I grew up in a neighborhood that was surrounded by farms. There was a horse farm behind me and dairy farms on either side.
Shepherds at the grange, Where the Babe was born, Sang with many a change, Christmas carols until morn.
I love going to writers' colonies in pastoral settings where there's nothing to do but either walk around or read a book or work on your book, and they all seem helpful.
I had almost three acres of land in Beverly Hills. And I had a big atrium of chickens because I love that feeling of being in the country and living from the soil.
Most English houses, grand or small, nestle in an intimate pastoral setting.
I know a bank where the wild thyme blows, Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows, Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine, With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine.
Through the ample open door of the peaceful country barn, A sun-lit pasture field, with cattle and horses feeding; And haze, and vista, and the far horizon, fading away.
