I keep to myself, I never invite anyone over, I never share my harvest or my toolsfolk in the village call me a lunatic.
It was that weariness of city life that drove me into early retirement. London had grown stale, and I craved the hush of the countryside, a place where I could tend vegetables, fruit and berries and sip herbal tea sweetened with raw honey. So, before my pension kicked in, I bought a cottage in the rolling fields of the Cotswolds.
When spring arrived I planted beds of flowers, set out garden gnomes, cheeky squirrels and tiny lanterns. My neighbours watched me over the hedges, their eyes full of curiosity. One morning, as I was planting seedlings, a neighbour named Eleanor could no longer hold herself back. She marched into my garden, hands clenched.
She complained that shed forgotten to sow any petunias and hinted that I should share my seedlings with her. Why should I give away my ten tender shoots to a woman I barely know? Petunias are fussy, demanding a delicate touch, and Id only managed to grow a handful. I pretended not to understand her suggestion.
A week and a half later I spotted another neighbour, Mabel, leaning over the fence, chatting with a passing stranger who kept glancing my way. It felt as if they were gossiping about me.
On a blazing summer afternoon I stepped out to check the fruit trees, and a voice sliced through the quiet. A woman stood at my fence, shouting my name. I was passing your cottage and saw you have ripe fruit, she called. She hadnt any herself. My eyes widened. Who just strolls onto anothers property and asks for fruit? I barely eat the berries myself; I keep them for my daughter.
Later, in a corner shop, I bought a packet of sweets. Behind me, a woman from the next laneshed introduced herself as Mrs. Hargreavesasked what the sweets were for, whether Id invite her over for tea. Why should she care why I buy confectionery? Why would I welcome a stranger who isnt a friend, relative or colleague?
Just last week a neighbour saw me digging with a small trowel and demanded to know where, when and how Id bought my supplies. I felt forced to answer politely, though the request was intrusive.
In the city, none of this happens. No one pesters you with nosy, absurd questions, no one asks you to visit, no one demands a share of your harvest or your tools. Yet a neighbour confided that many villagers think Im odd. So it seems.
I couldnt care less about their opinion. I bought this cottage to enjoy my privacy, not to befriend the village women or to be caught up in idle chatter. If thats what they think, let them stay awaykeep their distance from my garden and my peace.
