Urban Myth

Why is it always an "urban myth" and never a "rural myth"? Have the rolling fields of England never spawned a tall tale? Has a Somerset farmer never exaggerated the size of his prize marrow? Has a shepherd never claimed to have seen a spectral hound roaming the moors? Of course they have. And yet, we persist in calling these things "urban myths," as if nonsense is only manufactured in cities and the countryside is a bastion of hard facts and straight-talking common sense.

It’s nonsense, of course. The term "urban myth" is an act of linguistic snobbery, a relic of an outdated belief that rural folk deal in folklore while city dwellers trade in sensationalist guff. But scratch the surface, and you'll find that rural myths have been around for far longer and, in many ways, are far more enduring. Consider the beast of Bodmin Moor – generations have sworn blind they’ve seen a big cat stalking Cornwall’s wilderness. Or the tales of spectral black dogs that lurk in the shadows of country lanes, their glowing eyes a harbinger of doom. Yet these aren't called "rural myths" – they're "folklore," because apparently, when a myth wears tweed and speaks in a West Country accent, it gains gravitas.

But shove the same brand of nonsense into a city, and suddenly it’s an "urban myth." The vanishing hitchhiker, the kidney thieves, the dead granny smuggled through customs in a wheelchair – all absurd, all widely believed at some point, but somehow less charming than a ghostly horseman galloping through Dartmoor mist. Why? Because the countryside gets the benefit of romance, while the city gets lumped with paranoia and gullibility.

Perhaps "urban myth" caught on because cities are better at spreading stories. After all, a modern myth thrives on movement – a whisper on the Tube, a headline in a rag, a post on some clickbait-riddled corner of the internet. But let’s not pretend the countryside is immune. Rural pubs are dens of storytelling, and you can be sure that between pints of scrumpy, someone’s regaling the locals with tales of a headless highwayman who still haunts the A38.

In any case, urban dwellers are notorious for not speaking to each other, especially on public transport. Most have never spoken to their neighbour. Rural dwellers, on the other hand, know their neighbours intimately, even if a few miles apart, invariably intermarrying.

The reality is that myths flourish wherever humans gather, whether it’s a city block or a village green. The only difference is the branding. So let’s call them what they are – myths, plain and simple. And if we must categorise them, let’s at least be fair. Because if we’re going to have "urban myths," then it’s high time we gave "rural myths" the recognition they deserve. Or are we still pretending that everyone in the countryside only ever tells the truth?