The English countryside was once a refuge for writers and artists of slender means. The life was peaceful, the air was fresh, and the rents were cheap. But like exotic plants transplanted to alien soil, they brought their own peculiarities to their new habitat. And they could arouse suspicion and sometimes loathing in the natives.
Whether or not Charles Rennie Mackintosh sensed that a modest terraced house in Northampton would contain his last major work may be unknowable, but by 1916 he must have known that what reputation he had in Britain was on the wane