I mean - curling up in the sun warm heather with a book and an orange and sleeping the afternoon away?
Walking by starlight in ancient oak woods, while a Tawny owl hunts overhead, all the while knowing that there is a fire, a bottle of rum, a lime and a kettle of hot water waiting at the end of the pull uphill? (Not to mention a teeny-tiny little saucepan of venison stew on the mantelpiece, poised to hop down and nestle itself between two blazing logs.
Or Sunday morning, curled in a big wooden chair, wool blanket wrapped around the shoulders, toes propped on the fender, a pot of coffee on the hearth (ok, not so great coffee, but still hot and black), two fat rashers of bacon and a piece of bread toasting on the log, and a really absorbing brick of biography of Hogarth to sink into…
All dinner and no responsibility.
It's a hobbit's life, I swear. Except that the toes on the fender aren’t as furry as those of some other members of the family.
Don't tell anyone else how much fun I am having up here!
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