In search of alpacas: Why I packed up a life in London and went to Wales
In the first of three columns for Country Life, Sarah Corbett-Winder reveals why she finally moved to Wales with her young family after decades living in London.
Moving to Wales was always part of the plan. When I married my husband, Ned, there was an understanding that one day we would end up here. His parents' house would eventually become ours and, with it, a future that had already been quietly mapped out.
The trouble was, I don't particularly like being told what to do.
For a good two-thirds of our relationship, I resisted the idea on principle alone. I have a rebellious streak that I blame entirely on my father. The more inevitable Wales seemed, the more determined I became to imagine a different future. Yet life has a wonderful way of softening even the most stubborn of us.
As our children grew older — Lyon now eight years old, Nancy seven and Celeste four — and our four-legged sausage shaped children — Margaret four years old and Marigold one — I found myself looking at London through a different lens. The city that had once felt exciting and full of possibility suddenly seemed less suited to family life. I had grown up in Wiltshire, where childhood meant muddy boots, climbing trees, endless fields, a forever smell of freshly cut grass and the freedom to disappear for hours and return home only when hunger struck. Deep down, the countryside had always made far more sense to me.
'To my surprise, the place I had spent years resisting suddenly became the place I wanted to be'
I moved to London at 18 to study at the Slade School of Fine Art. I grew up fast, but I loved it. London gave me an education, a career, friendships and a sense of independence. But, after nearly two decades in the capital, I began to feel that perhaps I had done my London time.
My uncle remarked that most of us were living in London for ourselves rather than for our children. It was one of those observations that is impossible to unhear. I found myself asking a question I had somehow avoided for years: why are we still here?
I am fortunate that my work isn’t tied to a particular postcode. I run my own tailoring brand, KIPPER, and can happily do what my children call my ‘wiggling’ — the influencing side of my business — from anywhere with a decent internet connection. Unlike many families, we weren't anchored to the city by work. London was becoming harder to justify.
Life felt increasingly noisy, crowded and relentless. The children were surrounded by advertising, constant stimulation and dirty parks, all peppered with crime. There was always somewhere to be, something to do, something to buy. I found myself longing for a slower rhythm of life and, more importantly, a childhood that felt more like a childhood: carefree and creative. To my surprise, the place I had spent years resisting suddenly became the place I wanted to be.
Ned, characteristically, never pushed me. Looking back, I think he understood that I needed to arrive at this decision myself, otherwise my horns would be permanently out! Once I did, everything shifted. We spent the next two years preparing for the move, which in hindsight was one of the greatest gifts we could have given ourselves. By the time moving day actually arrived, there were no doubts, no dramatic last-minute tantrums and, thankfully, no chorus of ‘Do we have to leave London?’
'In our new life, I saw chickens, alpacas, more dogs and perhaps even a Shetland pony'
Our situation was slightly unusual because we already knew where we were going to live. We weren't endlessly scrolling property websites or debating counties over dinner.
A wise family chum once told me that it takes at least a year to settle somewhere new. Armed with that advice we were off to Wales, and not pit-stopping anywhere on the way. We had an extraordinary amount of help from my parents-in-law with the renovations to make the move happen. It was agreed that we would move into a house in the village, before the ‘big house’ move. And then, in time, a swap would happen. Like many people leaving London, I had friends who dreamed of making the same leap. The challenge was never deciding to leave; it was deciding where to go.That, I now realise, was our great stroke of luck.
Our house sits on the edge of a very sweet village and has everything one could hope for: a post office, a butcher, a tea room, a church and two pubs. We are tucked away just far enough to feel wonderfully private, yet close enough to feel connected.
One of my greatest fears before moving was that I would feel as though I were missing out. London has a remarkable ability to make you believe that all exciting things happen within the M25. What I hoped we would gain was time. Time with family. Time with friends. Time to actually finish a conversation. I remember meeting a girlfriend for coffee in London. She was running late, I had another meeting afterwards and, between the two of us, we managed perhaps 20 minutes together before rushing off in opposite directions. In Wales, friends could come for the weekend. Children could disappear into the garden and climb trees. Margaret and Marigold could live their best lives, wandering freely through the woods. We could cook long lunches and simply enjoy ourselves. There would be no need to keep a constant eye on the clock.
In our new life, I saw chickens, alpacas, more dogs and perhaps even a Shetland pony, alongside a vegetable garden. All of this remains firmly on our wish list. I saw muddy boots and children returning home stained purple from blackberry picking. I imagined river swims in summer and penny sweets from the village shop, which sells milk in glass bottles.
'I thought I was fighting against geography, when in reality I was fighting against certainty'
I was also excited by the prospect of creating a country home. Not simply decorating one, but building a life around it. A house with character and enough room to evolve alongside our family, and my forever-growing wardrobe! And I yearned for a front door that could be left open.
Of course, there was the practical side of things. Ned still needed to spend two nights a week in London running Not Another Bill and Bespokely. Yet that compromise felt entirely worthwhile when weighed against the life we hoped to create. I hoped there would be something rather wonderful about having the occasional evening entirely to myself. Give me my LED face mask, my decompression boots, Margaret and Marigold and an early night, and I am extremely content.
A lingering fear was loneliness. Would I miss bumping into old pals? Spontaneous luncheons with my sister? The familiarity of city life? Perhaps. But if I was being honest, I knew country life would suit me far more than I had ever admitted. I love entertaining. I love having a house full of people. But I also love my own company. The idea of quiet weekdays spent working, followed by weekends devoted to family and friends, sounded less like a sacrifice and more like a luxury.
If I’m being honest, my only genuine concern was the availability of a decent matcha. Fortunately, before leaving London, I taught myself how to make the perfect one at home. Thus making me an even more independent woman!
Looking back now, I realise that we had simply outgrown London. Not because there was anything wrong with it, but because we wanted something different. For years, I resisted the idea of moving to Wales. I thought I was fighting against geography, when in reality I was fighting against certainty.
Now, standing at the kitchen sink watching the comings and goings on the canal and with Margaret and Marigold living their best lives (barking at innocent canal walkers) and the children climbing a tree, sticks in hand — I believe a den is on the agenda ‚ it is hard to imagine our lives anywhere else.
London? Where is that?
Part two will be published on Friday, August 28, and part three on Friday, September 4.
