Ignore its more suburban edges and concentrate on the oaks, ickle ponies, witches and ye olde Norman lore
What’s going for it? Thanks to the Brothers Grimm, I’ve long had a fancy to live in a forest, aside from the obvious downsides of witches, wood-trolls and big bad wolves. Just a log cabin in a little clearing will do, so I can live out my Henry David Thoreau dreams – in easy reach of a decent coffee, of course. Since we Brits deforested our land centuries before palm oil conglomerates started work on the Amazon, there isn’t much choice on this island. The New Forest just about fits the bill. Brockenhurst and Lyndhurst are the two main clearings: smart, mostly Victorian affairs Lycra-bombed by cyclists on an average weekend, but jolly spots nonetheless. One can quite imagine Arthur Conan Doyle or Alice‑in-Wonderland Liddell trotting the streets here, under gothic gables. Forest would be a slight overstatement to anyone from Brazil or the Congo, but if I squint a bit and ignore its more suburban edges, concentrating instead on the oaks, ickle ponies, witches and local lore from ye olde Norman times, I can fill up on my bosky romance and be within a short drive of, say, The Pig, when I’m in desperate need of some yuzu juice.
The case against Traffic, especially in summer: gridlock, just to get home for your tea. Verges on the unromantically suburban, for those looking for rural idyll. Expensive: I don’t remember any Maserati showrooms last time I read Little Red Riding Hood.
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