When I hit my 50s, I escaped my litter-strewn London street and moved back to the childhood countryside home I once loved. But this is what no one tells you about ‘the rural dream’

When old Londoners warn women, especially single ones, against moving to the countryside, I understand the sentiment.

Having grown up in a stamp-sized fishing village in west Somerset, I know the truth. Stunning landscapes and kind, weathered faces, yes. But there are also Atlantic winds beating the coast, winters falling silent and towns where shops close rebelliously early.

It’s a place where making friends requires intense persistence if you’re an outsider. This is precisely why I have avoided a permanent return for thirty years.

But what people often don’t realize is that some Londoners don’t leave by choice, let alone rush off to the countryside to chase the Soho Farmhouse tale. They cannot afford to stay.

For middle-aged women like me, leaving the city behind is a psychological reckoning that is often the result of a series of cascading blows.

I had a series of challenging roles where 12-hour days and weekend work became the norm, followed by a layoff from my job in communications and then a struggle to navigate post-Covid employment.

One of the recruiters tearfully told me on the phone that he had never seen the job market so stagnant. Still, I held on, determined to find the right opportunity.

My final catalyst for leaving London was relatively well-intentioned. On a sunny morning in September 2025, I stepped outside my Victorian cottage in one of North London’s more affordable suburbs to find a half-eaten McDonald’s meal thrown at my door, chips strewn across the road.

As I walked down what was once a charming row of railway cottages, I passed a yellowed bed and a pile of tired children’s toys on the pavement.

Something inside me broke.

I put my house up for sale and within a few days I was packing up my car and moving home to the South West. Like many Londoners, I was excited by the promise of a better life in the wilderness.

It was hard to ignore the idea that I could sell my house for just under half a million pounds and perhaps buy a large country house for around £250,000. The thought of being mortgage-free felt liberating. Little did I know that there was a high emotional price to pay for this freedom.

In early December, with a trunk full of boxes and a rotten banana plant in a plastic bag, I arrived in West Somerset, my childhood home… no job, no partner, no clear plan. (I was single for three years and not looking for love.)

But I was so sure I made the right decision that I barely looked in the rearview mirror. Surprisingly, the day after I arrived, I started crying.

This was made embarrassing by the fact that I was temporarily staying with one of my three younger brothers. I cried with my head down while eating toast in the morning. As the kettle boiled, I cried into my arms and brightly offered to make tea.

It was both pleasant and a little sad to visit my mother, who lived three kilometers away, almost every day; I felt so many conflicting emotions about my move.

Still, I did my best to appear optimistic and cheerful, especially since my mother was pleased at the prospect of me being around. He hoped I would find a happier, healthier pace of life. He also saw the benefit of being surrounded by our immediate extended family.

Still, as I couldn’t wait to get here to see my youngest sister’s adorable children (two little nieces and a toddler niece), I found myself secretly wiping away more tears in the shadows as we gathered to watch Disney+.

There were mornings as I walked through the countryside, when the air was almost mountainous, crisp and clear, and red deer would cross my path as the sunlight filtered through the trees. But you can’t live on a landscape. The first big hurdle I faced was the job market, says Rachel

Needless to say, they were all stunned by my emotional state but assumed I was going through a period of adjustment after a dramatic life change.

Perhaps one of the problems was that, while being with them was enjoyable, it also brought into focus the children I never had; In the dense, anonymous sprawl of London, this feeling was easier to blur.

I’m not a yeller, but here, without noise or distraction, everything I had been holding together finally came out. Burnout. Financial pressure. A sudden feeling of being uprooted.

In London, too busy to look at your navel, surrounded by lights, noise and people, you leave your emotions behind.

But in the echoing silence of the countryside – peaceful and reassuring when it catches you in the right mood – it can feel as if there’s nowhere to hide.

And this wasn’t the millionaires’ version of the rural playground. Not the Cotswolds. Not Frome. Boutique hotels like The Newt are more than an hour away.

Instead it was rugged, untamed land along the North Devon border. Spacious working areas. Communities are shaped by geography rather than trend. Sheep breeding. Surfing. Nursing homes and tea shops. Quiz nights in no-frills bars.

Of course I knew I was lucky. There were mornings as I walked through the countryside, when the air was almost mountainous, crisp and clear, and red deer would cross my path as the sunlight filtered through the trees.

At night, the sky appeared impossibly vast, with no light pollution to hide the vast dome of stars.

