Country Life Has Changed Me. Here’s How

After 9 years of city living I have finally escaped the urban hustle in favour of the country. Here’s one way that country life has changed me so far. And it’s not what you think.

It’s official. I am a scruff bag. 

I was hardly an advertisement for fashion when I lived in city centre Madrid. But living on a narrowboat in rural England has only added to my lassitude when it comes to my look (or lack thereof). 

Having a job digging vegetable gardens with kids doesn’t help matters. I am constantly in my gardening gear: old black outdoor pants, an unflattering fleece and well worn walking boots that used to be baby blue and are now a murky shade of brown. 

Tired of this ensemble, I once made the mistake of wearing my favourite pair of jeans to work. Needless to say, I came home with grass stains on my knees. Undeterred, I am still wearing them out in the normal world of civilised town dwellers regardless. No-one will notice, I tell myself. To be honest, I don’t care if they do. 

Just like the farmers at the farm shop who would come every week to get their meat and two veg whilst covered from the waist down in cow muck and smelling as such, it seems that country life has changed my idea of what dirty actually is. In fact, look closely and all of my clothes have a random stain somewhere. If it’s not grass on the knees, it will be mud up the insides of my trousers, or coal stains on my sleeves.

The coal (officially called ‘smokeless briquettes’) is the biggest culprit for increasing my scruff factor. When I first moved to the village of Garstang, in the north-western county of Lancashire, I was eager to look the country-part. Anticipating a wet, cold and windy winter, I bought a new coat from Mountain Warehouse. It was fleecy on the inside and had faux fur around the hood. It was snug and warm, perfect for boating. Or so I thought.

Shortly after, I made the mistake of carrying a bag of coal in the rain. I hugged my arms around the heavy sack and waddled back to my boat, feeling quite pleased with my braun. Only later did I notice the grey marks on the front of my coat where the bag’s grubby body had rubbed against my own. They also appeared up my right sleeve where I had reached in to grab some briquettes to fuel the fire. 

Those stains never did come out. I even got my mum to have a go. The coat was rendered by her as ‘horrible’ and ‘not fit for public use’. She wouldn’t even take it to the charity shop where she works. I wore it for a good six months regardless (note to self: never think that beige coats are a good idea when living on a boat or indeed in the countryside full stop). 

Then there is the shoe situation. A friend came to visit me when I was fresh from the city and keen to embrace all things rural. Unlike me, she is a natural style icon. More at home in the grit and glamour of the streets of Glasgow, she had also recently moved back to the Lancashire countryside where we are both from. 

We had gone for a cup of tea at the cafe down the road. As we sat and nursed our brews, she regaled some of her difficulties in adapting to country life. “If I see one more person wearing a pair of bloody walking boots, I’m going to go mad”, she complained. “I miss seeing people with style”. 

She glanced at me and paused. “No offence Liv”.

I looked down at my feet, upon which proudly sat my cumbersome hiking boots which hadn’t left my feet all year. In the country it is normal to have a pair of walking boots permanently attached to your feet. Then again, most people around here are mostly 25 years my senior. 

That’s when I realised: moving to the country has made me middle aged.

I value comfort and practicality over style any day of the week. A fleece would be my idea of a great Christmas present. I would take hiking boots over stilettos without a second thought. Is this a problem or something to be embraced? Am I simply being sensible or am I on my way to becoming a country frump at age 37?

It is true that when I started out on this quest to move to the countryside, I envisioned myself in the warm climes of Spain, wearing flowing skirts and loose linen dresses. That is certainly a lot more instagrammable than my unwieldy winter coats and uncomely outdoor pants. Somewhere along the way, I seem to have lost all notion of appearances. 

My friends tend to agree. The other week I went to a garden gathering at one of their houses. I had my grass stained jeans on and a plain, light grey fitted cotton t-shirt. It was a lovely spring day and I rocked up without one of my vast array of fleeces. “You look great Liv”, my friend kindly chimed. There was a chorus of agreement.

