I am in the Cotswolds on my own. Husband has stayed behind in L.A. for work. Last night I took a train, then a perilous taxi ride down the Fosseway to our new cottage. There was fresh snow, the first of the season.
I spent the morning scoping out the best spots in town for mobile reception, which I’ve now determined are the edge of the field, although no further than the wooden shed known as the tennis club; the bench in the market square; and the big table at the front of the wine bar. It’s cold and my All Stars weren’t up to this snowy expedition. My week in L.A. has lulled me into a false belief in canvas as an all-season shoe choice.