It’s the small anecdotal stories you hear that really define us country folk. In fact there are two moments just this week I can recall that would make any city dweller roll their eyes with the words “only in the country”.
It’s not everyone’s favourite place to be, but I loved my trip to the Bell Inn, Ticehurst on Monday night where I could swap my home-grown produce for a hearty pint on a dark, rainy evening. My trip down the country lanes on Sunday, however, was a little more unsettling as a herd of cows surrounded my car and began furiously licking whatever tasty substance was on the car bonnet. And you never realise just how big cows are until they’re just…you know…THERE and biting at the car door handle to join you on the passenger seat.
Maybe not my favourite moment living in Sussex, but a memorable one at least.
But nothing has screamed “life in the country” more than my recent experience at Winchelsea train station. I was a cleaner at this point, tootling down the lanes winding along the small stream filled with reeds, dragonflies and elegant swans on a sunny Friday afternoon. Revelling in the glorious afternoon sun, I turn the corner and spied four women stood on the corner of the train station, frantically scrolling through their phones.
I don’t know what it was that gave away they were new to the area, but it might have been their giant suitcases, towering high heels and perfectly manicured looks. Don’t get me wrong, they looked amazing. But I was roughing it up in trainers, black shorts and a slightly bleached T-shirt from my morning’s work on a client’s bathroom. When you live in the country, there is an element of practicality you have to adopt.
The women looked stressed, gesturing to each other quite dramatically as they continued waving their phones around for some signal. I didn’t have it in me to just leave them. I pulled up, and wound my window down.
“Hi there,” I greeted. “Everything okay?”
The women froze, slightly stunned that a stranger had stopped to speak to them.
“We’re just trying to get an Uber!” cried the one woman. “Can you get one round here?”
I sighed. I don’t think they were quite prepared for] today.
“No, we don’t have Uber round here,” I explained, gesturing to the empty fields and significant lack of passers-by.
“What about a taxi?” said another.
I hesitated.
“You can try…but you often have to book in advance,” I explained.
The women were mortified, staring round hopelessly for a taxi to magically appear.
There was an awkward pause.
“Can we walk?” asked a third.
Their destination was a 40 minute walk. I looked at their heels.
“I wouldn’t advise it…” I said politely.
I really felt for them. On my trips to London, I am overwhelmed by the noise, endless numbers of people bustling around the streets all rushing to get to their destination. For them, it was the significant lack of services and instance access to anything required that they couldn’t fathom. I love that about where we live; for others, their worst nightmare.
I took a deep breath.
“Get in the car,” I said, dialling my client’s number to let her know I would be late. Luckily it was my future mother-in-law, so I was immediately off the hook for rocking up late as a result of helping random strangers at the train station.
The women showered me with gratitude, stuffing their cases into the car with cries of “only in the country would you get this, people in London wouldn’t even bother to stop!”
And in that moment, I felt an enormous sense of pride. This is how we are remembered by those in the busier parts of the country; friendly, caring and never too busy to go out of their way to lend a helping hand. Ultimately, that’s what makes a community, and I was truly pleased to contribute that sense of service to others in the community of Rye and its surrounding villages. Who needs Uber when you can rely on the good will of others?