I was mocked for being a “country bumpkin,” though they themselves came from the back of beyond
I grew up in a tiny village in the heart of the Yorkshire countryside. From childhood, I was accustomed to the land, to hard work, to the understanding that nothing comes without effort. We were not rich, but we lived honourably. And it was then that I fell in love with the earthnot as a duty, but as a comfort to the soul. I adored digging in the soil, growing my own vegetables, fruit, and herbs with my own hands. It grounded me, soothed me, brought me back to myself. So when I married, I said plainly: “We must have a cottage. If we dont, well save until we can buy one.”
My husband, William, wasnt keen at first, but seeing my passion, he relented. We bought a modest house with a garden near Chester. Everything seemed to go welluntil his parents came into the picture. From the very start, they looked down on me. Especially his mother, Margaret Whitmore. Every visit became an exercise in quiet humiliation.
“At it again with your carrots, are you? Proper little farmers wife,” shed say, curling her lip.
“Our boy didnt study and grow up in the city just to grub about in the dirt!”
I listened and shrank insidenot from shame, but from bewilderment. Why such spite? I never forced anyone to helpI only invited them to share in the joy. It wasnt drudgery; it was care, it was life.
For a long time, I endured it. I told myselfcity folk, they dont understand. Different priorities, different ways. Until I stumbled upon the truth, and it struck me as not even hurtful, but absurd.
As it turned out, my husbands parents were from the deepest countryside themselves. His mother hailed from a hamlet near Shropshire, his father from a forgotten corner of Lancashire. Whats more, their parents still lived there, in old stone cottages, keeping chickens and a kitchen garden. Yet theyhaving moved to the city in their youthhad scrubbed it from their history. Scrubbed so hard it was as if they feared anyone might glimpse their true roots.
And still, shameless, they sneered at me: “Just look at your flatlike some old grannys cottage! All these knick-knacks, framed photos Ours is all clean lines, built-in cabinets, no clutter.”
But that was precisely what I wanted, what I neededcosiness, warmth, memories on the shelves. Unfashionable, perhaps, but human.
For years, I said nothing. Made no accusations. But one day, when she rolled her eyes at my strawberry cordial and gooseberry tart, muttering, “Ugh, everything about you is so rustic!”Id had enough.
I smiled and answered softly, “Theres a saying, you know: you can take the girl out of the country, but you cant take the country out of the girl. OnlyI wasnt talking about myself. I meant you, Margaret.”
She froze. I saw the flicker in her eye. She tried to scoff. “Are you quite serious?”
“Quite. Im proud of my roots. Youre ashamed of yours. Thats the difference.”
After that, the jibes stopped. No more digs, no more curled lips when I brought homemade jam or pickled onions. I even think she began to respect me.
I bear no grudges. But it still stingsto be belittled for the very thing they once were. Are roots something to be ashamed of? Is labour cause for scorn?
Im a woman who loves the earth. Im not ashamed of my village ways. I know how to sow and reap, to pickle and preserve. And Im no less than those who live in “sleek” flats with bare walls. Because where theres no soul, theres no warmth. And I have warmth. Always will.
