I HAVE just emigrated from the north of England to Oxfordshire.

When I say the north I mean seriously north – as in virtually Scotland.

Not namby-pamby Leeds or even Derbyshire, or some such nonsense that some southerners call “the north”.

We’d lived near Hadrian’s Wall in Northumberland for 16 years, but last year we downsized, decamped and de-northed to settle in a tiny village called Sutton, near Witney.

We’d been planning the escape tunnel for a while since neither of us are actually properly genetically northern.

Oxford Mail:

Walkers enjoy the warm weather on Hadrian’s Wall in Northumberland.

I loved lots of things about the north – in truth I wrote an entire book about it called It’s (not) Grim Up North.

It’s cheaper for a start. The houses are so much cheaper they are buy one get one free.

We could afford a virtual castle for the same money as this modest but lovely place in Oxfordshire. We had a garden that was so large our friends from the south described it as a park, and a drive that virtually had its own post code.

However there were things that got me down about the north.

You can’t say them out loud when you are actually up there for fear of locals setting their ferrets on you, but here I feel I am amongst friends.

The big problem for me – and it’s one that just didn’t go away over 16 years – was the weather. You get a lot of weather in the north.

My disenchantment with the weather up there began the first Easter.

I went to the garden centre and asked where the tomato plants were.

“Do you have a greenhouse?” I was asked. “No”, I answered.

“You’re not from round here are you?” was the reply.

I persevered for several summers trying to grow tomatoes outside on my sunniest, most sheltered wall.

Two years running the net result was a garage full of jars of green chutney.

I would go to meetings in London in my winter coat only to find I would get there and everyone would be in their flip flops.

I became obsessed with the north/ south weather divide.

I would call relatives or friends in the south to find they had been in the garden all day or just had breakfast outside. Alas not us.

Despite our gorgeous enormous garden, some summers I can honestly say that sitting outside after 6pm might only happen three times a year. Southerners will find that hard to believe.

What struck me immediately about the south is how much more middle class it is. I have been spending a lot of time in Summertown recently, which I swear is middle class mission control.

An ENTIRE Farrow and Ball shop.

Trouble is, with 16 years in the north and working class blood in me, I consistently get the colour just wrong.

I know to buy it from there, but as soon as it’s slapped on the doors and window frames, I realise I have not quite got the shade that all the middle class people seem get.

I’m just one or two shades too bright or too muddy.

The charity shops in Summertown are so posh I mistook most of them for actual proper shops.

I discovered the most astonishing garden centre on my way home.

Organic, obviously.

I bought some leeks, a loaf of artisan bread, some eggs, a jar of marmalade and some broccoli and it came to over £20.

As it got in the car I felt I’d been mugged, and yet was simultaneously delighted with my purchases.

Village life so far is proving much more friendly than I had anticipated.

I’ve joined the Sutton Singers – more performers than members in the audience so far – and the local dance troupe, and have fabulous neighbours…so I have to say the signs are genuinely good.

I have also agreed to take over the local amateur drama group. As a result someone said those alarming words: “I think you are very brave.”

I know it is actually code for: “I think you are stark raving mad.”

Suddenly I feel like I have moved into an episode of The Archers.