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YOACM's avatar

I grew up in the countryside and I think about this too, but seriously, my kids are roughly the same age as yours — am I really going make friends with the neighbours without the (awful but useful) camaraderie of primary school? Do I actually want to get really into seasonal cooking again? Didn’t we do all that to death in lockdown? I think in part the yearning for the countryside is the first lash of a midlife crisis trying to insinuate you don’t fit in among all the busy young people. But if you stuff your ears and ride it out, you can ease into kids moving out, flat at the Barbican, going to the theatre all the time, learning Ancient Greek and having one boiled egg and the Times cryptic at the Wolseley whenever you feel like it. Retirement in the country just feels like loneliness and day drinking. I don’t know any aspirational rural ladies, whereas London seems full of with-it game old birds. Plus my kids who love drama art museums blah and hate sport would kill me.

Also, I don’t drive.

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Dex's avatar

Esther, I have lived in the countryside.* THE FENS, not a bucolic landscape of rolling hills and roses and wells and tiny glades, but the fens. A vast open wasteland of what is undeniably The Countryside, but the countryside of MORDOR.

I love the fens. But when Londoners move there, they do not cope. They expected the long evenings, and the beautiful views, and shooting parties, and the village fete. They are treated with suspicion, and always known as being from that London. They are resented for not having a fucking clue what they're doing with their acre plot of vegetable garden. They do not understand the CENTURIES OLD village politics. They do not understand why, on the map, the sea is four miles away and yet the sea is somehow RIGHT THERE. There are no buses, no taxis, and an eight mile walk to the nearest train station, which will get you back to London in two hours or so. And the schools are crap, even the private one. Singular.

My husband comes from RUTLAND, the absolute IDYLL of minted countryside. Actual aristocrats, village butchers, Michelin starred village pub. The politics remain, but with a genteel coating of passive aggressive-ness, and the village truly comes together to be NIMBYs when the threat of a windfarm approaches. There is a bus service, and taxis. The train to London is about 90 minutes. There's roughly one private school per square mile. Property prices everywhere make a woman wince, but Rutland is particularly winceworthy.

So my advice is choose your rural retreat with care.

*I now live in an urban suburb of Peterborough, and I love it even if there is occasional knife crime and everything is redolent of weed.

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