Will the grass be greener in the country?

My wife, Jane, has a friend who for the past few weeks has been looking at her, head cocked tragically to one side, and saying in doom-laden tones: "You haven't got much longer to go now, have you?"

Jane's friend does not actually mention the C-word, just keeps referring to it obliquely. And on these occasions, Jane has to remind herself that she is not terminally ill. The terrible event bearing down on her, to which her friend alludes with such woe, unfolds this Friday. We are leaving London to live, deep breath, in the country.

This decision has caused palpable unease among our metropolitan friends, perhaps understandably, for it is always unsettling when people you assume to be like-minded fellow-travellers take a different turning in life. It makes you question, however briefly, whether you are on the right road yourself.

Not that we're sure that our road ­ the one marked Ludlow and Hay-on-Wye, 40mph speed limit, no pavement, beware of cows crossing ­ is the right one. But it's certainly a damn sight more attractive than the North Circular in London. And it seems like the right road, which is the main thing. Call it a mid-life crisis if you like, plenty have, indeed I've admitted before that I have long recognised signs in myself of the metropause ­ a middle-aged urge to leave the city. Whatever, after 15 years of living in London, I'm upping sticks for the sticks.

The difficult bit to explain is that we are not propelled by negative feelings about the metropolis. On the contrary, we have always thoroughly enjoyed living here in north London. Crouch End ­ once you get over the embarrassment of living in a neighbourhood with a name that smacks ever so slightly of the posterior ­ is a hugely appealing place.

Famously, or at least famously round here, Bob Dylan is a fan. And while the increasing traffic and litter are annoying and the rising crime levels worrying, we have never found them intolerable. Moreover, we have a strong sentimental attachment to this house; our third child was born in the upstairs bathroom. Oh, and I quite like bumping into Victoria Wood at the Marks & Spencer in Muswell Hill.

So, what makes us think that the grass is greener on the other side of the M25? We don't really, although there's certainly a lot more of it, which will be nice. We just fancy the adventure, and although it's hardly an adventure on the scale confronted by some acquaintances of ours who are off to live in Malawi for two years, they have helpfully pointed out that what we are doing is much scarier, because they're coming back and we're not.

The adventure is compounded by the fact that, with our house, and with the golden retriever puppy we're collecting on Saturday to compensate our children for the separation from their mates, and with considerable assistance from the ever-obliging Royal Bank of Scotland, we are buying three holiday cottages (favourable terms offered to all Independent readers, but bring your own couscous; the nearest shop is about half a day's walk away... and it could very well be closed when you get there... and even if the shop's open, it doesn't sell couscous).

The cottages, more than anything apart from the number of sheep we will soon be living among, have provoked lots of gibes. One friend insists on calling them chalets, another tells me he always knew I would end up in the cottaging trade. Others find it downright incomprehensible that we would court a situation that involves other people's dirty linen. I'll keep you posted on how it works out. For dirty linen updates, watch this space.

In the meantime, as you read these words, we have only one full day remaining as Londoners. By the end of this week we will no longer live within walking distance of a cinema, dozens of restaurants and caffs, three post offices (a fond farewell, by the way, to our friendly local sub-postmistress, who is a keen reader of this great newspaper), an ice rink, a swimming-pool, four tennis clubs, two cricket clubs, a huge variety of shops.

But then I remember driving over to look at houses in Crouch End, when we lived in a tiny flat much nearer the centre of London, and wondering whether we could possibly live in an area without an Underground station. It seemed as if we would be ripping ourselves away from the centre of the universe to its very periphery. And then we had a blinding revelation, not on the road to Damascus but half-way down Cranley Gardens, London N10, a revelation that sustains us now as we prepare to move to the country. And the revelation was this: thousands of people do it, and seem to like it, and so will we.

b.viner@independent.co.uk