The last time I was in
Williamsburg I wandered into the bookstore and immediately gravitated to the
home design section as I am wont to do. Having perused through most of the
shelf, I tugged out a large book, simply titled Country. The cover was filled with an image of the most peaceful,
green, fog-enshrouded lane I have ever seen. Hefting its goodly weight, I
flipped through pages of quiet, muted photographs of English countryside, jars
of marmalade, and worn faces etched with crow’s feet. Intrigued, I read a few
paragraphs. Jasper Conran seemed to be describing all that I love most about
seasons in the country. Even if the nationality was wrong, the basic commentary
about struggles and joys within a rural landscape rang true. Nothing idealized,
yet subtlety positive; the words comforted me in familiarity. The coordinating
photographs by Andrew Montgomery were mesmerizing. I was charmed. Flipping over
the cover, the price was a mere twenty dollars. Sold. I thought I could handle
that for a bit of literary and pictorial eloquence.
I devoured the book in a day. It’s an easy read, often with
just a couple paragraphs on a page, if any at all. I highly recommend it, if
simply to refocus our busy lives to things simpler and more meaningful.
Funny enough, as I was reading, I came upon a section
discussing Crookabeck Farm in Patterdale and the lady who works the sheep and
goats there. That farm is a ten minute walk from where I stayed in the Lake
District last month! It was odd to see a full-page photograph of the woman from
whom I bought my angora scarves. Of all the farm shops to visit! It really is a
small world sometimes.
