Today I snuck in a walk in one of my favourite places: the South Downs in East Sussex. I’ll elaborate on why this cluster of close-cropped, vivid green, undulating hills tops my list when my official “Across the Pond” series starts on Monday.

In the meantime, I need to report that a lone jogger passed by me and shouted “it’s great to be alive!” with a crazy smile plastered on his face.

Also, a good friend of mine has claimed that this very walk saved his life when he was going through some troublesome times.

And you thought this was just a travel series. Oh no. This self-help-by-scenery.

Sometimes you’re walking in a field in the U.K. and, out of nowhere, a very random tower, temple or even a cement pineapple will present itself.

“Wow, has this been here since Roman times? Am I the first to stumble upon it? Did it somehow slip under the radar?”

The answer is no. Not just because absolutely nothing has slipped under the radar in the U.K. (see: Ordnance Survey maps). But also because this bizarre morsel of architecture is likely a folly.

You will occasionally see a folly in Canada (for example, the “ruins” at William Lyon Mackenzie King’s estate in Gatineau, Quebec), but they’re far more prevalent in the U.K., where folly building was all the rage in the 18th and 19th centuries.

A folly is essentially a silly, silly building that a rich man decided to throw up on his land just for kicks. It generally has no purpose other than to make peasants and less whimsical peers gape in awe.

Another common feature of a folly is that it references a much earlier time period. Sometimes, they’d even go so far as to distress it so it would appear to have crumbled over time. I think we can liken this to intentionally ripping brand new $200 jeans.

This morning, I went with my friend Andy and his sweet mum (have to use the “u” because I’m in England) Stella to check out Horton Tower in Dorset. A quick google search revealed that it was built around 1750, but the floors have since fallen out so it’s basically just a big, scary brick tube that provides shade for sweaty sheep.

Not bad, though, is it?

I’m drawing up some plans for a miniature leaning tower of Pisa, which will look quite nice by my patio set.

These days, even seniors seem to be fishing buzzing mobile phones out of their pants (ahem – trousers), but there was a time in the not-too-distant past when many people didn’t even have a telephone in their house.

Hence the rural phone box, which turns up in some of the strangest places. This one sits on a corner in the minuscule village of Acton Scott in Shropshire, glowing into the night like some kind of portal to the past. I asked around and nobody seems to recall a time when it wasn’t there – and some of these were folks who grew up in the fifties.

Although it’s seldom used, it’s awfully quaint don’t you think? I’d be sad to see these go, and I don’t even have a personal memory of calling someone up to find out if they’d be my date for the village dance!

Let’s give these lonely phone boxes a boost: if ever you see one sitting in a field, near a bus shelter or outside someone’s front door, get in there and give your mom a quick call. Double benefit, you see.

Today, a realization.

When I look at an old building, particularly the very old buildings you can’t get in Canada, I’m not just admiring the storybook sags and the friendly half-timbered patterns. I’m searching for answers about the meaning of it all. Life. Death. The passage of time.

I’m reaching, longing, straining to hear an echo of the past; a message from a world that is once us and not us at all. Are we, running around with our smartphones and our mass produced goods from China, even the same species as the folks who populated this very piece of earth in the 15th century?

I wish I could – just for a moment – have a glimpse into the heart of someone who sat in this Tudor building when it was newly constructed. In spite of war, poor medicine, sewage on the streets and all that jazz (look, I know it was far from perfect), was this person fundamentally happier than me?

The simplicity of the quiet lives of yore – limited lives governed by nature and good old fashioned human interaction – intrigues me. Things have changed so much so fast. My grandma grew up in that model; I’m nowhere near it.

Knowing full well that technology conveys these very thoughts to your computer screen, I’ll admit that some days I despise it – Twitter, WordPress, iPhone, iPad, Pinterest, Facebook, Gmail, Text Messaging and the lot – and would rather bake bread for a living, oblivious to the world beyond my village.

The Rewind Button is a group blogging project instigated by Rachel Tynan. As part of her New Years’ Resolutions for 2012, she set out to listen to Rolling Stone’s top 50 albums of all time. I thought it would be fun if a group of bloggers listened to the same albums at the same time, then posted their reactions. Starting today, we’re going through the Top 40 and will be continuing with a new album every Thursday. Want to join in? We’d love to have you. Email me if you have a blog, or just offer up your two cents in my comments area below.

Last week’s album (I’m late due to travelling):  London Calling (1979)

I didn’t listen to London Calling in London, but I got pretty close: I listened to it on a train cutting across the English countryside.

Did that help me connect with it? No. In fact, it was very much at odds with the sheep, green rolling hills and stately homes that greeted me beyond the window. This is an urban album. It makes me think of graffiti, tattoos and cement.

London Calling strikes me as the other side of England – the Trainspotting England. The council houses. The track suits.

And yet, despite the social commentary and the rebellious tone of the album, it’s so upbeat. That’s a typical English thing, one that Bill Bryson touches upon in Notes from a Small Island – a “this is bollocks but let’s make the best of it, mate” attitude that I really admire.

It’s funny, too, to think that this is “punk” when you hear that horn section rocking out in “The Right Profile.” Have a look at the hardcore, guitar-smashin’ cover image when the trumpets really kick off. If these guys are punks, they’re nice punks. Punks that you’d let babysit your kid.

London Calling is the type of album I’d have tried to force myself to like in high school. Something gritty enough to be cool but not so gritty it’s inaccessible to a middle class girl. It’s an album you could jump up and down to in your clunky Doc Martens without fearing you’ll be reduced to a pulp in the mosh pit. Like Rancid, a band that was obviously heavily influenced by The Clash. I recall feeling so relieved when I heard “Timebomb” on that Rancid tape.

Alas, now, as then, punk or any variation thereof doesn’t do it for me. Maybe I just prefer the countryside?

Fave Songs: Death or Glory and Lost in the Supermarket

Least Fave Song: The Guns of Brixton

Note: Better on the second listen.

Who else rewound London Calling?

There’s nothing quite like waking up in the English countryside in May. The fresh air, the birdsong, the bluebells…you’ve got to love it.

Also, sometimes there is deep-fried bread at breakfast.

I think I like Instagram better than Twitter.

Instagram provides the community, the hashtags and the immediacy, but it’s far more personal. Instead of simply retweeting links to someone else’s content, users post unique photos – artsy insights into their reality.

I feel strongly about not adding to cyber clutter, so I purposely don’t tweet as much as some (this is something I hope to discuss in more detail in the future). As for Instagram, I pledge to post only a few of my best photos every day. If you’re interested, please find me there (rebstevenson).