They seemed surprised that I actually had a body with a shape. I told them that nothing had changed except that I wasn’t wearing my customary boat clothes. “Oh yeh”, one said, “I had forgotten what you look like under that big boat coat”. We all laughed. I also noted that maybe my new boat coat wasn’t as fetching as I had first thought. I thought I looked cool and practical but maybe I just look like I have eaten all the pies.

My new boat coat differs somewhat from my first. It is big. It is black. It is bulky. It is the most comfortable item of clothing I have ever worn. It is true that it is rather sack-like, but it is so useful to be able to move and bend when doing boat stuff that I wouldn’t be without it.

It’s not that I don’t have any of my townie clothes anymore. They just hang unused in my little wardrobe, taking up space I don’t have. They no longer go with my life. How could I possibly get on and off a boat in high heels or dainty doll shoes? That is what you call a health and safety hazard waiting to happen.

Country life and indeed boat life require a change in attitude. If it doesn’t keep me warm and comfortable, then it’s no good to me. Then again, perhaps this country life is just a great cover up for actually just being a lazy sod. I suspect that could be the case.

Unlike the older couple I got to know whilst working at the farm shop, who stole the show every time they came in. They were pure, old fashioned Garstang thorough-breds and spoke like members of the Royal family, even in these Northern lands (something which I am discovering is common in the middle class rural villages). 

They would come in for their weekly shop of potatoes, carrots, cabbage and turnips, along with some apples and bananas (all of the older generation seemed to buy the same staples). Whilst there was nothing so usual about the contents of their basket, there was something different about their choice of clothes. 

Rain or shine (but mostly rain), they dressed to impress, with upscale overcoats and well-heeled shoes. He always wore a crisp cotton shirt and she donned a freshly pressed blouse, not a hair out of place. They stood out by a country mile (excuse the pun), compared to the other customers who just wore the standard modern attire of stonewashed jeans, polyester jumpers and adidas trainers. 

One day I just couldn’t take it anymore. I had to ask about their sharp country garb. “I have to say, you both look fabulous”, I said. “Are you going anywhere nice?”. “No”, the lady replied, “I just think that it is good to always look your best”. 

I tried my hardest to look as if I agreed but wearing the big, black, mud splattered, farm shop coat (even worse than my boat coat), I could hardly lie in her face. She didn’t seem to notice. Instead, she looked around to make sure there was no-one else in ear shot. She then indulged me in a surprising conspiracy.

In hushed tones she continued: “You know, I have even seen people on Garstang high street wearing anoraks. Anoraks! People nowadays have no standards. In the past people would make an effort to look nice when they went into the village, but not anymore!”. 

I appreciated her sentiment. Truly I did. I too would like to live in a world whereby we still wore our Sunday best to go out to the shops; fitted dresses, tailoredjackets, stylish hats. It is much more romantic than the sloppy hoodies and leggings that people commonly don nowadays. 

But I couldn’t escape the thought that kept going around in my head. Anoraks? What’s wrong with anoraks? It was probably me that she had seen wandering around Garstang in my big black boat coat and muddy mountain pants. Guilty as charged. 

The solution to this scruffy conundrum still eludes me. Embracing the scruffiness may mean becoming a true country bumpkin, but perhaps retaining some sense of being part of civilised society is a wise idea, lest I walk the path of no return and become that weird person that people edge away from in the supermarket. 

Perhaps it would pay to take a trip to my nearest big shopping outlet, The Trafford Centre, about an hour away. But that would mean facing the crowds and the incessant beat of the autotune music blaring from each shop. After 18 months of country living, I am not sure that I still have immunity to it. Like the tempted teetotaler drunk after just one drink, I’d be frazzled and fried after just one shop. 

Yes, country life changes you. You get used to the quiet, the birds, the green of the trees and the hills. Bottoms on grass, hands in soil, hair in the wind. Fakeness fades, the traps of consumer society release, bodily rhythms return to natural order. 

There is no pretence in the natural world.

Maybe being a scruff is merely a symptom of the desire to become one with the Earth, to return to the original mother, to be wild, uncivilised and free. 

It’s the Lancashire life that’s the one for me.

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