It is very green and beautiful and the seasons are up close and in your face. Summer is always at some point a hazy dream of shimmering grass. Autumn overflows with harvest in the garden and in the hedgerows. Winter can cut to the bone but is beautiful in its severity. Spring stuns you every year with snowdrops and daffodils and new lambs. Everything is as I expected it would be but writ large: more beautiful, harder work, hotter, colder, windier, quieter, more still. The birdsong is more rapturously noisy. The piles of apples waiting to be made into jellies are bigger. The difference between sun and rain, sunrise and sunset, solitude and company: they are all vivid and alive in a way my city life never was.
It is not all robins and lambs and apple blossom. Sometimes it can be lonely and it is always hard work. It might not suit everyone to be here all year round but I am a round peg in a round hole. I will put another log in the woodburner and go out and walk round the garden. This is where I want to be.