HARD to think that a year ago, I was living in town. Even with the windows wide the flat was stifling – and this without a heatwave. As we tried to sleep, nocturnal yowls came from drunks roaming the park. When their shift ended, the seagulls began.

After a lifetime surrounded by concrete and people, it was time to find greenery and peace. So, shortly before Christmas, my husband and I moved to the country. We’d been looking for ages and when we found an old cottage in the Borders, we asked for the keys.

These nights, the only sound is a barn owl on the chimney. We can’t hear the spiders spinning, but their webs are freshly hung on the windowsills every morning. Nor the hedgehog that has been scraping for worms, leaving pockmarks in the grass. Also silent is the vole that has dug a waterhole so perfectly round, it must have used a bore drill. For some reason, though, a badger that prowls the field at the bottom of the garden by-passes our gate. Doubtless it prefers the well-tended, juicier plots of our neighbours.

It all sounds peachy and romantic, but these days how different can living in the country really be? In our experience, very. Most noticeable, for a start, is the mood and pace. We have, according to those who crave neon lights, come to a place “where nothing happens”. Friends stare out of our windows at the village green, astonished at the stillness. In winter, a blizzard turned the view into a picture by Monet. It fell so thickly even the snow plough got stuck, and had to be pulled free by a tractor.

This morning, though, it’s a scene of shifting light and shadows on drowsy chestnut trees. Usually the only activity is a fluster of wood-pigeons. A dog-walker. Or the clippety-clop of horses passing singly, or in a line, like packhorses on the Oregon Trail. There was once, apparently, a punch-up, but that was half a century ago. Every three weeks the council sends mowers to trim the grass. That counts as an event, but there is consternation that it’s not done as frequently as before.

Behind the apparent calm, however, the place is a hive. That’s one of the things about country living. Folk are forever doing stuff or getting it done. Tradespeople can never be bored, there are so many roofs to tile, fences to mend, walls to build or paint. Along with the sounds of birds and sheep – it’s so tranquil, you hear the sheep chewing – there is a distant soundtrack of hammering, drilling, raking. Speak to a neighbour at this time of year, and they are already looking ahead, sawing, chopping and stacking wood in preparation for the coming winter. Last month, a friend in remote Argyllshire reckoned he had gathered enough logs to see him through to March. Unlike us, he has a chainsaw. There are certain tools those townies who can’t replace a washer should not be trusted with.

After six months, finally I understand why writers and poets in thrall to the land turn so wistful about high summer. These past few weeks the place has burst into bloom. The woods are full of blackberries and cherries. Jasmine grows over our front door, towards roses shedding petals across the step. The hills are turning purple, and the apple tree in the garden is already bowed down, as is the old crab apple, which is trying to touch its roots. A village friend has invited us to raid their raspberry patch, and their taste is like stepping back to childhood. Next for picking will be the plum trees, which have more fruits than leaves. Meanwhile their strawberries are struggling to ripen, the sun blocked by a majestic copper beech. When I last looked, a plump mouse was making the most of the reddest berries it could reach.

As in any town, summer here brings the scent of barbecues. In August a cricket match is planned on the common. Yet while people relax and enjoy the warmth, this season perhaps holds a deeper meaning than in the city. As the likes of Thomas Hardy and Wordsworth understood, the abundance and languor of these months is in stark contrast to the bleakness and hardship that lie ahead. This highlights the biggest difference between rural and urban life, namely the weather. It matters more because, especially if you’re a farmer, it affects how you live, today and next year too. As we noticed within weeks of settling in, heating is a perennial topic: timber merchants, oil prices, knitwear versus thermals.

We are not countryfolk yet, but come autumn our kitchen will be a factory of jam and chutney. I realise why those surrounded by hills and fields love long summer days, and make no complaint as the mercury rises, except on behalf of plants and beasts. The hours spent pickling and preserving, the rows of jewel-like pots on the shelf, are not just about filling the cupboard. It’s keeping memories of warmer and easier times in a jar.