I live in the country. My husband once jokingly replied, to the questions of some lost and hungry walkers, that they had “arrived at the End of the World”. After half a lifetime of living in this solitary house, we like it that way. If I want to set off the washing machine at eleven at night, nobody screams through adjoining walls. If the animals bark or whinney in greeting to us, nobody minds, because the neighbours – mostly half a mile distant – all live with animals around them, too. And, if I go out in the dusk to fill a coal scuttle, the scarey Darth-Vader-like hisses from across the yard just mean that the resident barn owls are planning supper.

I work in a city at the moment. But as I have a quarter of a century of experience of living and/or working in the country, I am able to make daily comparisons of the two different ways of thinking.

In the country, you dress for the weather, which you judge every morning by going outside and looking at the sky and feeling the wind direction and strength. In the city, you dress for the workplace and hope it won’t rain between the car park and the building, and you only look at the weather forecast on TV for the weekend in case you might want to have a barbie out on the patio. I still look wrongly dressed for the city even after a year of working there, but I have observed a few other poor souls who don’t look urban, so perhaps I don’t stand out as much as I think; and anyway, age has its compensations; I no longer have any need to look in the forefront of fashion.

In the country work is done as it is needed, and it doesn’t end till it is finished. You go round the fields, seven days a week, to check the sheep and feed them, and until all are fed, you keep on going, and if you feel ill, you still do the feeding. In the city, you start work at a set hour – later if you can get away with it; and leave at a set hour – earlier if you can; and if you feel ill or even just want a day off, you phone in sick and don’t go to work.

I am lucky, I know, that in my present occupation I have the benefit of the city shops during the day, and the peace of my home at night. I am content, however, to forego the night life that the city evidently provides: such as the pubs on two corners of the block on which I work, the two night clubs within five minutes’ walk, the performance hall and the cinema across the centre of town. I prefer my fifty-minute drive home. That is my choice, and I don’t mind that people I know want to stay in the city to enjoy it in an evening: that is their choice.

What really annoys me are the people who disparage any way of life other than their own. If there is one thing that infuriates me even more than intolerance, it is ignorance. When the country is mentioned, some people immediately launch into disparagement of the pro-hunting lobby. Why? Someone ought to tell them that hunting is only one of many things that are done in the countryside. Or perhaps to point out that the hunting instinct exists in the city too, only there it comes out twisted into theft, burglary, racism and vandalism.

In the country, where everyone knows everyone else, to a greater or lesser degree, it is rude to pass someone by and not speak, because almost everyone is your neighbour. Even visiting strangers are usually relaxed and civil, and usually everyone knows who they are staying with and why. In the city, where there are just too many people for you to try to be aware of all of them, to speak to everyone you meet is not only exhausting but socially suspect. I know where I feel of greater value, and where I feel most lonely.

There was a man on TV last night who said he never goes to the country because it smells and is full of sheep and cows. How does he know if he doesn’t go there? I was infuriated not because of his opinion but because he is evidently an actor whom the BBC thinks articulate and possibly even intelligent (two things that are not necessarily the same) but his articulacy and intelligence had not led him to think further than his own ignorant prejudice. He asked, rhetorically, what the countryside was “for”. Ye gods, it’s a workplace! Where the hell does he think his food comes from? The grain that makes his bread, the sheep that become his chops, the cattle that become his steaks and mince, the vegetables for his accompanying dishes and the cheeses and fruits for his desserts? And the wood that makes his chair and the table at which he sits, and even, dare I say, the stage on which he performs? And the sources of water for his plumbing, and electricity for his heating, and lighting for his stage?

If the city is so wonderful, it’s only because the despised rural areas provide for its basic needs. Everything that supports life comes from the plants and the animals – from the land.

I’d like to see that conceited, self-confessed ignoramus of an actor - and of all professions, is there one that is more parasitic? – trying to create food from concrete, bricks and mortar. Water into wine would be easier.