The day we left London, torrential rain battered our belongings that waited forlornly beside an 18-tonne truck. The removal men fashioned waterproof capes from bubble wrap, squeezed the last bit of decades of accumulated crap on board, and then set off damply to catch the ferry. They didn’t, of course; “conditions” on the M4 saw to that. So we arrived in Co Kilkenny 12 hours ahead of them, and sat on some borrowed plastic garden chairs, waiting.

“Stop telling people we’ve bought a farm,” my bloke keeps saying. “It’s a farmhouse. We haven’t got a tractor or any livestock and you don’t even know what arable means.” Pfff. Whatever. I haven’t moved from a main road in central London to a lane in the back of beyond not to indulge my fantasy of playing Marie Antoinette at the Petit Trianon (Kirsten Dunst version). There’s hay. I can hear cows. It’s a farm.

I am a person who once had Amazon Prime Now deliver extra provisions in the middle of a dinner party – so sue me

Not only have I never lived in the countryside, I’ve barely been there; if you grow up in home counties suburbia with an internal drumbeat thudding “get-to-London”, you try not to go via the Lake District. Everything that has been good about my life – my friends, libraries, newspapers, bars, restaurants, train stations, shoe shops – has been urban. I am a person who once had Amazon Prime Now deliver extra provisions in the middle of a dinner party – so sue me.

But then we got older, and so did our loved ones, and many of them are in the Republic of Ireland. And then, the killer blow: the Republic of Ireland is in the European Union, and our country, through a combination of hilarious mishaps and outright swindles, is about not to be. In the words of the old commercial for the Irish lager Harp, time for a sharp exit.

Actually, it was anything but sharp: several years of waiting for circumstances to align perfectly, then the realisation that they never would and that we just had to make the leap. Thus, we find ourselves engaged in a little light commuting, which itself tees up an interesting process of compare-and-contrast. In Ireland, things that I had no reason to notice throughout years of visiting suddenly present themselves as unromantic daily facts: privatised rubbish collection, more limited booze-buying hours in supermarkets, a marked absence of public transport.

But they are as nothing to the delights of small-town and rural life. The shebeen – put simply, a pub in someone’s house – at the end of the road, the only place of entertainment within walking distance, is open four nights a week. And when I say “nights”: it starts up around 10pm and serves until 3am. If the owners aren’t about, they leave an outside light on to let you know it’s fine to go in and help yourself. In the proper pubs in town (use of the word “village” is a very specific business here, and quite unlike the Cotswolds definition), you can buy shotgun cartridges and rat poison along with your pint.

At Christmas a few years ago, my roiling Irish adopted family persuaded me and my English father that a complicated-looking tool on the wall of the pub was what farmers used for trepanning sheep suffering from the gid, a brain disease. It turned out to be a standard gouge. Now, I am making arrangements to have my own hay baled.

I fear terribly that I will become the ex-city dweller of Stewart Lee’s comedy sketch, begging friends to come to visit, promising horses at the end of the garden and finally plaintively requesting they bring cocaine. I am already cross that I can’t access the BBC iPlayer, and that my favourite online makeup company doesn’t deliver to the ROI.

But what’s more likely is that I try to out-Irish the Irish. I am already in love with the language, especially as it pours from the mouth of the bloke’s mum. She threatens to give you a fellandibang (“wallop”), or hop your head off the wall; anything in her way, particularly a cow, is a Protestant; you might want half a cup of tea out of your hand, if you’re in a rush; and anybody displaying airs and graces might be displaying gorster, and definitely notions.

Already, I am starting sentences with “Sure, lookit” and “Howya”, a sure sign that I must guard against becoming what Danny Dyer would quite rightly call “a twat”. And I must let Dyer also remind me that the British, too, have a brilliant way with the language; it’s just that the gift seems to be more widely distributed this side of the Irish Sea.

As does the gift of optimism. Another favourite Irish phrase, in response to a piece of gloom and doom, asks: “Could you not have the good word?” In fairness, Ireland has more to have the good word about; following a series of dramatic referendums, it is throwing off its constitution to become a progressive and liberal version of its already beautiful self.

Am I now a citizen of nowhere? It doesn’t feel like it. Through the sheer good fortune of wandering into an Irish family, I feel like I have allowed a billowing gust of air to blow through my life. I feel like I have granted myself the permission not to be chained to a bickering, divided, petty, cruel country, its plight not the fault of its predominantly decent populace but of a bewildered governing elite and a cabal of vicious chancers. As my beloved mother-in-law would say of the latter: “Feck ’em. Feck ’em all.”

• Alex Clark is a regular contributor to the Observer