As my wife and I anticipate a quiet family Christmas with our ten-year-old son and four-year-old daughter in our quiet hideaway in the relative wilds of South Carolina, I find myself pining like an exile for the Shire that my heart still calls home. I refer to Norfolk, a charming and relatively unspoiled backwater of rural England, where I lived for the last thirteen years of my life in my native land. I love South Carolina and am grateful for the new life she has given me, as indeed I am grateful to my wife and children for the new life that they have given me. Nonetheless, and as happy and grateful as I am, I remember with fondness the idyllic sanctuary that Norfolk holds in the inner sanctum of my heart’s hearth’s home. The source of this unexpected melancholic musing was my stumbling across this short but oh-so-sweet article in today’s Telegraph: