This isn't real life - just a rehearsal.

As well as an adventure, this year is a kind of test. Coming to the end of one kind of life: full-time work, bringing up children, I want to see whether I'm stuck with Manchester or whether it's possible to live in that weird place called The Country. Sometimes, to find out what you love, you have to leave. If we are going to move out, away from friends, chip shops and chewing-gum pavements, I want to know whether I'll like or not. And, in order to make things even more complicated, we thought we'd carry out this experiment - not in The Country UK-style itself, but in Another Country, because, well, just because. Fun, adventure, challenge, plus helping out the banks in their time of crisis by paying them exorbitant exchange rate fees.

So how's the test going? Results so far.

I thought I might be bored, that the country would turn out to be a little bit too countrified for me, and I expected that it would soon - to put it bluntly - get on my citified nerves. There have been moments of that, long days in January when him and me have looked at each other and thought the same dark, unspeakable, unwriteable thoughts. But, to tell you a truth that many of you already know, it also isn't much cop waking up at three in the morning in a Manchester winter and remembering that there's still 6 hours to go before sunrise and then only another 6 before sunset. So yes, I have been a bit bored sometimes but actually, at the risk of sounding like a bore, that isn't such a bad thing. I'm also a writer and am having a go at a novel and the slow days, the lack of distraction, and the silence, make it a lot easier to focus, to work longer, to go deeper.

There's something else that's harder to describe. I feel more private here than in the city, unwatched, unnoticed. Yet at the same time, there's also a greater feeling of being - [and here's the problem of how to express this without sounding like a bighead arsehole as one of my Manc friends would say] - of being significant. Not important or special, but just a person, alive. Here, where there are so few people, and where the really important beings are the trees, most of which are much bigger and far longer-living than me, and where the stars and the galaxies can actually be seen blazing in the pitch-dark sky, to be just a small anonymous human being can feel [sometimes, almost] like enough.

On the other hand, let's get real. This being-in-the-country lark isn't exactly isolated. Here I am on my laptop, on t'internet, plugged into to the hivemind of the world. At our leaving party, two friends gave us a webcam so we could Skype them, while others made sure we had their latest mobile numbers and emails. Another, calmer, friend asked, with heavy irony, How many different means of communication do you really need? Bring it on, I thought.

For instance, today I've had an average number of electronic experiences. Let me list them for you:

1] Two texts, one from a friend, the other from the present Mr MancinFrance, who happens to be Mr MancinManc for a few days.

2] A landline phone call from the estate agent who is looking after our house in Manchester.

3] A comment on the blog.

4] Various emails - some from family and friends, but lots from ticket touts and people

pretending to be banks. Also at least three a day from Amazon, but they can contact me anytime. I love you Amazon.

5] Not to mention the Google ads that turn up alongside my

emails which are annoying and bloody brilliant. An email about my blog posting called: Why am I here?, triggered half a dozen ads for books and helplines for suicidal people. I also get a lot of ads for lady flying instructors. Haven't worked that one out yet.

And this village may look all ancient stone and mossy roofs but there are plenty of satellite dishes and excellent internet access. The area also has a good website in both French and English.

This isn't real isolation. Without all these ways of connecting with people, without being able to get books through the post, without being able to speak to you here, the city in me might rebel, despite the wonderful trees and the brilliant stars.