nd antiquity?It's been 16 years since that first dinner party in modern architecture. In the mean time I've lived in three quaint villages, one Victorian flat with character windows, one mock-Georgian place that pretended to be old, and bought a 200-year-old cottage with views of Queen Anne architecture out the front and medieval half timbering to the back. So far, true to form. And then, I moved to Basingstoke.
Though technically not a new town (there's a handful of venerable buildings in the town centre, Basing House saw a major civil war battle and The Vyne once hosted Henry VIII), most of what you see now has been built in the last two decades. Today's Basingstoke is a modern town centre, mostly comprised of an indoor shopping mall, ringed with office and apartment blocks, anchored by a train station with excellent, high speed connections. Sprawling away from that are vast housing estates of winding roads and detached houses with garages, punctuated by strip malls with plenty of parking in front of their new, or freshly-remodelled, chain stores. It is as spiritually American as Starbucks, baseball caps and overly-friendly shop assistants. And I love it.
Why this betrayal of my long-held aesthetic beliefs? I could be sappy and say it's for love. (The move was triggered by household consolidation with the man in my life.) But it's far more pragmatic than that. I like the fact that my walls are straight, and that none of the doors stick. I appreciate how the house actually retains heat, thanks to those stout yet large double glazed windows. I revel in hallways large enough to get down without knocking my elbows, and no longer have to worry about Piers smacking his head on low-hanging door frames and light fixtures.
Most of all, I love my new, American-style, double-sided fridge freezer with enough room for even the food-iest of couples to host a gourmet dinner or a big housewarming. (The former was the birthday feast my partner slaved over for me: chilled cucumber soup, lobster ravioli, steak Rossini ... topped by foie gras and grilled mushroom ... and white chocolate cheesecake. The latter our house-warming BBQ, Middle Eastern themed with chicken or fish skewers, home made hummus and baba ganoush, Moroccan rice salad and, returning closer to home, American-style chocolate chip cookies.) And how could I forget, for the first time in my life in England, decent water pressure!
The convenience of the neighbourhood is remarkable. Quick access to both motorway and train station, without much traffic. Every shop I could need nearby, with both easy access and parking. Trails for walking and cycling connect everything, thoughtfully landscaped. The town planners set aside generous parks and fields; the view from my office window is mostly treetops up to the crest of a hill miles away. We even have a local pub, built 10 years ago, thatched and stage set to look like it's been here for a while. It's disturbingly similar to the pub at Epcot in Walt Disney World, and the food on our last outing left a great deal to be desired (a crayfish and avocado salad with none of the second ingredient, a lovely tuna steak cooked beyond taste) but the menu is broad, the prices are reasonable and the place was packed on a Tuesday night. Certainly worth giving them another chance.
Of course, I haven't completely abandoned old England. My subscription to Country Life still drops through the letter box every Wednesday. A five-minute cycle from my front door takes me under the M3 and back to entirely rural communities. Half timbering, thatched roofs, crumbling parish churches, all available for easy enjoyment, without the personal maintenance responsibility. The venerable, ancient capital of Winchester is just half an hour down the road. We've already checked out its twice-monthly farmers market, rich with specialist producers offering fruit, veg, meat, game and all manner of luxury goods. Sometime soon I must make a pilgrimage back to the cathedral there to visit the grave of Jane Austen, who spent her last days at Chawton ... an easy cycle ride from the our house.Unleashed with a generous lottery win, my dream house would still be historic. A Georgian rectory, a rambling half-timbered gentleman's farmhouse, a Kentish oast or perhaps a small Jacobean estate with a long gallery suitable for viewing the surrounding countryside. But on the back of just a few weeks of convenience, insulation and water pressure, my fantasy has shifted somewhat. Historic exterior, interior gutted and refurbished to the highest modern specifications.
Until the millions come through, however, suburban Basingstoke will just have to do.
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