Why on earth would you want to move to the countryside? Everyones trying to get to the city, and here you are doing the opposite. Whats so good about it? I simply dont get it. Its only pleasant in the summercome winter, theres nothing to do.
I have a friend, Sophie, who has done everything she can to talk us out of moving to the country. It really got under my skin, and my husband Toms as well. As if were just supposed to go along with whatever she wants.
After nearly a year of searching, though, we finally found a cottage that was just right and moved in. Almost daily, Sophie would ring me up, mockingly asking if I had finally found a jobas if she didnt know perfectly well I was working from home and wasnt about to change that. Shed also ask, over and over, Is the Wi-Fi really dreadful out there?
Sophie came by for a visit at the beginning of October. Wed been settled in for well over a year by then. She wandered around our garden with an air of suspicion and spent the whole two days holed up in the house, sipping lager with her husband.
Despite having guests, I kept busy carrying the veggie harvest down to the cellar and sealing up jars of compote. On the third day, Sophie and her husband started packing to catch the coach back home that evening. We didnt put together a going-away gift or anything. Then Sophie herself piped up and asked if I could spare them a sack of potatoes and some apples.
I offered to nip down to the cellar to fetch it, but in their hungover state neither of them fancied coming along. So I gave them a sack and some buckets under the apple trees. Muttering about how they didnt look especially appetising, they went off to collect the fruit. I did wonder how they planned to heave it all onto the coach. But, as soon as I saw them, it all became cleartheyd persuaded Tom to give them a lift.
Its nearly a three-hour round trip to the city. Tom immediately cottoned on and pointed out hed already had a bottle of lager. So, with no other option, they set off with their haul to catch the coach. We didnt see them again for several years. We kept in touch, of course, but they never visited. Maybe Im being harsh, but I honestly dont think they care much for life in our village.
But then, at the end of November, they turned up on our doorstep, completely unannounced, trying to surprise us. They arrived for the weekend, but we were run ragged at the time. Id been plucking poultry all week and racing to get orders done for the New Year. Three oxen were still hanging in the shed, waiting to be butchered. Well, a surprise is a surprise.
I rushed to set the table. Sophie and her husband ate and drank while we darted backwards and forwards, barely having a chance to sit down. At least we offered to help around the housethat much they seemed willing to do. It wouldve helped if theyd actually known how to pluck chickens. And were all supposed to be country folk.
All my poultry was already spoken for through pre-orders. Wed planned to slaughter enough for ourselves and our parents before New Year. But it felt awkward. So I offered them a goose, telling them theyd have to pluck it themselves. They said theyd do it tomorrow.
Tomorrow came and nothing. I thought, well, let them stew in silence. This time, theyd driven down themselves and bought a goose. Before they left, I let them pick out a selection of veg and some pickleshelp yourself, I said. They packed the boot absolutely full. I dont mind at allweve plenty for years to come.
But Sophies next question caught me off guard: Dont you have any spare beef?
I told her no. There simply wasnt any extra beef to go round. We need to fulfil orders first, then well butcher the oxen. We havent got a lot of work at the moment, but we still have to earn a living. And if there ever is any left, weve got parents, brothers, and sisters to think about.
I suppose theyre upset with us. Sophie hasnt called or written since. And, apparently, a mutual friend says were being selfish. We came all this way to the village, Sophie told her, and left without a scrap of beef.I didnt say anything back. Theres no point. Some people see abundance and think its there for the taking; others recognize the sweat and hours, the ache in your back and the pricks on your fingers that brought the harvest in.
December turned sharp and silver. Tom hung glowing strings of lights along the fence, and our kitchen filled with the aroma of roasting roots and bread rising by the wood stove. The days shrank, but our home felt fuller than evera slow, steady warmth, a kind of quiet that lets your thoughts settle and breathe.
Sometimes at dusk, when the fields are smudged with frost and the last hens lumber inside, I think about Sophie. I wish she could see what we see: not just veg and jars and feathered geese, but the hush after the grind, the sudden yellows and blues across the sky, the calm certainty that you have a place thats yours.
A week before Christmas, Tom and I bundled up and walked to the village square for the market. All around us, neighbours waved, talking over one another about the years weather, their fences, the new baby across the lane. I handed my basket of eggs to Mrs. Perks, and she squeezed my handa wordless thank you. Not one asked if I had spare beef.
So, we welcome the winter with grateful hearts and hands that ache, but spill over with enough to share. Not everyone will understand it, and thats all right. Among the quiet fields, weve found more than enough.
