife and I would be selling our house in Sydney and moving to the U.K. at least in part to promote her business and that we would be looking to live in the Cotswolds, he strongly suggested I read Ian Walthew’s book. I have not lived in Britain for 30 years but we have both visited the Cotswolds on many occasions during that period so I was keen to read of the author’s experiences. I’m glad I did. It is an excellent read.

There is, of course, a great difference between visiting an area and living there. We know that from 3 years spent in Sicily. Eventually the negative aspects of that island got to us. We also know that the rural idyll can be a mirage. The 2 1/2 years we spent in deepest rural western France, following our stay in Sicily, were not good for my wife as I was away, working, much of the time, and she spoke little French.

That said, I liked the way that Walthew immersed himself into the rural landscape and he presents what is undoubtedly an accurate picture of the ups and downs and the reality of country living. He seems to mix happily with the various social strata but creates the closest bond with those immediately around him who work the land, including the fearsome -to outsiders- farmer,Norman.

My only quibbles are that, firstly, he seems to know the name of every plant, tree, animal and bird, which struck me as a little affected, and secondly, in my opinion, he overdoes the regret expressed by his friends and neighbours when he and his wife, Han, are forced by financial circumstances to leave their cottage and move to Brussels. That goes on a bit too long.

In summary, although there are numerous literary examples of people giving up the city life for a rural idyll, Walthew and his wife really gave it their best shot and got involved in rural life. It’s only money that forces them to give it up. “A Place in my Country” is a very good portrait of a genuine attempt to live the country life and understand the people there. I can’t see me, at 65, getting involved in the various aspects of animal husbandry such as helping with the birth of calves, nor in rural practices such as hunting and shooting. Neither of us plan to carouse till dawn at the local pub, either. What I have taken from this sympathetic account, though, is, as Walthew and his wife did, the need to take the time to listen and understand.