How to 'Escape to the Country'-- when you don't know a soul.

Ever tried moving to a completely new area......where you don't know a single person?

I've recently left a county where I spent half my life working, raising a family and forging close and long-lasting friendships.

But sometimes, your life turns a right angle, for all kinds of reasons. And so suddenly, I'm a hundred miles from a place I once thought I'd never leave. New house. New partner. New life. And neither of us has any connection whatsoever, to where we are.

Some people seem to make a habit of moving. It comes with the job if you're in the forces--I know people who've packed and unpacked their worldly goods and started afresh, dozens of times. Often, though, there's a forces 'family' around them to offer support and friendship and an understanding of their challenges and changes.

Then there are the compulsive house improvers--always looking for a new project, and happy enough to start it in a new area, maybe with a business attached. Or those whose careers require them to move up the ladder in different regions of the country every few years. Meeting new colleagues.

But in our case, we can both work pretty successfully from home. Loads of advantages to that. But no new work buddies to meet, in the canteen queue. Oh, and on top of that, it's a tiny village with a smaller than usual potential pool of friends to get to know. So this really is a case of starting over.

But in spite of the fact that there are just around 820 people in the place we now live, happily, six weeks in, it's all going OK.

Sure, it helps that we're pretty sociable, and curious about the people, and the world around us. But this little village has given us the best kind of welcome. The day after moving in, a lady called Susan popped round with a lemon drizzle cake and a card. 'This is from the village,' she said, 'to welcome you'. Another lady round the corner dropped a card through the letterbox to say hello, and to let us know that she'd call in soon.

The local cafe has turned out to be a real hub. Staff there have lived here a long time, and seem to know everyone, and where to find a builder, or a locksmith, or a taxi firm. The same cafe has pizza and one meal-supper nights. We signed up for those, and within days, found ourselves seated at a table full of people with stories to share. One invited us round for a cuppa and a chat. Working outside our new cottage, people have stopped to introduce themselves, and ask how the unpacking's going. (Slowly, actually...I'm still missing all my fabulous winter boots and a couple of cosy coats...)

So why here? We're lucky that the village is so friendly and has its fair share of social events going on--but we did our research.

We lived 200 miles apart from each other, and so we started looking somewhere in the middle, because our number one priority was to be within reach of our daughters--we have four between us. Each of them is now carving out a life of their own, making us empty nesters, but we were determined that they could all get to us, and vice versa, by car or train, and that we had a good link to London for regular, but not daily work trips and social outings, too. We travel abroad a fair bit for our travel website--we whizzed round the world in just 57 days last year--so airports needed to be within range for us.

Once we'd decided to try and immerse ourselves in a village that had a social life...AND was close to that link to London in just over an hour, the bottom line for whichever house we chose, is that it had to pass the 'pint of milk and a paper' test. Both of those items, in some kind of village general store, had to be within easy walking distance. And of course, a pub was essential--as another means of getting to know people. And the local beer, obviously...!

So welcome to the Cotswolds. To a village that has a great pub, a school, a church, sports clubs, a brilliant cafe with great coffee and those social evenings, and, as a fabulous bonus, a separate, community owned shop selling fresh produce, an incredible array of cheeses, home baked bread, cakes, pies and freshly and locally created 'ready' meals. And although we have a car, there's a regular bus service into a bustling Cotswolds market town just four miles down the road, with its own thriving theatre, and great pubs, shops and restaurants.

Luckily--after enthusiastic, daily sampling of all of that lovely local fare, there are also stunning walks at every turn--with a network of footpaths to try. Also, glorious, historic houses, and more honey-stoned Cotswolds towns and villages to get to know, too.

But above all, there's a great mix: people in marketing, IT, education, publishing, small businesses, and complementary medicine; and people who've retired. People whose families have lived here for generations, and people who, like us, moved in only months ago.

Nigel has a desk and his PC, and soon a new study, for his business calls. I have a newly fitted voiceover studio in the old boot room: state of the art recording gear drilled into 200 year old Cotswold stone walls. Away from our individual workspaces, ideas for www.thetimeofourlives.net , our travel website, get thrashed out over coffee at the kitchen table. The site's growing well, with our next trip, to Sri Lanka, being planned.

We'll definitely feel the winter chill on our return, so need to order logs for the woodburner. Someone at the shop's bound to have a name. And I need to find those piles of winter woollies. They'll be in a box. Somewhere.....

Moving stories

When was the last time you moved house?

With the property market still reeling from the recession; you might be quite happy keeping your feet under the table, thanks very much, and ignoring the des res pages in the local paper.

