Rural England is a small place. All of England to start with is smaller than most US states, and can fit into Scandinavia many times over. Take out the cities, take out the airports, the motorways and main roads, the growing suburbs and industrial sites, and you aren't left with a huge amount of area. Set your mind to it and in a few days you could walk across its width; in a few weeks, its length.
But, what there is still greatly varied in tone, color, views, flora and fauna. And it is a country to be walked in, not driven through or flown over. Rabbits and pheasants burst from their secluded places as they hear you coming, and leap or flap away. Herons move slowly from tree to riverbank. In the gloom of dusk, foxes trot quickly, sharply, on their routes across fields. Meadows filled with a million buttercups invite crossing. And there are thousands upon thousands of those fields, rolling and curving over hills; and hedgerows, and woods and copses and spinneys.
Yes. The trees.
So many trees.
It's a safe place; there is little that can or will kill you. And it's a gentle place, in weather and inhabitant. Everyone, no exception, I've passed this last few weeks on country lanes has nodded, given some variation of passing greeting, or observation on the current or coming weather. The invisibility cloak you are seemingly given on entering the city is not worn here.
But also, this is a visibly historical place, as you are reminded over and over. The way the country lanes either ramble off in dead straight lines (Roman), or zig zag around fields (Enclosure act), or make no logical sense at all (just ... English). The buildings, almhouses and stately homes and passing a cottage called "The New House" with a date of 1573 above the front door, and the remnants of medieval or older settlements. The many churches, stone and bell; the place names, and the dialects.
And the, thankfully enduring, traditions and customs. Stumble into a pub of several centuries, parched after rambling across fields and through woods and over brooks and streams; pat the owners dog on the head, buy a drink and some pork scratchings then notice Morris Dancers preparing to shake their bells and clash sticks outside. Or wander past a village fete, decide to check out just one stand, and a few minutes late you wonder why you've just bought three cakes made by a 90+ year old, but you are glad you have as it's probably made her day and you've contributed to some village restoration project.
Rural England is a seductive place. It's better if you have the money, and the time, to enjoy and explore it (then again, so is everywhere). But above all, it's a quiet place where nature has, at least partially, reclaimed the sounds. Sure, there is often the distant hum of traffic, or a nearby tractor, or a plane going overhead (and ... so many planes, in recent years). But there are farm animals, and birds, and church bells near and distant, the sounds of water, morris dancers and cricket matches, and psithurism (look it up, then go outside somewhere and listen to it).
Though I was born in this rural land, and spent the first 20 years here and kept coming back, and I'm here again, wandering the lanes and fields, this isn't home. That thing means something different now, and it's a long way, physically and literally, from here. But I'm finding that it's deeply satisfying, for a short while anyway, to wander down lanes, through woods and across meadows, again.