I have lived in three villages, and they could not be more different.
The first was when I was married to my first husband, and we purchased a new property in what was at the time the largest village in Dorset.
Less than three years later we sold for a substantial profit, and purchased another new property at the other end of said village. It didn’t matter. The marriage still failed, but that was nothing to do with village life.
A year later, I moved to another village 75 miles away and lived there for almost 8 years.
I was known as the girl who played the piano for the first couple of years, then people got to know me through the darts leagues. The fact that I always stood my round and could add up without a calculator (no such thing as electronic scoreboards in those days) made me very popular with the lads.
I always imagined living in a village would be quaint and personal, but this one took ‘personal’ to another level as everyone seemed to be having affairs with everyone else’s partner and sexual abuse in families was not uncommon.
Another failed relationship, and I left in 1989 to return to my roots.
Fast forward to house hunting in 2007, when Hubby and I bought the cottage. We lived there for 7 years, our property originally being the village school built in 1847.
The village was tiny, no school, no pub, post office, shop or church. People kept themselves to themselves, but it wasn’t until they realised that the black and white dog that never entered the fields belonged to us, and we were not related to our next door neighbours (who were not exactly popular with ANYONE), that people started to talk to us.