The curious rise of cottagecore

Cottagecore, not to be confused with cottaging, is an aspirational lifestyle trend. The word is relatively new —although you’ll find it used all over TikTok — but the idea isn’t. If you have ever dreamt of leaving behind the urban sprawl for something more bucolic, or donned a cheesecloth dress and flower crown in the hope that it will make you seem a little folksy, you’ll understand the aesthetic. Cottagecore is the eternal search for a pastoral idyll, updated for the Instagram generation.

It is hardly surprising that such a romantic movement has been revived during a time of pestilence and isolation. Throughout the pandemic, many of us have felt as though we aren’t exactly living our #bestlife. It’s comforting therefore to rebrand ourselves as self-sufficient cottage-dwellers, foraging for mushrooms, pickling our vegetables, baking fresh bread and growing flowers, even if all the food (and flowers) we need can be found in the shop just around the corner.

The cottagecore look is ‘lived-in’. Scandi modernism is out and floral chintz is in. White walls have had their day, as has the cleaning guru Marie Kondo. See ya! If you spent the past few years clearing out your clutter, condensing down your capsule wardrobe and excommunicating anything that doesn’t ‘spark joy’, I’m sorry to have to tell you that the new ‘maximalist’ fashion advocates stuffing your home full of so much crap that it starts to resemble a dusty junk shop.

On internet forums, cottagecore is defined as ‘Your grandma but, like, hip’. Gen Z teenagers love cottagecore but they aren’t alone. I am one of the many millennial women who gravitates towards prairie dresses, scalloped bedspreads and wicker baskets. I cringe when I see these things I like reflected back via hundreds of other social media accounts.

We kid ourselves that cottagecore is environmentally friendly (‘Oh this old lamp, I inherited it’) and pretend that it’s some reaction to consumer capitalism: (‘Isn’t Ikea dreadful!’).