Early on in the book, you say that you and your wife, Francesca, opened your house to others “not because of a feeling of superiority, but because of identification”…
In my early 20s, I had a pretty acute breakdown. It felt like I’d been skinned alive and I used to sit in an armchair for hours just trying to build up the energy to make a cup of tea. But I remember, too, the exemplary kindness of people who helped me through. That makes it easier for me to understand something of what people are going through here and, hopefully, to pass on some of the kindness that I received.

How do people find their way to you?
Some of them are referred: many from mental health teams around Somerset and Wiltshire, many from GPs’ surgeries, from rehabs and local and national charities, from parole officers, social workers. Some self-refer. By now, a lot of it is word of mouth, with people having heard about us on the west country grapevine.

What kind of screening process do you have?
In the beginning, we were very easy-going – people we knew nothing about used to wander in and ask for a bed and end up staying for weeks or even months. We always wanted to avoid too much paperwork, bureaucracy and form-filling, but over the years we’ve got more thorough in assessing people. We have an application form now asking pretty blunt questions and we take two references. We then invite people down for a meal, or a day, or a long weekend – and that usually leads to a trial week’s stay.

Over time, we’ve got pretty shrewd and also realistic about who we can help and who we can’t. I also ask people to leave if there’s anything threatening to the community. That’s the ultimate sanction and, sadly, not infrequent.

When do you think your interest in communal living began?
I was clearing out some boxes from my parents’ attic recently and I found some newspaper cuttings about communes and alternative ways of having a family from when I was about 13 or 14, so I think it’s always been there. Partly because my parents often had someone either staying with us for weeks or months, or gathered around them at Christmas, or coming on holiday with us. The other thing – as I say in the book – is that I’m suspicious of the nuclear family, or certainly suspicious of the way it’s become a symbol of wholesomeness and healthiness and virtue, whereas actually I think for a lot of people, either they don’t have a nuclear family or it’s not the nuclear family they’d like.

Your children seem to have benefited from your way of life. What do their friends make of it?
Well, I’m looking out my window now at 12 kids who are visiting from the local school where Benny and Emma go. To have access to a woodland half a mile from their school in which there are pygmy goats, piglets, lambs and ponds – you can imagine for them it’s wonderful. It’s also wonderful for us as a community to have a dozen shrieking, giggling kids pulling newts out of the pond but also stopping off to stroke the goats with some chap who’s lost touch with his own children. The local schools are very connected and supportive.

In the book, you refer to your faith slightly apologetically: “I know I risk forfeiting the sympathy of a vast majority of readers if I confess a religious inspiration behind what we’re doing.”
I do find it surprising that there is such a visceral disdain for Christianity. I think it’s largely to do with religion causing problems – wars and terrorism. While it’s true that obviously there is a religious motivation behind much of the ghastly bloodshed throughout the world, at the same time when you go to almost any homeless charity or soup kitchen in this country, almost certainly it will be inspired by religious belief. Where are the atheist soup kitchens? … I think there are bits dropped in [the book] that people who know the long history of radical Christian hospitality will pick up on. [At the house] we occasionally have discussions around religion, but it’s extremely rare. But there are things – tiny things that bring it to the surface. Like “How do we say grace before meals?” and “Why do we give thanks before food?” It’s really very nitty-gritty. When you’ve got lice or nits in your hair, are you allowed to kill them? There are people living here who think killing an animal is wrong.

You plan to hand over Windsor Hill Wood to others to continue “after around seven years”. How will that happen and what will you do?
The plan, optimistic but eminently possible, is that the trustees of the Windsor Hill Wood charity will fund-raise in order to lease or buy the site. It would be the trustees’ job to appoint an appropriate person/couple as successors. Sounds simple, eh? It depends on many things… We will probably go and live in Italy and start a similar project there.

As well as all this, you are a successful author of a number of novels and nonfiction titles, including the bestselling The Dark Heart of Italy, published in 2003. (An examination of contemporary Italy based on his time living there with his Italian wife.) How do you still find time to write?
It tends to be at the crack of dawn, 4 or 5am. Then I do the communal work and go back into the office after lunch. I always wanted to write. I had a talent for writing and I didn’t have a talent for much else.

Which writers do you like?
I love Ross Macdonald; he’s a guilty pleasure because he’s kind of a page-turner. Elmore Leonard as well. At the deeper end, I’m constantly going back to [Dietrich] Bonhoeffer. It’s extraordinary to find someone whose life was pretty short – cut short by the Nazis – but who’s still relevant for communal living. Also Wendell Berry; his essays just nail it every time – he just shoots holes in all the bollocks.

How do you relax?
Playing table tennis with people here. I’ve also started playing the piano again recently, which I find very relaxing. I’m terrible at it but I do enjoy it.