A social pariah in the shires

We like our little cottage in a pretty Wiltshire village on the River Kennet — and we just hope the village likes us. It’s hard to tell.

‘I see you’ve been doing a lot of work on the house. So, have you finally moved in or are you [slight pause, crinkle of nose] weekending?’ asked one of the village’s grand dames.

‘Oh, yes, we’re very much here and loving it,’ I said. There was no need to mention that London is where we live, Wiltshire is where we flop, and that we don’t even get down every weekend. Don’t tell anyone, but we are guilty of fortnighting.

Even so, we made the cut for drinks (6.30to 8.30 p.m.) at one of the big houses on the outskirts of the village, where our hostess, Victoria (‘everyone calls me Tor’) — whom we had met at a stile while she was walking her dogs one crisp and even morning — waltzed us round the room with such warmth and enthusiasm that we began to understand the ‘coming home’ sensation that born-again Christians experience after completing the Alpha Course at Holy Trinity Brompton.

A couple of months on and we’re keeping the faith — pretty much. It’s just that we haven’t received any further invitations and wonder if we should start sending out some of our own. We’ve come to the first hurdle in what turns out to be an almost impossible ambition: to gain acceptance into an old English village.

‘That drinks party was your beauty parade,’ says a friend, who has lived in the shires most of his life and knows about these things. ‘If people want to see you again they will ring your hostess and get your number. I wouldn’t push it if I were you.’