Now I’m completely lost.

I pull over. Luckily I’ve brought a road map and, flicking on the overhead light, I turn to the correct page. David and I used to have so many rows about directions. Apparently he didn’t need directions, especially not from me. So ten minutes later I can’t help feeling a small victory when I see the signs for Nettlewick. Not bad for someone who can’t read a map, apparently.

My phone beeps up a message. I’ve got service. I listen. It’s from the removal company, saying they’ve already unloaded and left. Followed by another message from Mr Hardcastle, the estate agent, saying he met the removal men with the keys and the office is now about to close.

‘But not to worry,’ he adds cheerfully, ‘I’ve left the keys under the plant pot on the windowsill.’

Oh, well, that’s all right then. Because of course no one would ever thinking of looking there.

Trying not to stress about how everything I own is in that house, I drive over the ancient stone bridge and up the hill. Not much seems to have changed since those childhood holidays, and I head up the main street that leads into the village with its small, cobbled square, around which sits an assortment of bow-windowed shops, past the local pub, the cafe and the tiny post office.

Though, of course, so much has changed. Our grandparents are long gone, as are our parents, and we’re all grown-up now. Josie, always so creative and free-spirited, became a photographer and began travelling the world. I, always the sensible one, became a teacher, moved to London and got married. But now all that’s changed too.

The cottage is on the outskirts of the village, down a narrow cobbled lane that makes me grateful for my tiny Fiat, which niftily manoeuvres around the bends. I pull up outside and cut the engine. It looks more dilapidated than I remember, and anxiety and doubt rise up inside me, like acid reflux. Quickly swallowing them down, I remind myself what Naomi said about fear and excitement being basically the same thing. I glance up at the tatty net curtains at the bedroom window. I’m not convinced. I remain seated in the warmth of the car. Despite the long journey I’m not ready to go in yet. I turn the stereo back on.

Even with the keys, it takes three hefty kicks before the door finally swings open to reveal a narrow hallway crammed with packing boxes. The removal men must have dumped them all here and left. Flicking on the overhead bulb, I step over a pile of junk mail and pull my coat around me. The temperature gauge on the car said minus two, and even inside I can see my breath. Shivering, I close the front door behind me.

When I first announced I was leaving London and moving to the country by myself, there were a few raised eyebrows, but people were mostly enthusiastic. ‘Oooh, lucky you! Getting away from this rat race! What an exciting new adventure!! Just think, you’ll be able to grow your own vegetables!!’ After all, who doesn’t watch Escape to the Country and dream of a return to nature and raised beds? Though of course dreaming of a life off-grid is always more appealing when you’re watching it on a flat-screen TV while eating a Deliveroo. A couple of my friends even called me brave.