I was 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 childhood, I was used to the land, to hard work, to the idea that you had to earn everything with your own hands. We werent rich, but we lived decently. And thats when I fell in love with the earthnot as a chore, but as something that soothed my soul. I love digging in the garden, growing my own veg, fruit, and herbs. It grounds me, calms me, brings me back to myself. So when I got married, I made it clear: “We need an allotment. If we dont have one, well save up and buy one.”
My husband, James, wasnt keen at first, but seeing how much it meant to me, he agreed. We bought a small cottage with a plot near Leeds. And everything was fineuntil his parents got involved. From day one, they looked down on me, especially his mother, Margaret. Every visit turned into some sly little dig.
“Oh, youre at it again with your carrots? Proper little farmers wife, arent you?” shed say, curling her lip.
“Our son didnt go to university and build a life in the city just to mess about in the dirt!”
Id bite my tongue, not because I was ashamed, but because I couldnt understand the sheer contempt. I wasnt forcing anyoneI was inviting them to join, to enjoy it. It wasnt a punishment; it was care, it was living.
I put up with it for ages. Thought, well, maybe city folk just dont get it. Different priorities, different ways of seeing things. Until I stumbled on the truthand it wasnt even hurtful. It was laughable.
Turns out, James parents were from proper farming stock themselves. His mother grew up in a village near Manchester, his father in the back of beyond in Lancashire. Whats more, their parents still lived there, in old cottages, keeping animals, tending the land. And yet, after moving to London in their youth, theyd scrubbed it from their history. Acted like it was something to hide, like they were terrified anyone might find out where they really came from.
And yet, without a shred of shame, shed sneer at me: “Just look at your flatlike something out of a grannys parlour! All these little trinkets, photos, ornaments We keep ours modern. Clean lines, minimalist, no clutter.”
But thats exactly what I wantedcosiness, warmth, memories on the shelves. Maybe not fashionable, but human.
For the longest time, I said nothing. Didnt argue. But one day, hearing “country bumpkin” one too many times, I snapped. We were sitting out back, and she rolled her eyes at my strawberry cordial and gooseberry tart.
“Ugh, everything about you is so rustic!”
I just smiled and said, calm as anything, “You know what they sayyou can take the girl out of the village, but you cant take the village out of the girl. Except Im not talking about me, Margaret. Im talking about you.”
She froze. I saw her eye twitch. She tried to scoff. “Are you being serious?”
“Dead serious. Im proud of where I come from. Youre ashamed of it. Thats the difference.”
After that, she went quiet. No more jabs, no more snide remarks. Never called me a farmers wife again, never pulled a face at my homemade jam or pickled onions. If anything, I think she started respecting me.
And you know what? I dont hold grudges. But it still stingsbeing belittled for the very thing they once were. Since when are roots something to be ashamed of? Since when is hard work something to sneer at?
Im a woman who loves the land. Im not ashamed of my village. I can plant, harvest, pickle, and bake. And Im no less than those living in their “trendy” flats with bare walls. Because where theres no soul, theres no warmth. And Ive got both. Always will.
