I got mocked for being a “country bumpkin,” even though they came from the middle of nowhere themselves
I grew up in a tiny village in the Yorkshire countryside. From the start, I was used to the land, to hard work, to knowing that nothing comes easyyouve got to earn it. We werent rich, but we lived well. And thats when I fell in love with the earthnot as a chore, but as something that filled my soul. I love digging in the garden, growing my own veg, fruit, herbs. It grounds me, calms me, brings me back to myself. So when I got married, I said straight off: “We need a cottage. If we dont have one, well save up till we do.”
My husband wasnt sold on the idea at first, but seeing how much it meant to me, he went along with it. We bought a little place with a garden near Leeds. And everything was fineuntil his parents got involved. From day one, they looked down on me. Especially his mum, Margaret. Every visit turned into some sly little dig.
“Youre at it again with your carrots? Proper little farmers wife, arent you?” shed say, wrinkling her nose.
“Our son didnt work hard and move to the city just to end up elbow-deep in dirt!”
And Id just sit there, clenching inside. Not because I was ashamed. But because I didnt get itwhy the hate? I wasnt forcing anyone. I was inviting them to join in, to enjoy it. Gardening isnt a punishmentits care, its life.
But yknow, I put up with it for ages. Thought, well, maybe city folk just dont get it. Different priorities, different views. Until I found out the truth by accident, and it wasnt even hurtfuljust laughable.
Turns out, my husbands parents were from proper countryside stock themselves. His mum grew up in a village near Norwich, his dad in the back of beyond in Lincolnshire. Not only that, their parents still lived there, in old cottages, keeping chickens and veg patches. But after moving to London as young adults, theyd scrubbed it from their history. Acted like it was some dirty secret theyd die if anyone found out.
And yet, without a shred of shame, shed sneer at me: “Just look at your flatlike something out of a grannys parlour! All those trinkets, photos, knick-knacks Ours is minimalistclean walls, built-in furniture, no clutter.”
But thats exactly what I lovecosiness, warmth, memories on the shelves. Maybe not trendy, but human.
For the longest time, I said nothing. Didnt call them out. But one day, after yet another “country bumpkin” comment, Id had enough. We were sitting on the patio, and she rolled her eyes at my homemade strawberry jam and gooseberry pie:
“Ugh, everything about you is so rustic!”
I just smiled and said, quiet-like:
“Yknow what they sayyou can take the girl out of the village, but you cant take the village out of the girl. Only Im not talking about me. Im talking about you, Margaret.”
She froze. I saw her eye twitch. She tried to laugh it off:
“Are you being cheeky with me?”
“Just honest. Im proud of where Im from. Youre embarrassed by it. Thats the difference.”
After that? Silence. No more jabs, no more comments. She stopped calling me a farmers wife, stopped pulling faces at my homemade preserves or pickled onions. I think she even started respecting me a little.
And Im not one to hold a grudge. But it still stings, being looked down on 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 sow and harvest, pickle and preserve. And Im no less than those living in “stylish” flats with bare walls. Because where theres no soul, theres no warmth. And Ive got both. Always will.
