Driving in England for an American is… Interesting. Yeah… That's a good word to describe it.

The steering wheel is on the right side of the car rather than the left. You drive on the left side of the road instead of the right. Basically, it's completely opposite than how we drive in the U.S. However, the English are way more polite than us. They drive fast… But very politely.

'They.' 'Us.' Hummm. I'd have to change that thinking now that I was living abroad.

The car that I'd picked up was purchased over the internet with Ben's help. It was a BMW 135i coupe, automatic (of course), in a color that would match a sandy beach. Angela was surprised I purchased the one with the bigger engine. Mainly because I'd been all about safety and no speeding when we'd been in high school and college together. Hello! Charlie was the Chief of Police for crying out loud.

However, marrying Jacob so suddenly and then having things go so drastically wrong had definitely blunted some of my more 'safe' edges.

I'd gone cliff diving for my 24th birthday for crying out loud! Celebrating my almost-first quarter of life in a reckless manner had sounded like an awesome idea at the time. I could be dangerous. Gritty. Even a rebel. Don't even get me started on not being able to decide between which Ben and Jerry's ice cream I'd wanted last week so I—gasp!—purchased both flavors.

Yeah. I know. A little pathetic but at least I'd learned to not over-think things so much. To try and well… Live my life. Instead of just watching it pass me by.

Which is pretty ironic since now that's all I wanted to be doing. Sitting and watching life pass by. Hopefully really, really slowly and peacefully. And I must not forget about the quiet. Can you hear my happy sigh? Yeah, me too!

My flight landed at Gatwick Airport, which lies over an hour south of London proper, after a long and rather boring flight. The cottage is located in a small village an hour or so south of the airport. Landing at Gatwick put me in the country without having to spend over an hour just trying to navigate London. Basically, the whole 'driving on the wrong side of the road' thing is not something you want to be figuring out in one of the largest cities in Europe. I had driven a bit while here for college but I had always been with someone else. This was my first foray into the mysteries of driving through the English countryside by myself.

Picking up the car at the airport had been an excellent idea. Except for the whole 'jet lag' issue. They say that driving while being overly tired is worse than driving drunk. I'm not sure about that but it did make me relaxed enough to not freak out about my new driving situation.

If I could solve the Ben and Jerry's ice cream problem so successfully, I was sure I could do this. Especially in a brand new BMW. I had to smile as I wrapped my hands around the black leather steering wheel.

The salesman had been a bit skeptical but when I handed him all the proper paperwork and the final payment in cash, he shut up, left me alone with my spankin' new car and went to get himself a taxi home.

I was now ready to leave the airport parking garage and head out towards my first round-about. You can do this, Swan. Go for it!

After getting lost twice, driving around a round-about in a circle over and over again for ten or fifteen minutes (think National Lampoon's European Vacation), and finding out that my car was just a plain old blast to drive, I finally arrived at my destination.

The village of Wisborough Green, located in the county of West Sussex, is small. So small, in fact, that there is no gas station, no grocery store, and certainly no fast food restaurants. There are, however, three pubs (the Brits love their adult beverages, thank God), a public green (basically a largish and rectangular park in the middle of the village for playing cricket, which is not really very similar to baseball but a lot of American's think so), and a 12th Century parish church. Basically your typical English country village.

One of the reasons Wisborough was one of the more popular South Sussex villages (translation: expensive), was because a main train stop into London was only a ten or fifteen minute drive away in Billingshurst. So, you could live in the country but still work in the Big City. Since I wasn't planning on doing anything but site-seeing in London, I didn't really need a place that was close to the main roads. I could be a little 'off the beaten path.'

I had to sigh contentedly thinking of what brought me to this particular village in the first place. The reason why I'd picked Wisborough Green to begin with.

While at college in Chicago, one of my English Lit professor's was, well, English. We would end up talking endlessly about life in rural England and how much he didn't miss it. He enjoyed living in a big, bustling American city. I couldn't understand it. Village life sounded so… Comforting. Our conversations ended up spurring me on to dream about 'someday' living in the country.

During my last semester, he told me that he was planning on taking a sabbatical a few years down the road. In order to do so, he would be selling his cottage.

After my divorce and new found semi-wealth from the sales of my books, I contacted him to find out if he had ever sold it. He had not. You can guess where the cottage was located. Yep. Just outside of Wisborough Green village proper.

