Moving from the city to the countryside is more than just a change of scenery.

After 19 years, I'd had enough of London. My partner and I had had our fill of filth and rudeness. Our local newsagent still snarled at us, despite the fact that we had visited his shop 562 times. Beneath our window was a favoured spot for after-pub punch-ups. Now we craved clean air and peace.

Trouble is, deciding to move to the country is easy; actually doing it isn't. For one thing, there's a hell of a lot of country out there. It's massive. And unless you are single, there's the impossible business of hitting on somewhere you both like.

'Cambridgeshire?' I suggested.
'Flat,' barked my husband.
'Devon?'
'Who do we know in Devon?'
'Essex?'

He threw me a withering look. 'Then we'll stay in London,' I snapped, actually warming to the prospect. The more we stabbed pins into maps, the more I feared that this countryside thing had been his idea and that, somehow, I'd been tricked into agreement. It would be OK for him, still working in an office with grown-ups; I'd be at home with brawling children. Would I end up talking to the radiators?

Then my partner was offered work in Scotland. Well, why not? Perhaps this was meant to be. And, as my childhood holidays were spent in Galloway, I imagined that life would take on a permanent holidayish glow.

I was wrong. We arrived in Scotland on a blustery day when the rain seeps into your shoes. This never happened in London. In a city, you can exist for months without stepping outdoors; my former life had been entirely conducted in offices, taxis and licensed premises.

Then there were the people. I mean country people. Huge hands, scowling faces, cheeks red from the wind (not Bobbi Brown blusher). How would I make friends? I'd had loads; now I had none. When your friends are contactable only by phone or email, your partner takes on the role of best buddy. 'Do you think I should have a fringe cut in?' I'd ask, forgetting my husband was male and therefore would have no opinion whatsoever.

Moving highlighted how crucial my friendship circle had become. Whenever I wailed that I missed them, my partner would sigh, 'Why are they so important? Aren't we [ie, him and the children] enough for you?'

They say moving house is up there with bereavement and divorce in the 'most stressful situations' list. Never mind relying on my partner for every scrap of adult conversation; I was also straining to look pleasant at all times, in the hope that the locals would like me.

And then they started 'dropping in.' People do that in the country. It's weird for a city girl: you're used to arranging Christmas drinks in October. Heaven forbid you'd ever turn up at a friend's unannounced; they'd probably call the police. Now I could not amble along our village high street without being accosted by half a dozen people, all with time to chat. When you're still in city mode, you talk in a garbled hurry: 'For God's sake, woman! I do not have time to discuss the new park benches.'

Gradually, though, I slowed down to village speed. I stopped counting the weeks until I could wangle another trip to London and inhale taxi fumes. Crucially, I stopped blaming my partner for dragging me out of the grimy streets and surrounding me with a hell of a lot of grass: it had been a joint decision, I remembered.

We have been here a year and we've had our stormy moments. But now I have started to appreciate sleepy streets, village pubs, a school I could actually imagine sending our kids to.

I still miss my London friends (though I daren't tell my partner). But I've found new ones. We're getting to know each other better. And they love talking haircuts.

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