‘He said you said she said’ — country chatter is exhausting

Speeding down the farm track from my little country retreat, I came across the gamekeeper in his Defender. I wound down my window. ‘Where are you off to in such a hurry?’ he asked, looking askance at the dust cloud and no doubt wondering whether I had collided with any of his pheasants.

‘I’m going back to London for a rest,’ I told him. ‘Oh dear,’ he muttered, lighting a roll-up. Yes, oh dear. Very certainly, oh dear. As he obviously knows only too well, but neglected to tell me when I moved into my rented barn conversion, living in the country is absolutely exhausting.

Coming to this tranquil farm for long weekends is taking it out of me. I used to do three days country and four days town. But now I slope down the A3, reluctantly, on a Friday afternoon and race back to London first thing Monday morning because my nerves will not take much more than that. I have to beat a hasty retreat to the city after two days so that I can relax and recharge my batteries.

It’s not the mucking out of the horses that I mind most, although that is gruelling. When I’m in London a friend does it for me, but at weekends I have to schlep about with the pitchfork getting tennis elbow and becoming indelibly coated in muck. When I’m finished, I’m way too tired to do anything as pleasurable as ride.

It’s not the constant trekking to the nearest shops, either, although that is galling. All this supposed eating of locally sourced produce never happens. There is nowhere to buy local produce for miles and when you do find a farm shop they charge you £4.50 for a carrot.