It’s Sunday drives in an old land rover with leather seats worn in, a Barbour jacket and long walks, a tweed blazer and riding boots. It’s a fire warming a paneled room and a soft chesterfield, worn with time to utter perfection and a tartan blanket for that added cozy factor. It’s the smell of wood and tobacco and baked apples and old books. It’s somehow comfortable, elegant, inspiring, and yet cozy and tailored and utterly intoxicating. It’s the leaves turning for fall and muddy paths that lead the way for horse and dog and us. It’s a morning fog rolling over the hills and steam streaming up from the pond. It is somehow fantasy and reality.