From picture-perfect cottages to an award-winning gastropub that’s frequented by the Range Rover brigade, there’s a reason my charming home of Fittleworth in West Sussex has been dubbed ‘the new Cotswolds’.
It’s just a shame the village has a gang problem. Tribal, territorial and prone to trespassing, this anti-social mob swank about like they own the place.
Except their weapon of choice is a Cybex pram, and while their uniform, yes, is a hoody… it only counts if it’s from Lululemon.
I am talking about the rural posh mums, that impenetrable army of puffer coat and book-bag warriors who have the run of this village, set in the rolling hills of the South Downs. Ricocheting between smug and frazzled, they’re the former marketing/HR professionals in their late 30s and 40s who’ve relocated from south-west London to raise Otto and Margot in bucolic bliss.
And while they often retrain as yoga instructors or interior designers, it’s very much a side hustle to full-time mamahood, stalking the surrounding forests with their surgically attached baby slings.
I’m a similar age to them, but being single and happily child-free, I may as well be a different species, which is why I am, of course, persona non grata to this collective.
Yet our paths cross with alarming regularity for the infuriating reason that my unfenced driveway is used as their shortcut to the village playing field and cafe.
It’s a horseshoe gravel drive which wraps around the front and side of my property and leads on to a passageway providing access to the field.
It’s just a shame the village has a gang problem. Tribal, territorial and prone to trespassing, this anti-social mob swank about like they own the place, writes Caroline Bullock
Picturesque West Sussex has been dubbed ‘the new Cotswolds’
And from the kitchen window, they’re practically within touching distance as they stroll by, leaving me seething.
On a busy day, several will traipse through my property in their Dubarry boots with scooters and assorted offspring in their wake, leaving the tell-tale trail of pram wheel marks and perhaps the odd plastic pink hair bobble.
On one occasion, the migration coincided with my attempt to reverse my car out.
‘This is private property,’ I’ll wearily remind them in case the recycling bins and house sign attached to the hedge don’t make it clear enough.
‘Sorry, but the pavement is quite narrow for pushchairs,’ comes the matter-of-fact slap-down.
Case closed. A reminder that along with Hicks & Brown fedoras and healing sound baths, village mums do like to have the last word. (NB: It’s a standard-sized pavement.)
Of course, the flagrant disrespect for my space and territory grates. I’d never start a turf war, but in my own passive-aggressive way, I’ve placed several large ceramic pots across the driveway entrance. This has curtailed some of the encroachment, but the most dogged offenders remain undeterred – working in pairs to simply lift their prams over the top like some urban assault course.
Yes, any perceived impingement on their convenience is usually non-negotiable, their offspring viewed as the automatic free pass to priority.
Shouldn’t modern womanhood, even in the most seemingly traditional of English villages, be a little more nuanced than simply ‘mum’ or ‘unmum’? writes Caroline Bullock
It’s an entitlement that also plays out in the community cafe – their spiritual home where they descend daily to rearrange the tables and chairs to accommodate their group. Disrupt their preferred seating plan at your peril.
I’ve exchanged pleasantries with one or two, and got the impression they welcomed the opportunity to have a more wide-ranging conversation. Yet when the rest of the mama mob arrive, it’s back to the harassed mum routine, leaving me in the relegation zone.
‘Are you using this chair as well?’ one of them asked recently, gesturing to the chair by my tiny table, where I had audaciously left my laptop cover. I removed the case only for her to simply perch her backside against the end of my table as she talked to her mum friends on the adjacent table.
Meanwhile, my Smythson leather cover sat on a crumb-strewn floor while I was stuck listening to an endless drivel and drone about forest school.
I don’t believe I’m missing out, but I’m disappointed by the lack of consideration and originality in this one-dimensional cliché. (As for what they think of me? Well, who cares…)
Interestingly, the tedium is not lost on one of the group’s regulars I occasionally chat to… who admits to simmering tensions behind the apparent bonhomie. ‘There are several strong personalities who anchor everything, and all the buzz is at their end of the table, with the rest of us more or less just listening,’ she tells me.
‘And yes, there does come a point when you’ve heard enough about a toddler’s sleep consultant or another humble brag about their daughter’s academic achievements.’
Then there are the golden ticket invitations to events beyond the village, such as the recent Christmas wreath-making workshop, to which my source wasn’t invited.
‘It cost £50, which I wouldn’t have wanted to pay, but that’s not the point,’ she says.
‘It’s the snub that reminds you you’re in the B team, which is so irritating when you’ve had a good career.
‘There’s a whole side to my life and personality they know nothing about, because the conversation is always about kids, generally someone else’s.’
All of which, in 2026, does feel a little regressive and reductive. Shouldn’t modern womanhood, even in the most seemingly traditional of English villages, be a little more nuanced than simply ‘mum’ or ‘unmum’?
Once you get used to all the flattened pheasants and flooded roads, village life has much to commend it. I refuse to let mine be ruined by this VIP (Very Important Parent) club.