THE village of Neilston lies some 12 miles to the south of Glasgow, far enough from the thrum of city life and near enough to it to make the commute relatively painless.

A gazetteer records that in past centuries there were many mills in the area. One of its most famous sons was called John Robertson, "the inventor of the self-acting mule". Another was Baron Mure who, in the 18th century, was its Member of Parliament and a chum of the Prime Minister, Lord Bute. Today, its MP is Jim Murphy, who is likewise well-connected. Whether that will count for much in May remains to be seen.

But while the polls continue to give Mr Murphy the heebie-jeebies, he must surely have cheered when Neilston was crowned the most desirable place to live in Scotland. According to a study for the Royal Mail, it has everything one could desire including, a delighted local councillor proclaimed, a pub which on Monday nights hosts a quiz. Moreover, its 6,000 inhabitants enjoy "a fantastic sense of community" and, on clear days, a view of the Dear Green Place.

I confess I have never been to Neilston, something I hope to rectify before I draw my last breath. I may even move there, given the proclamations of those who know it well. Having said that, one must remain professionally sceptical. Among the other post codes championed were several in the wilder environs of Edinburgh, none of which has ever struck me as particularly winsome. Nor, it seems, was the cadre of online commentators convinced. "Nobody in their right mind would live there if they had a choice," opined one blogger, while another ranted: "Some of these places are crime-ridden dumps."

This just goes to show that there two sides to every story. As I tour the boondocks in a relentless quest for truth I am always on the lookout for idylls in which to relocate my library. This is easier said than done. Not for nothing, I have discovered, did our great writers gives names like Blawearie, Blackden and Barbie to their fictional locations. These are not the kind of places that win plaudits or make anyone other than literary tourists want to pay them a visit. Rather, they seem to evoke in their laureates a desire to escape and forget. The best you can hope of them is that any mark they leave will not be permanent.

I live in a smallish town so I know what I am talking about. Here we rejoice in our parochialism and are unmoved by success and celebrity. Tall poppies soon lose their petals in our thistle-y company. Community life centres on the church and the pub, the latter doing better business than the former such is the devoutness of its disciples. Not so long ago a fellow imbiber asked where I'd been all day. When I said "Edinburgh", which is fully six miles away, he said he hadn't been there in years. I asked why not, he replied, "What's there that's no' here?"

He had a point, I suppose. There is a feeling among many of my kinsmen that to venture beyond the familiar is to take one's life into one's hands. There is a scary world out there so why risk imperilling yourself by embracing it? Cities, of course, are where you're most likely to have your privacy and person assaulted, carrying as they do the threat of the unexpected and the bampot. Villages are theoretically safer. Everyone knows everyone else. "Tight-knit" is the adjective that's invariably used to described them, usually after a dismembered body's been dug up in a back garden.

For a while I had a hankering to live in the country. In my mind's eye, there was a greensward, a stream, a pub, a newsagent's and a coffee shop. Over the course of a couple years my wife and I toured numerous villages, very few of which had the modest amenities we desired. Many of them, moreover, were oppressively quiet. In some all you could hear were clocks chiming and rooks cawing.

All around were hills where wild fowl were ritually slaughtered by foreign assassins. There was talk of a wind farm which was causing neighbourly strife. When the wind got up there was an unsavoury smell that caught the back of your throat and made you want to retch. "Pigs", I was informed. In a well-appointed watering-hole an elderly couple inquired of our intentions and perked up when we said we were considering the purchase of a nearby property. They were in the amateur dramatic society and enquired if we'd be interested in joining the troupe. "Absolutely," we lied, and hotfooted it back to civilisation.