I was bornduring the 1940's, in the country, two miles from Carmarthen.

We weren't as cut-off as some neighbours, beingwithin sight of the main road into 'town'(what decadent deliciousnessthat word had for me,holding the promise of shops, cafes and cinemas).

Mymother baked food in the 'ffwrn' (oven) at the side of the fire. Vegetables wereboiled in smoke-blackened saucepans, just as in the song: 'Sospan fach, yn berwi ar y tan'.Potatoes, dug from the garden, were crusted with earth and had to be washed endlessly before being peeled.

All our water came from a well sokeeping things clean was a taxing job.(Sorry, I don't mean to sound like a frontierswoman, but that's how it was).

Many people have romantic images of country living, at odds with reality.

Friends of mineretired early, movingfrom London tolive ina cottage with land and a stream, near Fishguard.

Afterthree months, the stars in their eyeshave fallen out.The weather's turned cold, logs burn quickly in the stove, are expensive and heat only one room. Big weekend 'shops' mean a trip to Haverfordwest, because Fishguard's stores are few.

A feeling of isolation has descended on them. Apart from the estate agent who sold them the property, they know only one or two people.

We moved to Fishguard over fifty years ago. I am a country mouse but Peter, brought up in an urban area,is a town mouse. He likes the newspaper delivered, towalk to the postbox with a letter and, if he fancies some buns and a pot of jam for tea, he hops to the bakery.

I don't notice mudand cow dung on country roads,but Peter looks out for it and washes the splashes off the car as soon as we're home.I could live quite happily in the wilds of Preseli but he couldn't.

I've beenreading the unpublished 1882 Diary of Agnes Griffiths, to whichher granddaughter has generously granted me access.

Agnes Griffiths led ahard working life on a lonely farm in Bosherston, Pembrokeshire.When meat was needed, she killed a fowl.

Mrs Griffiths's life, miles from neighbours, shows howlocation affects the quality of our lives.

Most of my adult life, I've hankeredto return to the country, tothe harsh landscape, bent thornbushes and rocky outcropsof NorthPembrokeshire, but I've changed my mind recently.

After the last few winters, when we've hadheavy snow, I've decided that the town has its compensations and I shall be a day tripper to the country.

I'm writing about Agnes Griffiths tomorrow. No paper kitchen roll for her, she had cloths to boil and dry, towelsand her husband's working shirts to wash, thenBaby Gwladys's little dresses to see to. Some winter months it rained nearly every day and Agnes was very tired by bedtime.The dreary winter months were brightened by the occasional supper party she gave.