I was mocked for being a “country bumpkin,” even though they came from the middle of nowhere themselves
I grew up in a small village in the countryside of Yorkshire. From childhood, I was used to the land, to hard work, to earning everything with my own hands. We werent wealthy, but we lived decently. And thats when I fell in love with the soilnot as a chore, but as a comfort. I love digging in the garden, growing my own vegetables, fruit, and herbs. It grounds me, calms me, brings me back to myself. So when I got married, I made it clear: “We need a cottage. If we dont have one, well save up and buy one.”
My husband, George, wasnt keen on the idea at first, but seeing how much it meant to me, he agreed. We bought a little place with a garden just outside Manchester. Everything seemed fineuntil his parents got involved. From day one, they looked down on me. Especially his mother, Margaret. Every visit turned into a sly dig.
“Oh, youre at it again with your carrots? Proper little farmers wife, arent you?” shed say, curling her lip.
“Our boy didnt study and grow up in the city just to mess about in the dirt!”
Id listen and shrink inside. Not because I was ashamed, but because I couldnt understandwhy so much spite? I wasnt forcing anyone. I was inviting them to join me, to take pride in it. It wasnt drudgeryit was care, it was life.
For a long time, I bit my tongue. I thought, well, maybe theyre city folkthey just dont get it. Different priorities, different outlooks. Until I stumbled on the truth, and instead of being hurt, I nearly laughed.
Turns out, my in-laws were from proper farming stock themselves. Margaret grew up in a village near Leeds, and her husband came from the backwaters of Lancashire. Whats more, their parents still lived there, in old cottages, keeping chickens and growing their own veg. But after moving to the city as young adults, theyd scrubbed it from their history. Like they were terrified someone might discover their real roots.
And yet, without a shred of shame, shed sneer at me: “Just look at your flatlike something out of a grannys parlour! All these knick-knacks, photos, ornaments Ours is modern. Clean walls, built-in furniture, no clutter.”
But thats exactly what I wantedcosiness, warmth, memories on the shelves. Maybe not fashionable, but human.
For ages, I said nothing. Never threw it back at them. But one day, after yet another “country bumpkin” jab, Id had enough. We were sitting in the garden, and she rolled her eyes at my homemade strawberry cordial and gooseberry tart.
“Ugh, everything about you is so rustic!”
I smiled and said, calmly, “You know what they sayyou can take the girl out of the village, but you cant take the village out of the girl. Except Im not talking about me, Margaret. Im talking about you.”
She froze. I saw her eye twitch. She tried to scoff.
“Are you being cheeky with me?”
“Just honest. Im proud of where I come from. Youre ashamed of where you came from. Thats the difference.”
After that, she went quiet. No more snide remarks, no more faces when I brought over jam or pickles. If anything, she started treating me with respect.
And you know what? I dont hold grudges. But it still stings that they tried to shame me for the very thing they once were. Since when are roots something to hide? Since when is hard work something to sneer at?
Im a woman who loves the land. Im not ashamed of my village. I know how to plant and harvest, pickle and preserve. And Im no less than those who live in “trendy” flats with bare walls. Because where theres no soul, theres no warmth. And Ive got both. Always will.
