I've caught up with the thread now and have had time to think. Are your DH's family nearby? Was that a factor in deciding where you are living?
I ask because when I lived really out in the sticks with my ex - not for long - it turned out that the grand plan was that potential MIL, FIL, his sister, the sister's partner and God only knows who else would be staying for huge chunks of the year at our place. The best parts. Like July, August and Christmas. The sister and boyfriend were students with long holidays and the parents were retired.
My parents. Non.
I remember sitting on a wobbly hardback chair in a freezing room at Christmas playing Trivial Pursuit from an ancient set that they'd had in a cupboard for thirty years and must have known all the flipping answers to but just sat around with for some kind of ritual practice.
There was a long and complicated joke about The Gobi Desert that I wasn't a part of and was at my expense, then I was told to get up and do some washing up or somesuch cleaning or bring them drinks or whatever and I thought, 'I've got to get out of here.'
I did worry that if we had children that my culture would fall by the wayside, perhaps unreasonably because my ex spoke good English and we varied the two languages when we were on our own and watched English language films etc but it felt like we were never on our own. His family had too much influence on our lives.
I didn't want to be the odd one out and constantly undermined.
It was sort of the same in the village. I was the new addition to be, 'Trained up in the correct way to do things.' I was losing my identity and didn't recognise myself. Vegetarian Lunchgate makes me this of this.
One thing eventually led to another and I called a taxi (Had no car) back to my own flat on the coast - which thankfully, I owned and didn't have tenants in.
Then I went back to my scandalous ways in a tourist beachy town and had to go grovelling back to my old boss at the bus company for my job back. Which, bless him, he did. I went walking out of his office through the garage and the mechanics said things, like, 'I thought I'd see that you'd been murdered on the news.'
I went out drinking with my friend, a flamboyant gay municipal policeman (Sort of glorified traffic warden) and freedom was complete.
I've gone completely off topic, haven't I? But I couldn't hack village life at all. I would have done a Madame Bovary.