I had been internet dating on and off for 16 years, since getting divorced in my mid-30s. I had a couple of relationships during this time but, in between these, I must have corresponded with hundreds of men, and been on loads of dates. I met nice-but-dull guys, ghosters, terrible kissers and even the odd Walter Mitty. There was the guy who turned out to be married, the guy with beard dandruff, and the “medical professional” who later admitted he sold stairlifts and wheelchairs.

Of course, there were a few lovely men with whom it just didn’t work out, but, overall, it felt as if there was no one out there for me. I knew it was possible to meet someone – lots of my friends are with partners they met online – and I veered between gritting my teeth and thinking, “It’s just a numbers game, you have to kiss a lot of frogs” to “What’s wrong with me?” I hated it. But what else could I do? I’m a self-employed writer – I mean, I was hardly going to meet a man while typing at my kitchen table, was I?

Then, a couple of years ago, a few things happened at once. My grownup daughter moved out and my mother, who had Alzheimer’s and had spent years in a care home, died. She left the family home in Salisbury to my brother and me, but it was in a dreadful state, having been rented out for almost a decade to help pay for her care fees. My brother wanted to sell, but I couldn’t bear it – that would have felt like yet another major loss. I don’t have a big close family, and my happiest memories are from my childhood in that house.

I grew up in Salisbury but had lived in London for 30 years, since graduating from university in the 80s, and had brought up my daughter in the same house since she was six. When she moved out, I was living alone for the first time ever. I had always been happy there, with a wide circle of friends and interests locally, but now it felt stagnant and lonely.

I had told myself that when she left home, that would be my chance to do something different. So I took a major decision: I would move back to Salisbury, get the house done up, and live in it. I remortgaged and rented my home in London, buying my brother out of his half of the Salisbury house.

I moved last September, and it was horribly stressful doing it solo. I had struggled to find tradespeople to do all the work required so the house was like a building site for the first few weeks. I immediately came down with a grim chest infection and found myself lying in bed, feeling very sorry for myself and bitterly regretting the whole thing.

Once I recovered from my illness, I made an effort to start integrating, in the hope that I would make some new friends or even meet a man; although this felt incredibly unlikely – the Wiltshire dating scene seemed even more woeful than the London one. When I went on Bumble, my local matches included a guy who declared he liked “buses, donkeys, bell-ringing and drawing”.

Yet, gradually, I started to feel more settled. Work progressed on the house and I stopped worrying about meeting someone. My decorators recommended a friend of theirs who was a firefighter, but also did tiling and carpentry, so I hired him to do loads of stuff. Then one day I realised how much I was looking forward to him arriving to start work in the mornings – although I assumed he was married or taken, as all the good ones seem to be. I discovered we had a very similar sense of humour and I would try to make him laugh, because he had a lovely smile. Then I discovered to my joy that he was single. I came up with more things that needed tiling – it’s a miracle my house doesn’t resemble a municipal swimming baths. He built some wardrobes in my bedroom (and has since confessed that he wondered if one of them might be his one day). Eventually, in January, having discreetly checked how many toothbrushes resided on the sink, to make sure I was also single, he asked if he could take me for dinner.

We have been inseparable ever since. The irony of meeting someone in the one way I was convinced I never would – sitting on my own in my house – does not escape me, and I have happily deleted every dating app. Life is great, and I’m so glad I had the courage to make that change and stick to it. What I thought was the biggest mistake turned into the best thing I ever did.

The Last Stage by Louise Voss is out now (Orenda Books, £8.99)