There is something about an English village that can make the modern world seem very far away. Perhaps it begins with the road. Instead of running straight toward its destination, it curves between old stone walls and hedgerows, narrowing unexpectedly as though it has no particular interest in accommodating the hurried traveller. Houses sit at different angles along the way, some close to the road and others tucked behind small gardens and wooden gates. Somewhere beyond the rooftops, the tower of an old parish church rises above the trees. Nothing appears to have been planned all at once. And that may be part of the reason it feels so timeless. An English village is rarely the product of a single period. It has grown slowly, sometimes over hundreds of years, with one generation leaving something behind for the next. A medieval church may stand within walking distance of Georgian houses. A Victorian postbox might sit beside a stone wall considerably older than either. A cottag...