A charming 2-storied white birdhouse with a red-shingled roof, tenanted by equally white pigeons greeted us in the car park of the Neville Arms. I am always on the alert for signs from the Universe, and as my unpublished novel is titled: A Birdhouse In Brooklyn, I took this as a sign. The Neville Arms is just what I had in mind of rural England. In the village of Medbourne and so authentic it was rebuilt in 1863. It was originally an old stable yard and inn and reachable from the car park by a pack horse bridge across a placid, algae-patched ford. One enters through an impressive studded oak door to an interior with oak beamed ceilings and a stone fireplace, with a gentle diffused light coming from the leaded windows. A peek into a separate rear dining area revealed a modern upscale setting that would suit a discerning Manhattanite’s taste, even one as wealthy as our “struggling” TARP wife. But I wondered, why here?