But you can’t live on a landscape. The job market was the first big obstacle I faced. I applied for at least 20 positions in the South West (Bristol, Exeter, Taunton, Minehead). They were all oversubscribed and I couldn’t even get an interview.

The regional market appeared small and impenetrable compared to London, where applications were in constant circulation.

I realized that London didn’t just offer opportunity. This offers a lifestyle that supports many different versions of adulthood, writes Rachel (pictured), especially for single, childless women like me.

Although I stopped crying within two weeks (the tears dried as quickly and mysteriously as they came), I was alone, even though I was surrounded by family.

I turned to dating apps to shift my energy. The pool was much smaller than the one in London, but more solid in its own way. Gone are the glossy images of men wearing swimsuits in five-star resorts or riding fast cars. In their place were warm-faced walkers, fishermen, farmers, lively shopkeepers and the occasional landowner; They were photographed in windy fields or on muddy roads.

But assuming my barely concealed misery would instantly destroy my passion, I wasn’t in the right mind to go on a date.

What about friendship then? In London, my closest friends were charming women. One of them is a psychiatrist who hosts casual dinner parties filled with laughter and discussions. Another is a published novelist with a delightfully sharp sense of humor. These were women with whom I could be extremely vulnerable and still laugh until midnight.

However, in the village where I grew up, this framework disappeared and the lack of people who thought like me started to become heavy.

The best friends I grew up with have long since left Somerset, got degrees and never returned. My old classmates who were still there and were my age were now grandparents in most cases; a terribly confronting truth for someone like me who has lost the passage of time.

For decades, they had built fulfilling lives: big homes, established routines, families that filled their time. They were kind. They smiled and said hello in the supermarket. But I did not take these interactions further. What was holding me back wasn’t hostility, but rather a quiet sense that we might not have much in common.

I tried in small ways. I connected with a lovely group of people through my sister, who I was staying with. One evening we went to a fundraiser in a village hall filled with a cold buffet and people drinking their own drinks at long tables.

I recognized a few faces and stood there awkwardly, feeling as if I had entered the wrong act of a play. It wasn’t that anyone was unwelcome, but there was a slight sense of surprise at my presence.

An older woman who knew me years ago was visibly surprised. ‘What are you doing here, Rachael?’ he asked. When I told him I was considering making a life there, he smiled a little wryly and said, ‘It looks like you’re having a mid-life crisis,’ before walking away.

He didn’t mean to be cruel. But it was revealing, somehow confirming that we were from completely different planets. I saw a shocking contrast confront me.

In London, I could politely deny that I was in my 50s and childless, and continue living my Peter Pan life on a tight budget. Here the passage of time was keenly felt. Inevitable. It can be seen in every conversation, every school run, every family gathering.

By February, my resolve was beginning to melt with the winter frost. And the idea of ​​actually rebuilding my career and my life in the wilderness seemed more and more unrealistic.

The isolation deepened. Then, almost without warning, my thoughts began to change.

I started to find myself daydreaming about London. The tempo of a street. Historical buildings and shiny skyscrapers. The hum of conversation. The convenience of calling a friend and meeting within half an hour. Swimming in Hampstead ponds. The feeling of life emerging around me without any effort.

I woke up one morning and thought very simply: I need to go home. My house wasn’t sold yet, so I packed up the car within 24 hours.

Of course, I felt like a huge failure when I left. The water mains reappeared and I wept along the highway into town. I was also heartbroken for abandoning my mother and felt guilty for abandoning my nieces and nephews. At the same time, I could feel the relief beginning.

Because I also knew, with a clarity I had never had before, that London was where I belonged.

When I returned to my street, not much had changed; Since it was just a road sweeper, the sidewalks looked clearer. I felt incredible relief when I stepped through the door. This Victorian country house was like a haven; very beautiful, inviting and quiet. It was worth every penny I paid.

A day later, my retired neighbors, who thought my ‘escape to the country’ was charming and fun, invited me for coffee and biscuits. I arranged to meet my friends. I felt the energy and intensity of the city surround me like a blanket. I applied for jobs with renewed energy and eventually started a new role at a real estate company.

It was like a reset.

I realized that London didn’t just offer opportunity. It offers a lifestyle that supports many different versions of adulthood, especially for single, childless women like me.

I may not live in one of London’s wealthiest suburbs. But I’ve come to see the best in you. I live near a 24-hour supermarket, cafes, a gym, a nature reserve, as well as small, constant life signals floating around me.

The city never quite sleeps, even on the outskirts. It hums in the background. And in a way, it keeps me company.