I was thirty minutes into my first proper country house weekend when I realized I’d made a terrible mistake. Standing in the muddy driveway of my university friend Charlotte’s family home in the Cotswolds, I looked down at my pristine white trainers (already speckled with suspicious brown dots) and then at everyone else’s well-worn boots, and thought: oh shit.
It wasn’t just the footwear. While I’d packed what I considered “countryside appropriate” clothing—a brand new Barbour jacket (still with that waxy smell that makes you light-headed in small spaces), a plaid scarf so stiff it could stand up on its own, and jeans that were definitely not designed for sitting on damp logs—everyone else looked… comfortable. Lived-in. Like they hadn’t just raided the “country classics” section of a department store the day before.
Charlotte’s dad took one look at me and said, “Going shooting at Balmoral later, are you?” I wanted to die on the spot.
Look, I’m a Sheffield girl who moved to London. My idea of “country” had previously extended to the park near my parents’ house and maybe that one time we went to the Peak District and I complained the entire time about the lack of phone signal. I was—am—a city dweller through and through. But over the years, I’ve been invited to enough country escapes to have learned a thing or two about not looking like a complete prat when venturing beyond the M25.
So here’s my guide to country weekend style that won’t make the locals snigger behind their pints or have your hosts questioning if you think you’re meeting the King for tea. (Spoiler: there’s mud involved. So much mud.)
First things first: the Barbour jacket. Yes, it’s a countryside classic for a reason—it’s practical, waterproof, and will literally last decades. But for the love of God, if you’re buying one for your first countryside jaunt, at least have the decency to rough it up a bit before you arrive. New Barbours are the equivalent of turning up to a rock concert in a pristine band t-shirt you bought that morning. They scream “I bought this especially!” which is exactly what you don’t want.
My friend Tom—who grew up in rural Norfolk and tolerates my city-girl ways with enormous patience—taught me a trick: wear your new Barbour while washing the car, or in light rain, or just scrunch it up and sit on it for a bit. “It needs to look like you’ve had it since uni,” he advised, watching me frantically trying to age my jacket the night before a weekend in Suffolk. “Not like you just remortgaged your flat to afford it.”
If Barbour isn’t your thing (or your budget), there are plenty of alternatives. A good waterproof from brands like Berghaus, North Face, or even Mountain Warehouse will serve you better than something fashion-forward but functionally useless. The countryside doesn’t care about your carefully curated Instagram aesthetic. The countryside cares about whether you’ll stop whining when it inevitably pisses down with rain and you’re a forty-minute walk from shelter.
Let’s talk footwear, my personal Achilles heel (pun absolutely intended). After the White Trainer Incident of 2015, I’ve learned that countryside footwear falls into roughly three categories: wellies, walking boots, or what I call “pub-appropriate weatherproofs”—those leather boots that look good with jeans but won’t disintegrate if you step in a puddle.
Wellies are crucial if there’s any chance of serious mud or if the proposed activities include anything involving fields. Don’t bother with the fancy £300 ones with the buckles unless you actually ride horses regularly. I once showed up to a friend’s farm in expensive hunter wellies only to be told they were “a bit extra” for feeding the chickens. Normal green ones from a garden centre will do just fine.
Walking boots are for, well, walking. If there’s a “lovely little 5-mile stroll” on the agenda (translation: a hellish hike up terrain better suited to mountain goats), you’ll need these. I bought mine after a humiliating experience trying to navigate a muddy slope in Suffolk in completely inappropriate footwear. The memory of sliding down that hill, hands clawing at grass while my friend’s mother—a woman in her sixties who bounded up like a gazelle—waited patiently at the top, still makes me wake up in a cold sweat.
The third category—normal-looking boots that can handle a bit of countryside—is what I wear most often now. Think ankle boots with decent grips and waterproof treatment. You can wear them to the pub without looking like you’re about to scale Everest, but they won’t fall apart if you have to walk back to the house afterward.