There are five roads that converge on or go through the village. The A272 is a two lane but very busy road. This is the road that takes you to all the larger villages, towns and local cities. The other four roads are smaller and a bit quieter. Off one of these other roads is where my quant cottage (it was originally built in the late 1700's) would be found.

If you've ever seen the movie 'The Holiday' with Kate Winslet, you've basically seen my cottage. Only I've got a really nice, powerful travertine tile shower instead of a steel tub. Oh, and all the appliances and the gas heater are modern and work well. Thank goodness! Because, honestly, even after living in Chicago all those years it can get pretty dang cold here in the winter. It doesn't hurt that there's a fireplace in just about every room, either. Even the kitchen, which looks very cute with its three white shelves right above it. Happy sigh!

One of the reasons I was doing this whole 'move to the country' thing was to relax. And of course fully explore my book-worm title. You know, read whatever book your fingers touch from a rather eclectic collection, pulled from your very own library.

The cottage wasn't overly large but it did have its own small library. I'd had about twenty boxes of my own books sent over several weeks previous to my arrival, along with several dozen other boxes of personal items. I was really looking forward to working on setting up my own personal library collection.

There was a big white fluffy chair in the library as well as a very nice antique desk. After all, it would also be serving as my office.

There was a very comfortable couch and even more comfy chairs in the living room. The kitchen was across the entryway from the living room and was painted in a very pretty light blue, with a white table and chairs that would seat four.

The stairs were next to the library/office entrance, which was between the living room and the kitchen and was actually off the back of the house with a door leading outside to the garage and a small yard. The stairs headed up to two small bedrooms and a small bathroom on the left and the master bedroom with its own en-suite bathroom on the right.

All the furniture was very comfortable and 'Laura Ashley'-like. Maybe more like a cross between an open airy antique store and the Pottery Barn. You get the idea. The cottage's decor was probably a little bit more 'girly' than I'd normally prefer but if you're planning on channeling your inner English Lady, why not?

I did end up removing all the pink throw pillows, however. I wasn't going to completely go back on my own preferences, for goodness sake.

If you're wondering how and why an English university professor living in the U.S. would have a cottage that looked like this, it's simple. His sister decorated it. But she had moved to Scotland with her new husband several years previously and since he was never planning on moving back… I had the privilege of living there now. Oh, and the $1.1 million U.S. dollars I paid him for it wouldn't hurt either, which had him asking her to get the place really cleaned up well before I arrived. Which she had. Admirably.

Some things I'd insisted on having installed for myself was the Sky satellite service, two plasma TV's and a fancy stereo system. One TV was in the master bedroom with the second in the larger of the two guest rooms, and the stereo was installed in the living room with additional wireless speakers into the library/office and the master bedroom.

Why come all this way to be ensconced in the English countryside for the peace and quiet, only to have these suspiciously modern connections put in? There were some things about being an American I wasn't willing to give up.

For instance, even though I wasn't very athletic, I had always watched the major Seattle sports venues with my dad on the weekends we weren't out fishing. The Mariners, Seahawks and the Vancouver Canucks were simply a part of me by this point. I also wanted to start watching cricket and English football (known as soccer in the U.S.)

The stereo equipment was simply a necessity. I couldn't live anywhere without a steady supply of music. I pretty much listened to everything. And I do mean everything. I could be found dusting, vacuuming and accomplishing other mundane cleanup duties around the cottage while listening to Bach one moment and then Coldplay the next, with a few Beastie Boys and Everlast songs thrown in for good measure.

My collection was that eclectic.

I had to bring several Apple iPods and my iPhone to get all my music over 'the Pond'. But I knew I'd need these devices anyway. The Nano for all my planned leisurely walks, the Classic hooked up to my new stereo, and the iPhone's pretty self-explanatory.

Since I'm a 'real' author now, I also brought my MacBook Air and two SuperDrives. Even though I was in the habit of emailing Angela regularly, I liked having extra protection by using an online backup program. Authors are neurotic and this author is no exception. The thought of losing several weeks worth of work because I was too 'busy' to back my Mac up? Even I'm not that crazy.

Now I was completely technologically 'set-up.'

Since I had arrived towards the end of summer, I'd missed the Petworth Music Festival—I was quite bummed-out about this—me and music are very good friends, remember? I did however have St. Edmunds Day to look forward to—in mid-November—a fair that's been held in Petworth for almost 900 years. Yes. That's right. An entire Millennium.

