Having a rural affair

Four years ago, like many Londoners before and since, I looked out of my office window at the smokestack skyline and decided that the time had come to move to the country. My reasons were predictable, but nonetheless heartfelt: I dreamed of a smaller, friendlier community, where children could be educated in cosy rural schools and raised far from the pressures and pollution of the big city; and I also hoped for a cheaper lifestyle, where there would be less pressure to earn London money.

As a writer, with a new book contract just signed, it was also feasible, and so my wife and I set about renting out our house in Shepherd's Bush. Our chosen idyll was Hay-on-Wye, on the Herefordshire/Powys border. A town of some 2,000 people and 38 bookshops, it seemed considerably less insular and more cultural than other areas. We even had a couple of friends there.

We chose to rent in town, rather than in the heart of the nearby Black Mountains, a decision born of compromise: my wife Milla, who grew up in Notting Hill and was considerably less sure about the whole experiment than I, wanted less isolation.

Our friends, in different measure, expressed envy, disbelief and sadness. For myself, as the time for moving grew nearer, I began to feel distinctly queasy. All too briefly, I wondered if part of me wasn't literally trying to run away from issues that had become difficult, in particular our failure to conceive a second child. But I resolutely put that to the back of my mind. It felt right, I assured myself. The millennium was approaching. Time for a change, an adventure.

We moved in early January 2000: Milla, our two-and-a-half-year-old son Louis and I all squeezed into our hatchback under piles of duvets, toys and books. To begin with, everything seemed absolutely right. The house we'd rented was owned by a bohemian leather-maker, and eclectically decorated. The long, rambling garden gave on to wonderful views of Hay Bluff and the northern escarpment of the Black Mountains. And there was proper snow, last seen in London circa 1885.

The first two or three weeks were exciting, scary and, at times, more than a little lonely. In fierce wind, we went sledging on Hay Bluff, which Louis was far too small to enjoy, despite his father's frantic insistence. We walked along the River Wye, and ran into a family - former Londoners, tellingly - who took pity on us and invited us to tea the next weekend. We phoned our local friends and learned, to our dismay, that they only came to town once a week, on market day. The other family whose number we'd been given were in the middle of moving house and couldn't meet up for a fortnight.

It was harder for Milla, looking after Louis, than it was for me. Deprived of her mother and her friends from London, she did her best to find new playmates for Louis. She found a playgroup, made friends with a farmer's wife, and spent hours at the empty playground, wondering, in her words, 'where everyone was'.

Slowly, one crucial difference between countryfolk and Londoners dawned upon us: if you enjoy city life, you are likely to thrive on social interaction. Contentedness in a rural setting, by contrast, is contingent upon being happy with your own company, sometimes for days on end. And, while this might have been possible as a childless couple, it was a harder task with a small boy to entertain.

I remember the nights in particular: the spectral, ghostly stillness. Though our house was right in the middle of town and our bedroom overlooked one of the main streets, it was so quiet after 9pm that you could hear the bleating of sheep from nearby fields. Milla took up weaving, buying voluminous unwashed fleeces from the market, teasing them into rugs on a handloom I made for her myself. Church life - a mainstay of our London community - was sparse, and certainly not the place to meet anyone under 70. With the help of a local friend, we planted potatoes, as if the fact of something growing, with roots embedded in the soil, might make us feel we too belonged.

Our high point, those first few months, was the weekends. Friends, curious to sample our new lifestyle, arrived week after week. We took them on walks, ate in local pubs, went canoeing on the Wye. They left enthusing. This social whirl culminated in the literary festival in May at which, thanks to the festival director's generous inclusiveness, I was billed as a local author. Our house was overrun. People dropped in at all times of day and night. It was great. And then everyone went home.