Rosemary Bailey's bag and baggage, when she moved into a monastery she and her husband had bought in the south of France, included some pieces of furniture, some suitcases full of clothes and 90 boxes of books. What a perfect proportion of possessions.
But if I move, what will I do with my 70 odd potted plants? Ok, I always dream of an acre of land and growing rosemary and thyme and lavender (I've got basil and chillies but these just sound infinitely more romantic and unachievable), but I'm sure I'll be as lost at being a farmer as she did:
My new rusticism was equally ambivalent. I spent as many hours reading books about herbs as I did planting them. It was clearly more efficient to buy vegetables than spend the time required to grow them, however good they might taste. As I pottered about the garden in my sun hat with my latest basket on my arm I sometimes felt like Marie Antoinette playing at being a milkmaid.