From Banbury I took a bus. “Angelfield?” said the bus driver. “No, there’s no service to Angelfield. Not yet, anyhow. Might be different when the hotel’s built.”

‘Are they building there, then?“

‘Some old ruin they’re pulling down. Going to be a fancy hotel. They might run a bus then, for the staff, but for now the best you can do is get off at the Hare and Hounds on the Cheneys Road and walk from there. ’Bout a mile, I reckon.“

There wasn’t much in Angelfield. A single street whose wooden sign read, with logical simplicity, The Street. I walked past a dozen cottages, built in pairs. Here and there a distinctive feature stood out—a large yew tree, a children’s swing, a wooden bench—but for the most part each dwelling, with its neatly embroidered thatch, its white gables and the restrained artistry in its brickwork, resembled its neighbor like a mirror image.

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