After getting settled in and putting my library and personal items in order, I spent many afternoons driving around the local countryside to find out where exactly the supermarket, my bank and the 'petrol' or gas station was (in Midhurst), and found some fantastic bookshops as well as a baker, butcher and 'chemist' (or pharmacy) in the Market Square of the partially walled town of Petworth, which is also the location of the stately and grand Petworth House.

I was really loving this place.

I knew I'd eventually have to take writing seriously again if I wanted to have enough money to stay long enough to see everything I wanted to. It was going to take twenty years at the rate I was going.

I had figured that living 'simply' would let me stay for at least five years. I of course had no intention of not working at all on my next novel for that long but at least I wouldn't be 'forced' to work on it.

Normally, as a 'foreigner,' when visiting England you can't stay longer than six months. However, Angela and my lawyer had worked out my visa arrangements for me. I wasn't sure about the details other than I could stay for as long as three years without leaving since I was financially self-sufficient. I seem to remember something about a 'Tier 1 Entrepreneur' visa… Whatever. The important thing was that I could stay for quite a good long while. Which was all that mattered to me.

Because I wasn't really an 'American tourist' nor was I trying to immigrate to the U.K. (United Kingdom) permanently, I had settled into a unique position within the village. People were friendly but not too prying.

Perfect.

Even though there wasn't a full grocery store in town, there was a small post office 'slash' store. They carried things like the newspaper, milk and eggs, as well as lots of different kinds of English chocolates. Too many to choose from… But I managed that task fairly well. Surprise-surprise.

Since I would take my morning walk to the store to pick up the paper most days, I became friendly with the proprietor. I also would run into some of the same folks along my way each morning. People jogging, walking their dogs, leaving for the train station to head off to work…

I went from an odd curiosity to someone that folks liked to talk to for a few minutes each day. I had even gotten to the point where I was starting to hear about some of the local gossip. Everyone was friendly and jovial most of the time. I was really starting to come out of my shell, a little bit at a time.

I'd even been invited to some of the Parish Council events. There was the monthly Village Market, their Horticultural Society events, even the Litter Picking sessions (keep your Village Green clean, people!)

I discovered rather rapidly that these people were nuts about plants. And drinking. And eating.

Flowers. Trees. Shrubs. Anything that grows. Green-thumb's galore.

Remember I said no grocery store but three pubs? Check. So many different ales, so little time to drink them all. I'm also pretty sure I mentioned no fast food places—Pub food anyone? Fantastic! I'd already spent several evenings at the Cricketers and the Three Crowns, and one visit to the Bat and Ball. So far my favorite dish was the Sticky Toffee Pudding at the Three Crowns. Yummy.

Basically, if you've ever read or watched Lord of the Rings, you'll know what I mean when I say that Hobbits are very British. Or the British are very Hobbitish… Whatever. You get the idea.

For a village of fewer than several hundred in-town with an overall population of around 1,400 people covering an area of almost seven square miles, with farms, estates and cozy homes, it was a pretty amazing place. I was really loving it here. I mean, really, really loving it.

One of the best things about country living in southwest England were the walking trails or 'footpaths.' I'd already become pretty familiar with the walks out and around Wisborough. There was one in particular that I had taken several dozen times already.

It was only about a mile long but it skirted by several of the properties around me, getting the closest to my nearest neighbor by running directly along their back fence.

Their backyard was beautifully done and nicely manicured. I never saw anyone in the backyard and I even wondered if anyone was even currently living in the house. I would often pause at their back gate and stare off into the distance, to see if I could figure out what the people that lived in the home might look at if anyone were there.

It was such a beautiful home and I found it hard to believe that someone would take the time and effort to maintain the yard if no one was ever there. Strangely, there were several times I had a feeling that someone was watching me while I walked their fence-line…

For some reason, I never asked anyone in the village about my possible neighbors. I think it was because I enjoyed making up my own stories about them too much.

An elderly lady lived alone in the house but kept her grandchildren in the basement… The reason the yard was so neat all the time was because a ghost kept it up… I never saw them during the day because they were vampires…

And so on. Sometimes being an author and therefore having an active imagination could be really entertaining. England was definitely a great place for coming up with new material to write about. Have I said how much I'm loving it here?

I had to admit that I had practically become a 'local' instead of a dreaded 'townie' in the few months I'd been here already.

I'd been invited to attend Sunday church services and to help out with the upcoming Harvest Supper. I declined on the church attendance but agreed to help out at the dinner.

I was becoming quite the villager. Go figure.

~~:::~~