They mocked me for being a “country bumpkin,” though they came from the back of beyond themselves…
I grew up in a tiny village in the Yorkshire Dales. From childhood, I knew the soil, the labour, the necessity of working with my own hands. We werent wealthy, but we lived well. And it was there I fell in love with the landnot as a duty, but as a comfort to my soul. I adore digging in the vegetable patch, growing my own produce, herbs, and fruit. It grounds me, steadies me, brings me back to myself. So when I married, I made it clear: “We need a cottage. If we dont have one, well save until we do.”
At first, my husband wasnt keen, but seeing my passion, he agreed. We bought a modest place with a garden just outside of Lincoln. Everything seemed fineuntil his parents came into the picture. From day one, they looked down on me. Especially his mother, Margaret Whitmore. Every visit became a subtle humiliation.
“Youre at it again with your carrots? Proper little farmers wife,” shed sneer.
“Our son didnt study and grow up in London just to grub about in the dirt!”
I listened, curling inward. Not from shame, but confusionwhy such contempt? I wasnt forcing anyone. I only ever invited them to join, to take pride in it. It wasnt a choreit was life, care, something real.
For years, I bore it. Thought, *Fine, city folk dont understand. Different priorities, different ways.* Until I stumbled upon the truthand instead of anger, I nearly laughed.
Turns out, my in-laws were country-born themselves. Margaret grew up in a hamlet near Norwich; her husband, in the backwaters of Suffolk. Worse still, their parents still lived there, in creaking cottages, tending livestock. Yet theyd erased it all after moving to the city, scrubbed their past clean as if terrified someone might discover their roots.
And without a shred of shame, shed jab at me: “Just look at your flatlike some grannys parlour! All these knick-knacks, photos, china Ours is sleekclean lines, built-in storage, no clutter.”
But thats what I wantedcosiness, warmth, memories on the shelves. Maybe not stylish, but human.
I stayed quiet. Never threw it back. Until one day, over tea in the garden, she wrinkled her nose at my strawberry jam and gooseberry tart.
“Ugh, everything about you is so *peasant*.”
I smiled sweetly. “Theres a saying, you know: You can take the girl out of the village, but you cant take the village out of the girl. ExceptI wasnt talking about me. I meant you, Margaret.”
She froze. I saw her eye twitch. She forced a laugh. “Are you being cheeky?”
“Truthful. Im proud of where Im from. Youre ashamed of yours. Thats the difference.”
After thatsilence. No more jibes, no curled lips when I brought pickles or fresh-baked bread. Even, I think, a flicker of respect.
I dont hold grudges. But it stings, still, that they tried to belittle me for the very life theyd once lived. Are roots something to hide? Is hard work cause for scorn?
Im a woman who loves the earth. Im not ashamed of my village. I know how to sow and reap, pickle and preserve. And Im no less than those in their “modern” flats with bare wallsbecause where theres no soul, theres no warmth.
Mine has both. Always will.
