I was mocked for being “country” by people who were country themselves…
I grew up in a tiny village in the Yorkshire Dales. From childhood, I was used to the land, to hard work, to the idea that nothing comes without effort. We werent wealthy, but we lived well. And thats when I fell in love with the soilnot as a chore, but as something that soothed my soul. I love digging in the garden, growing my own vegetables, herbs, and fruit. It grounds me, calms me, brings me back to myself. So when I got married, I said straight away, “We need a cottage garden. If we dont have one, well save up until we do.”
My husband, Oliver, wasnt keen at first, but seeing how much it meant to me, he caved. We bought a little place with a patch of land just outside Bath. And everything wouldve been fineif it hadnt been for his parents. From day one, they looked down on me. Especially his mother, Margaret Whitmore. Every visit turned into a masterclass in subtle condescension.
“Oh, youre at it again with your carrots? Proper little farmers wife, arent you?” shed say, wrinkling her nose.
“Our son didnt go to university and build a life in the city just to end up digging in the dirt!”
Id listen and shrink inside. Not because I was ashamed. But because I didnt understandwhy the hate? I wasnt forcing anyone. I just wanted to share it. To inspire. It wasnt a punishmentit was love, it was life.
I put up with it for ages. Thought, well, maybe city folk just dont get it. Different priorities, different outlooks. Until I stumbled on the truthand it wasnt even hurtful. It was downright hilarious.
Turns out, Olivers parents were as country as they come. His mum was from a village near Norwich, his dad from the backwaters of Shropshire. Whats more, their own parents still lived there, in creaky old cottages, keeping chickens and growing runner beans. But after moving to London in their twenties, theyd scrubbed their past cleanlike it was some dirty secret they couldnt risk anyone discovering.
And yet, without a shred of shame, shed sneer at me: “Just look at your flatlike something out of a grannys parlour! All those knick-knacks, photos, trinkets Ours is all clean lines, built-in storage, no clutter.”
But thats exactly what I wantedcosiness, warmth, memories on the shelves. Maybe not modern, but human.
For ages, I bit my tongue. Never said a word. But one day, after the hundredth “country bumpkin” remark, I snapped. We were sitting in the garden, and she rolled her eyes at my homemade strawberry jam and gooseberry pie.
“Ugh, everything about you is so rustic.”
I smiled sweetly and said, “You know what they sayyou can take the girl out of the countryside, but you cant take the countryside out of the girl. Except Im not talking about me. Im talking about you, Margaret.”
She froze. I saw her eyelid twitch. She tried to laugh it off.
“Are you *seriously* saying that to *me*?”
“To you, and to myself. Im proud of where I come from. Youre embarrassed by it. Thats the difference.”
After that? Silence. No more jabs, no more eye-rolls. She stopped calling me a farmers wife. Stopped pulling faces at my pickled onions and jam jars. I think, in her own way, she even started respecting me.
And you know what? I dont hold grudges. But it still stings, being mocked for the very thing they once were. Since when were roots something to be ashamed of? Since when was hard work a reason to look down on someone?
Im a woman who loves the land. Im not ashamed of my countryside ways. I can sow, I can pickle, I can bake. 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 plenty. Always will.
