Country LITE

BY WILLIAM GEE

As the romance of the rural countryside sinks into history in favour of a plusher ambience, is this a comedy or a true British tragedy?

In lite (if you will) of the current coronavirus débacle, many of us have been forced to turn to domestic affairs in lieu of foreign pursuits. In my case, the slopes of Aspen were ditched, for a last-ditch attempt at a long weekend in the good ol’ British countryside - just what the doctor ordered. Somewhere between my 3pm deep-tissue massage and late afternoon tea (served in the drawing room - because where else?), I realised that we weren’t really in the countryside at all - at least not in the true sense of the word. This was evidenced at Babington House, Somerset - the self-proclaimed country-lite retreat where muddy flat plains are traded in for (oft oat milk) flat whites. Here you will find me curled up in the famed library bar (the cornucopia for the quasi-studious set, tip-tapping at laptops between sips of green juice), polishing off the last chapters of Sloane Crosley’s delicious biography I was Told There’d be Cake; this was one thing I didn’t have to worry about - the rhubarb pavlovas just kept on coming, despite my feeble protests - no country bumpkin activities for me.

“muddy flat plains are traded in for (oft oat milk) flat whites”

Although I was in a state of bliss, I did manage to spare a moment to contemplate whether the country, you know, the REAL mud-squelching, pub- lunching, non-Hunter-welly-wearing country had suddenly lost its touch. In a world where one must tread the line between shabby and chic in order to stay relevant to the Instagram set, where balcony hot tubs (or at the very least roll-top freestanding soak tubs) are de rigeur, is it so surprising that true rural is no longer a USP, but rather an unfortunate afterthought? The idyllic country retreat has suddenly morphed into a scene. In trying to escape all those London accents, you find yourself in an episode of ‘Made in Chelsea’. Is this a true British tragedy or simply evolution; are the creature comforts of modern life too sacred to forsake, even for the weekend? In our escape from the urban scene, we find ourselves in a perfectly manicured pseudo countryside with all the markers of a city - why can’t we be like those cake-and-eat-it young men in The Importance of Being Earnest, who shuttle between town and country, leading a separated double life with glorious insouciance?