Country people
In Glasgow for a few days with some friends, who travelled down with us.
I’ve always suspected that after you’ve spent any length of time on an island like ours, you gradually assume a distinctive aura. I think it comes from throwing fashion cares to the winds (literally), daily swaddling in layers of level 5 thermals, and a more open attitude to people.
Others might look at us, see country folk and instantly dismiss us, but not so our new-found Asian friend in Mr News, Sauchiehall Street where we were stocking up on essentials (including oatcakes. How rural.)
He asked me, ‘Are you from Ireland?’
‘No’ I said, ‘We’re from an island.’
I tried to explain to him where we live.
He said, ‘I know it. I’ve been to Aberdeen.’
I explained again ‘Seventy miles off west coast.. Outer Hebrides.. Lewis Harris Uist etc’ and he said he knew that too.
By now I was rummaging through my purse as if I’d never seen money before. It happens when you go the mainland, you instantly become gauche and stupid because everyone else is so smart and sassy.
But he went on,’City people are rubbish. Just commercial faces, smiling, meaning nothing. Country people are the best.’
I must say we could only agree with him as we lumbered off in our boots, fleeces and woolly hats leaving a trail of sand, straw and dung on the floor.
Lovely anecdote.
I can’t claim to be a ‘country folk’ living on the edge of a market town in Wiltshire but I’m acutely aware (and somewhat embarrassed) of mud on my shoes when I take a trip to London.