The Sateré-Mawé people of northwest Brazil have an initiation ritual for young men. It’s a coming-of-age ceremony that involves participants putting their hands in gloves filled with “bullet ants”, which are said to have a sting 30 times more powerful than a bee. I realise now that the rural Welsh village I live in has its own initiation ritual, though it’s not as dramatic—it revolves around the question of whether a newcomer is really here to stay.
When you move to the countryside from a city, people often ask: “Will you be staying?” The question has made me feel guilty; they seem to know that one day I might like to go back. Even the act of putting this thought on the page feels confessional. Usually I reply: “It’s home for now”. Conversations like this make me ponder the attachment we have to the idea of “forever”.
Country people want to know whether you will be investing in their rural way of life. Are you hardy enough to withstand the tough winters? Will you toil the land? Can you do without Deliveroo?
A person’s presence in the countryside is felt more. In the city, people come and go. In rural Wales, we rely on our neighbours for practical help when we’ve run out of wood or when the car has broken down. One January when the snow wouldn’t stop falling and the roads were treacherous, my husband Simon and I got everyone’s shopping from the supermarket in our four by four. So, it’s perfectly reasonable to ask the question of whether you’re really committing to country life or simply just flirting. The investment is a two-way thing. Is it worth your neighbours investing in you?
I love country life. This afternoon, when taking a break from work, I sat on the balcony and watched week-old lambs frolic in the field. Lambs are just happy to be alive. Life is close-up here, as if under a microscope. The sun feels warmer on my face, and when the wind blows it’s more abrasive than any wind I’ve ever felt. The other night, while reading in bed, I heard an owl in the distance. For a moment I was taken back to my childhood. Not that I ever heard an owl in London, but it ignited that feeling of magic when reading as a child. My romanticised vision of country life has been matched by the reality.
However, I am under no illusion. What’s paradisiacal now may not be in 10 years. Life changes and we change with it. The vision I have for myself as an older lady is a life that revolves around visits to museums and art exhibitions. My older self goes to lectures and watches a busy world rotate around her while sitting in a café. The sounds of the countryside delight me now, but in the future I may want to tune back in to the bustle of the city. I’m not sure that my life is meant to be lived in one place.
When I came to live in the countryside five years ago I was deeply sad. My mother had just died at the age of 62. The city—life itself—no longer made sense to me. I sought the sound of harmony over the sound of dissonance that had started to pervade my life. And I found it in a Welsh valley. Everything exists simultaneously: densely populated cities, the gentle murmur of the countryside; the different lives and people that you seek out when another version of you is revealed.
I no longer feel guilty admitting that I may go back to city life when the countryside no longer speaks to me. This does not mean that I don’t love rural life. We hear many different sounds during our lifetimes; sometimes we must follow them.
