Sarah Corbett-Winder: Patience is a virtue, especially when moving to the countryside

We learnt from a previous move that, if at all possible, time is the greatest luxury. There is nothing more stressful than trying to pack up your kitchen when the removal van is already waiting outside. This time, we were determined to do things differently.

Because we planned to rent out our London house, we didn't need to move everything. In some ways, that made the decisions even harder. We had to leave the house furnished, yet I found enormous pleasure in choosing the pieces that would come with us to Wales: the paintings that held memories, the favourite chair, the objects that very much felt part of our story. Even after all that careful editing, the house still felt remarkably full. I have long accepted that I am a collector, and certainly a maximalist.

In the weeks before we left, I worked methodically through every room. One pile was destined for the charity shop, another for Wales. There was something unexpectedly therapeutic about handling every drawer, every cupboard and every shelf. The move became an opportunity to edit our lives, as much as our possessions.

Having used a removal company before, we decided against hiring one this time. They were wonderfully efficient, but the contents of our home had vanished into huge, hastily packed boxes with little thought to where things would end up. By packing ourselves, we knew exactly what was in each box and could unpack directly into its new home, instead of first sorting through a mountain of mixed belongings.

The luxury of time also meant we could change our minds. Paintings were swapped in and out of the pile destined for Wales. I realised I wanted the new house to have a slightly different feel from London, and knowing that not everything had to come immediately gave me permission to create a fresh chapter, rather than simply recreating the old one.

The children's rooms also received a thorough cull. Every drawer was sorted, every basket emptied, every long-forgotten toy rediscovered. Oddly, it became one of my favourite parts of the move.

We had originally planned a large farewell party before leaving London. The invitations were sent out. Once we had added up the cost, we realised we would far rather spend the money on our new home. We'd already hosted years of wonderful dinners and celebrations there; it felt right to leave with those memories intact rather than forcing one final occasion. Besides, by then our lives revolved around paint charts, deep cleans, packing boxes and tradesmen. We had mentally moved on long before we physically left.

As for my wardrobe... well, I should confess that clothes have always been my weakness. Thankfully, my mother came to the rescue. She owns the clothing company Moloh and has rails in her van for transporting her collections of tailored attire. It proved to be the most extraordinary and perfect moving vehicle. My dresses, coats and jackets travelled exactly as they lived at home, still hanging on their hangers, while shoes, handbags and hats disappeared into enormous clear bags. It was a hugely satisfying process and one in which remarkably little emerged crumpled.

Our move happened over several weeks. My mother would drive to London, spend the night, and we'd load the van together before setting off for Wales early in the morning. The children took turns joining the journey, each trip punctuated by service station treats and a growing excitement that this strange adventure would soon become everyday life. The move itself was an adventure for all of us.

Arriving with each new vanload was always slightly surreal. Here was a house we had spent months renovating from afar, making countless decisions about paint colours, wallpaper and kitchens, yet it still didn't quite feel like ours. We'd place boxes in rooms knowing everything would eventually move again, before turning around and driving back to London.

As expected, the house wasn't quite ready when our London tenants were due to move in. Suddenly, reality hit. We still had decorating to finish, rooms to repaint and a house to put back together before handing over the keys. There were moments of mild panic, but somehow we got there. I owe a great deal to my husband, Ned, whose calm determination carried us through those final frantic days.

The children, dogs and I retreated to my parents' house (in the countryside in Wiltshire) for a week while the final work was completed. It had always been the plan, but none of us appreciated quite what a gift it would become. It gave the children space to settle into a country life, and break away from London, without living among paint tins and dust sheets. Once our house was more ready, it gave Ned and me something even more precious: uninterrupted time to begin making sense of our new home, just us. My parents very kindly looked after our children and our pooches while we began the big unpack.

Where do you begin when unpacking an entirely new life? There were boxes everywhere, deliveries arriving daily and, naturally, rather too many new purchases already waiting patiently to find their new home. The decorator had finished, the wallpaper was up, but carpets still hadn't been laid, meaning everything would eventually have to be moved all over again.

Ordinarily, I like everything finished immediately. This house, however, was teaching me patience. My dressing room hadn't yet been built, so I improvised with temporary clothes rails and reminded myself that this, too, was part of the process. The goal wasn't perfection on day one. It was simply to begin.

Ned and I had the luxury of a few days of just us — where we could really work out the house and enjoy it solo. We also worked out the order of importance for unpacking. It was the kitchen first, and then the kids' rooms. We really wanted them to enjoy this part and not be overwhelmed by not having ‘their stuff’.

Looking back, I'm so grateful we moved slowly. Instead of one frantic day, we had weeks to let go of one home while gradually falling in love with another. In the end, it wasn't really about moving furniture at all. It was about giving ourselves enough time to believe that the move was happening. It meant that we could adjust, as it was gradual, we could see it unfolding and happening.

We were all now living in the countryside. It no longer felt daunting because we'd had time to grow into it. By then, I knew we wouldn't want to turn back.

Read part one here. Part three will be published on Friday, September 4.