Real life | 24 September 2015

After pulling out of my flat sale and U-turning on the idea of moving to the Cotswolds, it took me a while to realise why.

But there is a reason I can never seem to find what I’m looking for. No matter where I go to house-hunt for the cottage of my dreams, nothing is ever right, be it in Cobham or further along the A3 or, giving up on the south east altogether, in the Cotswolds. And the reason is not that I am a hopeless flake.

The reason is that I have not really been looking for a place in Cobham, or Ripley, or ‘down the Hog’s Back’, as tempting as that may sound, or, more exotically, in a village on the Surrey-Hampshire borders, or even in Cameron Country just outside Chipping Norton.

No. I realise now I have not been looking for a place in a place. I have been looking for a place in a time. I have been house-hunting for somewhere in 1956.

This kind of house-hunting is, of course, problematic. Estate agents don’t tend to sell houses set in eras. Set in three acres is tricky enough. Set in its own grounds is just about possible on my budget. Set on a larger than average plot is more than likely. But set in the ’50s — not so much.

This is a great shame, because I think if one could house-hunt for somewhere set in the time of one’s choice the housing market would be a lot more buoyant.

As it is, you go to see a house which looks idyllic and conjures just the quality of life you were aiming for, in the pictures. But when you get there the quiet, friendly, civilised village you were hoping for reveals itself to be a village set in 2015.