Pining for the Good Life we won’t choose

I DON’T think our former colleague was really expecting the grilling she got when she dropped by the office for a quick chat. But she is now an object of intense curiosity because she’s that rare breed – a one-time city dweller who actually moved to the country, instead of just talking about it.

Moving to the country is the official stated ambition of many of us who are frazzled by the commuter rat race. In the countryside of our imagination, things are different. Life would be greener, slower, and more peaceful.

We would have time to read, do yoga and make jam. We would work less and see more of our children. We would not have a mortgage, or at least not one the size of the Guatemalan national debt.

We would grow herbs and vegetables in our large gardens, so wouldn’t need to finance an increasingly expensive M&S ready-meal habit. We would ramble down country lanes with the kids, picking blackberries in autumn and holly in December.

This week, we’d be down at the Ploughing, talking knowledgeably about cattle prices and farm machinery and being highly commended in the scone-baking competition.

So we grilled her: just how good is the Good Life, really? Pretty good, she assured us, once you got over the fact you had to drive half an hour to the nearest shop or that it could be a bit isolating or that sometimes you’d miss the buzz of the city.

We chose not to hear that and instead focused on how bright-eyed and clearskinned she looked. It’s the lack of pollution, we agreed after she’d left. All that fresh air. The absence of city stress. All that swimming in the sea.

Yes, we agreed, moving to the country is the only sensible option for any of us. It makes sense on every level: financial, emotional and practical.

Of course, none of us have any real intention of actually doing it. Not now, or indeed ever. But we all need a pipe dream. And mine involves mud.