But even when you`ve got no desire to up sticks; sometimes, you end up surrounded by packing cases anyway, helping someone else.

That`s happening this week. And it`s bound to be a moving kind of  moving.

It seems only months ago that we were helping our eldest daughter into her university hall of residence in London. It was a manic day, in many ways. We`d been warned there was `no parking`. So, on double yellows,with wardens watching; we belted up and down three flights of stairs, dozens of times, with a hundred and one boxes,leaving them piled high in the tiniest student room for Juliet to `sort out later`.

Then suddenly, we were on the pavement ; ready to leave. I`d prepared for that moment for 18 years. But when it came to speak, no sound emerged. I could only hug her, try a brave smile, and climb back in the car. Then we were gone; blowing noses noisily up most of the M1.

In fact it was three years ago, and for a while now, `student life` has revolved around an impressive four storey town house in East London (with her own balcony and a view of the Thames. No, I don`t know, either.) She`s had a complete ball,and is heading for a summer`s work at Camp America. So this week, way more stuff than she ever started with, has got to be squashed back in the car and whizzed home to Shropshire for three months. Until she returns to London in September (hopefully with a van driving boyfriend ).

The day`s going to mean seven hours of motorway driving; a huge amout of lifting and shifting, a sizeable pub lunch and more fond, and emotional farewells for the summer (Go away, Brian Hyland, not NOW). But it`s another landmark, isn`t it? And I`m so chuffed that she`s independent and confident enough to head across the pond; negotiate a promotion; and then organise an eight day trip round California after that, solo. Go girl!

Anyway, all this got me thinking about how exciting...aswell as traumatic...moving days can be.

My sister and I were only four and six when we left our London flat for a brand new life, and a brand new house in Kent. I can still remember touching and smelling the just dried paint, opening and shutting the kitchen cupboards and drawers  that I could reach. We hammered up the stairs to bounce on the beds in our new rooms, and belted back down again and out of the door into our first garden, stepping  gingerly on the still spongey squares of turf , then running to the end to discover our very own conker tree. 

Fast forward twenty years. Several houses later, dad sold up and prepared to move out of suburbia deeper into the Kent countryside, into something smaller. He`d smugly told us he`d barely have to lift a finger, because he`d paid extra for the `wrap n` pack` service.

Nevertheless, my sister and I took the day off work and breezed round to make sure the move was progressing well, armed with a selection of chocolate biscuits, as you do.

Instead of the bustling hive of industry we expected; everything looked frozen. Someone had pressed pause. 

Here`s why.

Outside dad`s, blocking the small cul de sac where he lived, was the sizeable removal van he`d booked. With three brown overcoated men in the driveway, hands on hips. One was shaking his head at us; lost for words.

At the end of the road, that`d be just about twenty metres away, then, engine running, was another, huge removal van--different firm--containing the goods and chattels of the family of four who`d bought dad`s house. He`d assured them that the `wrap n` pack` deal would speed things up, so had advised them when to show up.

Huge miscalculation.

Inside the house....was dad, also with hands on hips, looking perplexed. My sister and I looked around in horror. There, at the kitchen table, was his still steaming mug of tea.Beside it, a fairly full ashtray; one fag still burning bravely on. And; to underline his apparent nonchalance, an open copy of `Police Review`. Beside the table,on the kitchen counter, a not very neat pile of `Police Reviews`; going back five or six years, we reckoned. And a fairly random assortment of mail. You know...bills, flyers; invitations to answer. Further down, on the draining board, a couple of plates and dishes from breakfast, and `one or two` items in the washing up bowl. Upstairs, the damp towels from his morning shower lay draped over the bath, and his dressing gown was hanging on the bathroom door. Beds? Yep; pillows and duvets all still in place.

He`d taken the `wrap n` packers` at their word, and had made virtually no preparation. And with the engine of the van belonging to family 2 still running outside, admitted to us that.... well ....no....he hadn`t really factored in any cleaning time at all.

It was a complete disaster in the making. 

And it took some nifty sprinting between van A and van B , sharp negotiating and mediation skills, several trays of tea , and our entire consignment of biccies before we managed to placate the removal teams and get Dad out; the house cleaned, and family 2 in, before nightfall.

I`m hoping this week`s move will be a little easier on all of us. Even though we`ll have a car boot load (now there`s a thought...trestle table, anyone?) of stuff to `accommodate` when we crawl back home late on Wednesday.

Everyone needs to know their assigned tasks. And after years of perfecting my skill at this; I will avoid all heavy loads....and appoint myself head of beverages and biscuits. And Kleenex.

Wish us luck.