England is hard. It’s dear, dour, and bitter; it’s grey, and it’s old. Summer comes at least twice every thirty years. It’s also beautiful, grand, and majestic. It’s vital, mystical, and much more than medieval. Church bells ring, throngs of people fill public squares and party through the night while rabbits hop across fields, foxes lurk on the edges of the wood, and stoats dance with each other. Dramas, pageants, and parades are a daily occurrence. Occasionally fireworks take to the sky. All of this I’ve seen, smelt, felt, and heard. I’ve been to the magical, easy-going England – a place you never want to leave. It starts just before Bradford on the Avon and goes all the way to Bath. It’s a place of misty sunrises, the home of one of only four only known remaining copies of the Magna Carta, Stonehenge, canal towpaths, and Roman baths. Horses and sheep dot the hillsides, people smile, say hello, and invite you for tea. It’s an England to love in ten thousand words – more or less.