Think Yiddish…. Act British…….Dress Italian.
In the past few months we have become regular commuters between New York and England.
Once for a business meeting, once to give a speech, once to do a ‘house-exchange’ in the Cotwsolds, and this week because my 83-year old father-in-law had knee replacement surgery.
I am always struck by the contrast between time spent in England and in New York.
Of course, we live in midtown Manhattan so there is not a blade of grass here, (unless you stick your head out the window and crane your neck at about 80 degrees and then you can see a tiny sliver of Central Park.
In the English countryside, it is a world of green. Vast rolling fields and meadows, populated only by sheep, cattle, dogs and the occasional hiker or two.
People who live in Manhattan need to escape from the concrete and the noise, and many of them buy houses in the Hamptons or upstate New York.
There was a time when we had contemplated buying a house in the Hamptons, but frankly, on a bad traffic day on the Long Island Expressway, the trip to England isn’t all that much longer. And thanks to Virgin Atlantic, it’s a lot more pleasant!
The real difference is what the British would call ‘value for money’.
For the cost of a medium-sized house in Easthampton on an acre or two, you get a Manor House (and I mean a Manor House) in England. Stone built, 8 or 9 bedrooms, pool, tennis court, barns, out-buildings, paddock and 50 or 60 acres to play gentleman farmer on. So, you can either be another schlepper (as we say in England) waiting on line at Nick and Tony’s and living in a Ralph Lauren pale imitation of the English Countryside…. or, you can do the real thing.
I am opting for the real thing.
The last few weeks have been the lambing season, and as we take long walks across the English countryside (they have something called ‘right of way’ here which allows you to criss-cross the countryside over private land. Try doing that in Easthampton!) In any event, we have taken long walks with the dogs (off the lead… or leash), and the fields are overrun with sheep and baby lambs just born. And it just goes on and on and on….
For someone born in the Five Towns on Long Island and living in Manhattan, it’s an experience that makes you feel uniquely alive.
So we are actively and aggressively looking at real estate in Gloucestershire for a second home – a country home – in another country. And why not? I am eagerly preparing to become Lord Rosenblum of the Manor. I bought a woolen cap at Cotswold Woolens. My friend Pat Young and his fiance Amy bought me a shooting stick (this is a British hunting accessory – fortunately, no rifle as yet). I am studying the box sets of Keeping Up Appearances and Blackaddar (Hugh Laurie before House). Now all I need is the house (and maybe an old e-type Jag) and I am done.
As in all things, there is nothing worse than a convert.
Or, as the Bard himself said:
This royal throne of kings, this sceptred isle,
This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,
This other Eden, demi-paradise,
This fortress built by Nature for herself
Against infection and the hand of war,
This happy breed of men, this little world,
This precious stone set in the silver sea,
Which serves it in the office of a wall
Or as a moat defensive to a house,
Against the envy of less happier lands,—
This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.
And at such reasonable prices!
