I want you to imagine an idyllic English village. At the heart, by the river, there is the church. It is ancient, it is solid, the stained glass windows glisten in the early evening light.
Then there is the post office, it connects the inner workings of the community with the outside world. It creates a sense of excitement at what one might be delivered by surprise.
There are the older workman’s cottages, mature, upright trees, new areas of housing for those that want to have a ‘place in it’ but’ll never have the quintessential charm of those unique, merchants’ mansions built decades and even centuries before.
But, of course, under the quiet, peaceful tranquility (and the charm), there is a current, a maelstrom, of storms brewing, of conflicts, of resentments, those who do not wish to participate, how scoff at traditional customs, a mutation in the Vox populi, a glitch in the system.
There is nothing perfect. Walled gardens and picket fences prevent the spread of disdain, they provide privacy and safe haven and the boundaries must be protected.
We all innately know what happens when the sacred garden is defiled.