I dreamed of villages nestled amid green fields. Ancient castles, glades, snow, the Matterhorn, but above all villages. There were no proper villages in Australia, not in the English sense – or even the Lego sense (Lego made me what I am). All we had were clumps of weathered dwellings here and there, sometimes with a pub on the corner and rusted chassis everywhere. To this day in Australia, “village” means “community for the aged”, as in the expression: “I’ve just moved my mother into a village and she loves it.” I wanted Grasmere, where Wordsworth lived. Or Bourton-on-the-Water. I wanted countryside with roots.