I Invite No One, I Host No One, I Share Neither My Harvest Nor My Tools – In My Village, They Think I’m Mad.

I keep to myself, I never invite anyone over, I never split my crops or lend my tools the folk in the little Cotswold hamlet call me mad.

So I slipped into early retirement. The hustle of London had grown stale. I craved quiet, the scent of earth, a life of growing veg, fruit and berries, sipping herbal tea sweetened with raw honey. Before I handed in my notice I bought a stonecottage on the outskirts of the village.

When spring unfurled, I planted roses and foxgloves, set out garden gnomes, squirrel statues and tiny lanterns. Every step I took, the neighbours watched with curious eyes. One bright morning, Mrs. Penelope Hart could no longer hold back. As I was planting seedlings, she marched into my garden.

Did you forget to sow petunias? she chided, insinuating I should share them with her. Why should I give my seedlings to a woman I barely know? Petunias are ficklehard to keep alive, and I had only ten of them. I pretended not to catch her drift.

A week and a half later, I spotted Mrs. Hart whispering over the fence to a lady who kept glancing my way. It seemed they were talking about me.

On a sweltering summer day, I was tending the lettuce when a sharp voice startled me. A woman named Agatha stood at the boundary, calling out. I was passing your cottage and saw you have ripe fruit on the fence. I havent had any myself. My eyes widened. Who just barges onto anothers property and asks for fruit? I barely eat the apples myself; I keep them for my daughter, Blythe.

Later, in the village shop, I bought a packet of sweets. Behind me in the queue, a lady from the next laneMrs. Gloverleaned over and asked, Who are those sweets for? Will you invite me over for tea? How could she care why Im buying confectionery? Why should I entertain a stranger whos neither a friend, nor a relative, nor a colleague?

Just last week, Mrs. Hart caught me digging with a small trowel and demanded, What did you purchase, where, and when? I felt forced to answer politely, though it grated on me.

In the city, none of this happens. No one pesters you with intrusive, foolish questions, asks for visits, or tries to pilfer your harvest or tools. Yet a neighbour confided that most of the village deem me abnormal. So it is.

Their opinions mean nothing to me. I bought this cottage to safeguard my privacy, not to befriend the local women or drown in gossip. If thats what they think, let them stay away from my garden and my peace.