Brits are complex and prickly – I’m excited to get to Ireland

‘We’re in the living room with a roaring fire, there’s not a sound for miles, it’s wonderful,’ said the builder boyfriend, phoning from Ireland. I was lying on the bed of a budget hotel room in Surrey, watching TV and eating a packet of crisps. I leapt up. ‘Are the dogs OK?’ I asked, thrilled to hear his voice. ‘They’re curled up next to me…’

The line cut off. The phone reception at the Irish house is minimalist. There’s no wifi until we have a satellite installed.

That morning, when he phoned to say he was there safely, I had to make do with a quick blast of the spaniels barking with delight as they ran around the rambling house. I had waved them off from the hotel a day earlier, the BB at the wheel of the pick-up truck. I then began fretting over weather reports, having stayed behind to oversee the moving of the horses.

Our transporter, Tom, kept telling me in his soft brogue that it would be all right, but I was going to be beside myself until the BB rang to say they were off the lorry and munching the knee-high grass.

Living in a hotel room was starting to wear. The receptionist snapped my head off for not pre-booking breakfast. I told her I was so stressed, could she not just edit my booking?

‘There’s a filling station down the road where you can buy a sandwich,’ she barked. She wouldn’t budge, but the nice Bulgarian lady in the restaurant took pity on me.

After a week, the receptionist was calling out ‘Hello lovely!’ when I passed her desk, oblivious to my ordering, eating and paying for breakfast each day in contravention of her allegedly unbreakable rules.