I had been house-sitting a glorious old cottage in country Victoria for two months. The day before its owner arrived home from overseas, the beloved pooch disappeared. In a frenzy of tidying up and preparing to leave I also had to race down dry, thorny country lanes calling out for the damn dog.

Finally, weeping with fatigue and dusty filth, as the sun fell red and low at day's end, I saw the creature leaping up and down behind a high hedge, trapped in a paddock.

What a relief – but I had so nearly failed in watching over the livestock. I humbly knew my place and it was back in the city.

I regret it of course. The romance of country Australia shimmers in countless Arthur Streeton paintings, and in the flour-dusted pages of every CWA cookbook.

Who hasn't fantasised about sitting on a porch and pondering the paddocks? Or yarning with locals about dairy prices or the promising new full forward in the district footy league? Which town bakery has the best vanilla slice; and when will the bloody government listen to us farmers?

I had this one chance to find out if I was at heart a country girl – or inescapably suburban. Something in me aspired to bake scones in a gingham apron as chooks clucked companionably around my ankles. But I didn't quite get there. Perhaps I was just too young.

My two-month practice-run at rural life began in spring. I moved into the cosy old pile and felt quite chipper. This was a splendid storybook bluestone home, filled with art and antiques, a huge kitchen table, fat armchairs in floral fabrics, a verandah and flower garden with a dog and a rooster in residence.

I chose my bedroom, gazed out at roses tumbling around the window frames, put on the kettle and prepared to fit the myth.

Country life. Long days and time to think. Tea brewing. Let's begin. In this bucolic setting I would write the Great Australian Novel. Infused with the spirit of the land I would write fresh, fabulous fiction. Nothing to stop me now, no distractions, just silence and clear skies.

Or maybe just one more walk around the verandah. Snip a few blooms for a vase. Then it would be time to cook up soup and feed the animals (all two of them).

So far, so farmy but barely a word written; and by Friday I was twitchy. Too young and too suburban. Rather early on in the piece, I slunk into town to catch a train to Melbourne to get to a Friday night party.

I was always back quickly and I did take good care of the property. The dog and rooster were loved, the pillows plumped up and visitors sometimes got a scone.

Yet once I was given this chance I knew it wasn't for me. The Lemonheads had a song out around this time that captured my mood of regret: "I lied about being the outdoor type".

Singer Evan Dando knew his limitations. And there were big downsides to country life. It was freezing even in November. I woke each morning in an icy room and stoked a fire all day.

Meanwhile the grass grew quickly and I had to bushfire-proof the place. I didn't have a sheep to keep the grass down and the rooster wasn't going to peck through it. So my boyfriend of just a few weeks was summoned to the country to mow a vast paddock.

Interviewed for this story, he recalls it less fondly than I. "The grass was f------ high!" There may have been snakes too. Still, I fetchingly poured the tea and pointed out a sunset.

In truth I suppose I was lonely. Still in my 20s, it felt a bit like retirement. Perhaps I needed more livestock to feed and farm chores to keep me busy. Busy from dawn to dusk I might have fallen into bed virtuous and weary from honest toil.

Certainly there were good days when I almost fit the part. I got a part-time job in the nearby town and closely studied vanilla slices. The boyfriend, a Queenslander with memories of vast clear skies, quite liked the place too. I knew I would miss the cottage when I left.

I did and I've thought of it often. Maybe it did seep into my soul. Now some years on, living in an inner-city neighbourhood, I am always in the garden. I plant vegies and rejoice in my harvest.

I have novelty aprons and occasionally bake. Who would have thought? I can even make it north of Craigieburn if it's just for a weekend. At this rate I might one day be an outdoor type, no lie.