Now, let’s discuss the middle layer—the stuff between your jacket and your boots. Here’s where I see most city folk go wrong (myself very much included). The countryside is not a fashion show. No one—and I mean no one—cares if your jumper is this season’s whatever-the-hell. What they care about is practicality and comfort.
Jeans are fine, but make sure they’re ones you don’t mind getting dirty, and for God’s sake, nothing skinny or restrictive. You might need to climb over a stile or help push a car out of mud (both things I’ve had to do, neither successfully in too-tight jeans). A pair of straight or boyfriend jeans will serve you better. Dark colours hide mud splatter better, which is information I wish I’d had before wearing baby blue denim to a farm.
Jumpers should be warm, not just aesthetically pleasing. I’m not saying you need to raid your grandad’s wardrobe, but that whisper-thin cashmere that looks great in Mayfair isn’t going to cut it in a drafty country house where the heating is considered a luxury rather than a necessity. I’ve found that mid-weight merino wool jumpers are my sweet spot—warm enough for cold days but not so bulky you look like the Michelin Man.
Layering is key, not just for warmth but for the wildly fluctuating temperatures you’ll encounter. That country walk might start freezing cold, become sweaty uphill, then freezing again when you stop for a sandwich at the top. I always wear a decent thermal or light cotton top under my jumper so I can adjust accordingly.
And scarves—practical, not decorative. That beautiful silk number you love? Leave it in London. You need something that can double as a makeshift blanket/pillow/dog towel in emergencies. My most-used country accessory is actually a large wool scarf that’s survived five years of country weekends, pub lunches, impromptu picnics, and once, memorably, being used to wrap up a pheasant someone had shot (a story for another time).
What about bags? The first time I went to a country house party, I brought a small crossbody bag that barely fit my phone and lipstick. Completely useless. Now I know better—a backpack for walks (carrying water, snacks, extra layers, and plasters for inevitable blisters) and a more generous tote or holdall for general use. Leather looks nice but canvas is more practical. And if it has mud on it from your last countryside excursion? Even better. Authenticity, darling.
There’s also the matter of evening wear, which is where city dwellers really come unstuck. The country-house dinner is not the time for your best cocktail dress, despite what certain period dramas might have you believe. Most countryside gatherings are significantly more casual than their London counterparts. Think “smart casual” but with an emphasis on the casual.
I learned this the hard way when I turned up to a dinner in a friend’s Northumberland home wearing a dress and heels, only to find everyone else in jumpers and slippers. While they very kindly pretended not to notice, I spent the entire evening feeling like I was dressed for an entirely different event.
These days, I pack jeans and a nice top (the eternal going-out uniform), maybe a casual dress that works with tights and boots—never anything that requires special underwear or that I’d be devastated to spill red wine on. Because trust me, you will spill red wine on it. Country house lighting is atmospheric at best, downright dangerous at worst.
Perhaps the most important thing I’ve learned about country style is that it should be forgettable. The whole point is that you’re not thinking about what you’re wearing—you’re enjoying the company, the fresh air, the temporarily escape from urban life. When I’m properly dressed for a country weekend, I don’t notice my clothes, which is exactly how it should be.
I’m hardly a countryside expert even now—I still occasionally misjudge and end up either over or underdressed. But I’ve at least reached the point where nobody asks if I’m expecting to run into royalty, and I count that as progress. My trainers are never white anymore, my jeans all have a healthy amount of wear, and my once-pristine Barbour now looks like it’s lived a full and interesting life (it has—it’s been to festivals, dog walks, and once, memorably, got borrowed by a drunk friend who managed to fall into a hedge while wearing it).
So if you’re a city dweller facing your first country weekend with trepidation, remember: it’s not about looking like you’ve stepped out of a Jigsaw catalogue’s “weekend in the country” spread. It’s about being prepared, comfortable, and not precious about your clothes. The countryside doesn’t care about your style credentials. It cares about whether you can make it through a muddy walk without having a breakdown about your footwear. And honestly? That’s rather refreshing.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go waterproof my boots. Again.