I was mocked for being “country,” though they themselves came from the back of beyond…
I grew up in a small village in the Yorkshire Dales. From childhood, I was used to the land, to hard work, to earning everything with my own hands. We werent rich, but we lived decently. And it was then that I fell in love with the soilnot as a duty, but as something that soothed my soul. I love digging in the garden, growing my own vegetables, fruit, and herbs. It grounds me, calms me, brings me back to myself. So when I got married, I said straight away, “We need a cottage. If we dont have one, well save up and buy one.”
My husband, Oliver, wasnt keen at first, but seeing how much it meant to me, he agreed. We bought a little house with a plot outside Bath. Everything seemed fineuntil his parents got involved. From the very start, they looked down on me. Especially his mother, Margaret. Every visit turned into a subtle humiliation.
“At it again with your carrots? Proper little farmers wife,” shed say, curling her lip.
“Our Oliver didnt go to university and build a life in the city just to mess about in the dirt!”
Id listen and shrink inside. Not out of shame, but confusionwhy so much disdain? I wasnt forcing anyone to join me. I just wanted to share it. To make them see it wasnt a choreit was care, it was living.
I put up with it for a long time. Thought, well, maybe city folk just dont get it. Different priorities, different ways. Until I stumbled upon the truth, and instead of feeling hurt, I nearly laughed.
Turns out, my in-laws were from the countryside themselves. Margaret grew up in a village near Norwich, and her husband, Richard, was from the backwaters of Devon. Not only thattheir parents still lived there, in old cottages, keeping chickens and growing their own veg. But after moving to London in their youth, theyd scrubbed it from their history. Buried it so deep, youd think they were ashamed of their own roots.
And yet, without a hint of shame, shed sneer at me: “Just look at your flatlike a grannys parlour! All those trinkets, photos, knick-knacks Our place is modern. Clean lines, minimalist, no clutter.”
But thats what I lovecosiness, warmth, memories on the shelves. Maybe not trendy, but human.
For ages, I said nothing. Never threw it back at them. But one day, after yet another dig about my “farm girl” ways, Id had enough. We were on the patio, and she rolled her eyes at my homemade strawberry cordial and gooseberry tart.
“Ugh, everything about you is so rustic.”
I smiled and said quietly, “You know 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 scoff.
“Are you being cheeky?”
“Just honest. Im proud of where Im from. Youre embarrassed by it. Thats the difference.”
After that, she went quiet. No more jibes, no more snide remarks. She never called me a farmers wife again, never wrinkled her nose at my jams or pickles. If anything, she seemed to respect me more.
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 hide? Since when is hard work something to scorn?
Im a woman who loves the earth. Im not ashamed of my village. I know how to sow, how to harvest, how to preserve. And Im no less than those in their sleek, empty flats. Because where theres no soul, theres no warmth. And mine? Its here to stay.
