Swapping a redbrick for a thatched cottage and a stroller  for a wheelbarrow, country girl turned city slicker  Alanna Gallagherstepped out in her sandals for a weekend with baby down on the farm.

AHHH THE good life . . . with space to grow everything you can eat, to fulfil the dream of having horses and a dog: yes, on paper, a move to the country was for me, a culchie turned city slicker, a fantasy entertained yet never actualised.

Would the offer of sampling country life at full tilt, in a picture postcard pretty thatched cottage a sneeze from Dublin in the heart of the royal county, push me off my seat on the fence?

I grew up in Achill, Co Mayo, on the edge of the main village on the island and also in Co Donegal, on the edge of a village called Creeslough down a long and isolating laneway. Both offered the rural idyll dream - as remembered by a kid.

In Achill I recall rescuing hedgehogs from the cattle grid of the next door neighbour (across the field) and fishing for crabs off a small pier near my cousins' house in the townland of Currane.

Living in Donegal, we had a couple of acres which meant I could have a pony, the wildest stallion ever gifted to a 10-year-old, but it also ensured I spent as much of my pre-teens outdoors as was possible.

But once puberty hit and my interest turned to boys and pop music, I suddenly felt like I was at the ends of the earth, missing out on life's experiences because of geography.

I always thought I'd go back. Escaping the rat race of the capital always seemed an attractive future plan but now with a very rambunctious 17-month-old boy, maybe it was time.

The lure was The Thatch, an original Turkish reed-covered cottage on the outskirts of Summerhill village in Co Meath. Set on 2.5 acres of land, it was rural Ireland personified and packed a big charm punch: it had whitewashed walls, yellow window frames and an old-fashioned red door, the kind you can imagine being photographed in front of with your granny and home-for-the-holidays American cousins. Would it test my country mettle?

We arrived as the birds were bedding down for the night. A long wooden fence lined one side of the driveway with mature trees on the other.

The air smelled like a large, freshly mowed lawn. The evening was full of promise as the weather forecast had predicted that Saturday would be fine. It was all a bit biblical: cattle were lowing and the baby was still awake, running rings around us through the tiled country kitchen and scullery.

He was delighted with the place and oh-so-excited by the prospect of getting up close and personal with the pair of chestnut horses in the field.

We explored the grounds, the old apple orchard and the low-running stream and the steps down to it, the sawdust-filled stables and the big corrugated iron-clad barns empty, save for some horsey paraphernalia.

We went back inside and explored the two bedrooms under the eaves. There was one at each end of the house with a small landing and large shower room filling in the middle space.

All had sloping ceilings that went right down to the floor with small cottage windows set at floor level, offering toddler-sized views across the fields to the sheep, cows and horses in the adjoining fields. We sang Old MacDonald Had a Farm - and Sonny finally got what the nursery rhyme was about. Downstairs there was a big country kitchen with a scullery and a sittingroom in what was probably the original bedroom.

Daybreak comes early in the country and Sonny was up and roaring for attention at 5.30am. A thick mist shrouded the cottage, which I took to be a good sign but my weather vane had issued a false reading. I thought the mist would burn off to reveal a beautiful day. Instead the drizzle turned into proper country rain and made us housebound - never a good thing for an energetic 17-month-old.

Plus we needed milk for the morning and Nurofen for Sonny, so a trip to the local village of Summerhill wouldn't suffice.

The nearest chemist was in Dunboyne, a round trip of some 16 miles. Vincent was despatched while I thought about taking our boy outdoors.

But there were big mistakes made in the footwear department. I was in flat, yet fashionable gladiator sandals that don't like wet grass while Sonny was wearing starter shoes, which were also soaked through after a quick kick around the lawn. We needed Wellingtons if tramping the nearby fields was to become an actuality.

At the The Thatch we were in the middle of nowhere, with the sea of surrounding green fields very calming to look out at. But the rain dampened our ardour. And there's only so long you can entertain a boy looking out at fields of resting cattle.

Would I up sticks and move back out of the capital lock, stock and barrel? Not full-time I'm afraid! I like my creature comforts. In Dublin, I have shops and public transport within sneezing distance of my front door. I am extremely spoilt and can run across the road in my pyjamas for a pint of milk if I need to. I'm not ready to pack all that in.

Also I still don't have my licence which makes a move to the sticks virtually impossible. In the country, not driving is tantamount to social death. It landlocks you and isolates you from friends and freedom.

But our boy is becoming more boisterous by the minute and needs a bigger patch of ground to run around than our postage stamp garden. This test trip opened us up to the possibility of at least discussing a move - so never say never, but just not yet.

The Thatch, off the main Dunboyne to Summerhill road in Co Meath, is a traditional-style cottage with a roof of Turkish reed set in a courtyard of barns and stables on 2.5 acres of land. There's also an orchard and a small stream running through the property.

It is for sale through Sherry FitzGerald Sherry for €695,000.