Our gentry in England live mainly in the country—apart from a few castles—always building in hollows, Jovius says, or near woods, “a crown of green trees.” You may recognize a village by a clump of trees in or around it, planted to shelter it from the strong winds that afflict the island and from cold winter blasts.

Some condemn moated houses as unhealthy. Camden says of Ewelme that it was little frequented for this reason, “because of the vapours from the neighbouring pool”; the same objection applies to all places near lakes or rivers. But I think these disadvantages can be reduced or easily corrected by good fires. As one writer reports of Venice, the “foul smell” and fog of the marshes are sufficiently tempered by its innumerable plumes of smoke. Indeed, the eminent physician Thomas Philologus of Ravenna maintains that Venetians generally live longer than the inhabitants of any city in Europe, many reaching 120 years.

But it is not water itself that does so much harm as the slime and offensive smells that accompany flooded places. These occur only at certain times after a flood, and are amply compensated by sweet smells and lovely views in summer. “Spring will paint the meadows, studded with flowers, in varied colours,” with many other advantages of pleasure and profit.

Or the difficulty may be corrected by the site, if it lies some distance from the water, as at Lindley, Orton-on-the-Hill, and Drayton; or a little higher, though nearer to it, as at Caldecote, Amington, Polesworth, and Weddington—to dwell on places best known to me, on the River Anker in Warwickshire—and Swarkestone and Drakelow on the Trent. However unsuitable they may be in winter or at certain times, they serve well in summer.

If their means are too limited to allow such variety, and they must decide once for all and make one house serve every season, I know no writers who have given better rules on this subject than those who write on husbandry. Cato and Columella advise that a good house should stand beside a navigable river and good roads, near a city and on good soil; but that serves convenience more than health.

The best soil commonly produces the worst air. A dry, sandy plot is best for building, preferably hilly rather than level, full of downs—a Cotswold landscape—since it offers the greatest advantages for hawking, hunting, woods, waters, and every kind of pleasure.

Périgord in France is barren, yet because of its excellent air and the pleasures it offers, many of the nobility live there, as at Nuremberg in Germany and Toledo in Spain. Our countryman Tusser will tell us as much: open-field country is for profit, woodland for pleasure and health. The former commonly has deep clay, and is therefore unhealthy in winter and liable to bad roads; the latter is dry land.

Provisions can be obtained elsewhere, and our towns are generally larger in woodland than in open-field country, more numerous and populous; gentlemen take more pleasure in living in such places. Sutton Coldfield in Warwickshire, where I was once a grammar-school pupil, may be sufficient evidence. As Camden notes, it stands “in an unpromising and barren place,” but enjoys excellent air and every kind of pleasure. Wadley in Berkshire lies in a valley. Though its soil is less fertile than that of some valleys, its situation is most convenient and healthy, with delightful air: a rich and pleasant residence.

So Seagrave in Leicestershire, a town I am now obliged to remember, stands in open country at the edge of the Wolds and is more barren than the surrounding villages; yet scarcely any place is likely to offer better air. And the builder of that fine house, Wollaton in Nottinghamshire, deserves much praise for choosing such a site, though the surrounding land is sandy and barren.

Constantine, in book 2 of his work on agriculture, praises mountains, hilly and steep places, especially those beside the sea, and sites facing north over some great river: such as Foremark in Derbyshire on the Trent, surrounded by hills and open only to the north; or Mount Edgcumbe in Cornwall, which Mr Carew so much admires as an excellent residence. Such, too, is the general situation of Bohemia: “Boreas clears the sky”; the north wind makes the air clear.

But he utterly disapproves of sites near lakes or marshes, in hollows or dark places, or facing south and west: those winds are unhealthy, cause putrefaction, and make people liable to disease. According to him, the healthiest building stands on high ground with an excellent view, like the house at Cuddesdon in Oxfordshire, which I must mention as a mark of honour. It has lately been handsomely built, with good air, a good view, and good soil, for both profit and pleasure: a combination not easily matched.

Pietro de’ Crescenzi, in book 1, chapter 5 of his work on agriculture, discusses this subject at great length: how a house should be placed for health, with a good exposure, good air, favourable winds, and so forth. Varro, On Agriculture, book 1, chapter 12, forbids sites by lakes and rivers, on marshy and cultivated land: they cause bad air and severe diseases, difficult to cure. If the situation cannot be remedied, he advises, it is better to sell your house and land than lose your health.

Anyone who disregards this when choosing a residence or building a house is “out of his mind”—mad, Cato says—and his dwelling is next door to hell itself, according to Columella. In conclusion, he recommends a site halfway down a hillside. Giambattista della Porta, in Villa, book 1, chapter 22, assesses Varro, Cato, Columella, and those ancient writers on farming. He approves much, rejects some things, and insists that the front of a house should face south. How this can be good in Italy and hotter climates I do not know; in our northern countries I am sure it is best.