Back when he had lived there, the famous house was the talk of the village in the Cotswolds.

The notable British author that lived in the historic English manor house, with it’s photographs in Country Life.

He would sometimes be seen walking the grounds of his beautiful country house, in his tweed. Enjoying distant views to the Welsh Hills.

Maybe after a ride in the countryside on his horse.

Or maybe he was not a rider.

One would certainly need to wear riding boots, with the mud in the fields.

And the hundreds of prize-winning hounds that would come along. How they loved to run alongside the horses during fox hunts, but it may have been a bit much.

They would need to warm up afterward. The chill of the English countryside would seep into their bones during the riding.

Maybe the famed British author would have just wanted to stay at the manor house. In the winter there were the many ornate fireplaces. And the gazing one could do out all the windows, with the views. The small table off the kitchen looking out to the sunroom, his favorite place for tea. Maybe a stroll through the spacious gardens, with a cigar held between his index finger and thumb.

“Now really, darling,” he would say to his wife.

“You just go riding. The low mist and fog over the frozen fields shouldn’t be too bad today, darling.”

And then, “I will stay and tend to the fireplaces so it is warm upon your return. And you know the publisher, darling, wants my manuscript in eight months.”

“You know why I prefer the countryside, darling. To be far from London, with all the gossip there; puts one in such a nasty spirit.”

“For the peace and quiet of the countryside, darling. But you know I don’t enjoy the country frolicking of the riding and such.”

“Go darling, and have a marvelous time.

“Oh, and didn’t you mention something about the nanny being ill today? Take the boy with you.”

”I will miss you both. Stay as long as you wish, darling.”