Novelist Mark Mason chucked an urbane London existence for village life in Suffolk. So how does country life measure up?

What a difference a few months make. In December my home was a small flat in central London. From one spot you could see it all: bedroom, bathroom (no bath, only a shower), combined kitchen/sitting room. Now I live in Suffolk, in an eighteenth-century cottage known to the whole village as 'the one with the beagle in the window'.

They say life always comes full circle. After a rural childhood, I spent my twenties in London, working in the media, living a life as far removed from my parents' as a laptop is from a tractor. My girlfriend (though I didn't know her then) did exactly the same. The first few years of our relationship were illuminated by the big city's bright lights, including a brief spell in Manhattan. But more and more we found ourselves contemplating a move, especially as we returned from parental visits. Plenty of 'what if's' on the M40.

There were practical reasons for our move to the country, of course, chiefly the amount of property we could get for our money. In London our outlay would have secured a glorified broom-cupboard in a grotty area. Instead we now have a two-bedroom, two-bathroom cottage, all inglenook fireplaces and exposed beams. Our garden faces south, the view dominated by the church. When I play my guitar, there are two floors between me and Jo. Jo likes this.

Another factor was our dog: we didn't have one. Bijou Clerkenwell pads are all very well, but they fill up quickly with a couple of two-legged creatures, never mind the four-legged kind. Moving to the country allowed the recruitment of Harvey (or, to give him his full name, Harvey Leave). The width of our front windowsill allows him to indulge his showboating tendencies. And if our little unit evolves further, the primary school is just round the corner (no need to drive), where well-behaved children make noisy use of the playground. Jo and I have good memories of village schooldays - maybe life really will come full circle.

I'm fitter now, as cornfields do more for the lungs than Corsas. And the car insurance rebate was very welcome. But the real pleasures have been the surprises, things that have turned the move into an adventure, a process of discovery. Like the realisation (why did I never notice this as a child ?) that the peaceful countryside is a myth. It's deafening out here. When it's not the crows, it's the woodpigeons. City traffic is a constant drone, you get used to it, but birds come out of nowhere. (All right, they come out of the sky, but you know what I mean.) And rush hour stays the same time throughout the year, while the dawn chorus gets earlier and earlier. Yes, there are worse things to be woken by than a cuckoo. But it still means you're awake.

Also surprising is the youthful feel of the place. Calling a village 'sleepy' can sometimes be a euphemism for 'one big waiting room for the biggest sleep of all'. But not only does this village have plenty of people in their thirties, even the pensioners seem young. Old people are supposed to complain, grumble, shuffle. Here they laugh and socialise, and the only shuffle they know about is the one on their iPods. I used to be suspicious of the fabled 'sense of community'. Nothing more than a snoopers' charter, I thought. But here that community feels real, positive, healthy. Privacy doesn't have to be sacrificed. Friendships arise easily from the fact you live on the same street. Jo and I share laughs (and red wine) with people in their thirties, fifties and eighties.

All of this could easily sound twee, and to the London me I'm sure it would have done. But then I always heard these village eulogies from people moaning about London, about how unfriendly it is. Of course. London should be unfriendly, that's what makes it great. It's menus for venues: the way you behave, the way you live your life, should depend on where you are. The sort of behaviour I love in Suffolk would be a nightmare in London. You couldn't have everyone smiling 'hello' at each other on the Tube, how would you get anywhere? Big cities are about anonymity, atomisation - yes, if you like, a certain rudeness.

They're also about controlled schizophrenia. You can have distinct lives and habits in a big city, distinct groups of friends. One of my favourite periods in London was working as a researcher at the House of Commons. It was part-time, not enough to live on, so I busked as well. The contrast was thrilling, the excitement of knowing that two hours after walking the corridors of power I'd be on the Underground, suit swapped for jeans and a T-shirt, seeing people (and them seeing me) in a completely different way.

But that's the sort of thing you do in your twenties, when you're finding out who you are. London's the perfect place for that. And I'd miss it if I never went there at all. But in the end, for me, London's an idea, not a place. As compelling and vital and inspiring as it is, it's a melting pot, and the thing about being in a melting pot is you keep melting. Eventually you have to cool. The country breezes seem to do the trick.