Five years ago, as the reality of Covid lockdown set-in, the grass really did start to look greener outside London.
Pent-up city folk began to think of the countryside as the answer. Many, as soon as they were permitted, grabbed their possessions and ran for the hills.
I was one of their number and hideously smug. I already owned what a friend termed the perfect apocalypse hideout — a cottage in the woods with its own water supply. The by-product of decamping there — and running a business on my land — was unexpected: after 20 years as a journalist, I realised I had barely understood my own country. But worse, I hadn’t understood London.
In the thick of the city everything was urgent. There was a race to get a reservation at the best new restaurant or an interesting titbit on the latest political saga. Big deadlines were a badge of honour. People appeared to start arguments for the sake of having something to do. Country folk will often say they don’t think much of London. And after a couple of years largely in wellies, I had begun to see their point of view.
I recall coming to what I thought was a blinding revelation: everyone in London was bored
I recall one afternoon in 2022, sitting on my proverbial rocking chair in the woods, coming to what I thought was a blinding revelation: everyone in London was bored. The incessant need for novelty was the city’s addiction. If it stopped, as it did for periods of time — stilled by lockdowns — what in fact was it other than a collection of buildings, and a jostling to dominate the culture. It kept having to define itself because it didn’t know what it was.
The residents of the countryside don’t have that question knocking around their heads: why am I doing this, who do I want to be? They have purpose in spades. They have land or gardens that constantly need maintenance, somewhere to drive to (no Deliveroo for a lazy meal) and another tribe to moan about — us Londoners.
But they also have the satisfaction of tangible progress. On Clarkson’s Farm, which would probably never have been so popular had the exodus to the countryside not happened, he found the most basic way of expressing it: “I did a thing.” Something was actually produced, created or fixed in the real world, rather than at a computer and screen.
As a neighbour observed, if it rains in London, you just worry about taking an umbrella. When it rains in the countryside, you worry about your drainage and set about fixing it.
That cycle leads the rural dweller, from those with a modest half-acre garden and a couple of chickens to an estate, to place particular importance on self-reliance, community and the weather. As many of the exodus found out, all the social or cultural capital Londoners had built up counted for nothing in a storm.
While working on the land and commuting to London, a disrespect of Londoners crept in — particularly for those who thought their views more important than those of the countryside. It was a 180 degree on my previous self. When I had been at Stroud town hall Brexit debates in 2016, I couldn’t fathom how the locals didn’t understand the wonders of Brussels or why they were hostile to immigrant workers.
Now it seems obvious. For those who pride themselves on picking up a spade or spanner, the countryside certainly didn’t think it needed a helping hand from foreigners. Nor would the paper-shufflers in London or Brussels appreciate the precarity of managing land, machinery and people in the face of the weather.
The insularity of the countryside breeds a loathing of London that isn’t always justified
But straddling the two places — I now live half and half between London and the countryside — I see that the insularity of the countryside breeds a loathing of London that isn’t always justified. Incomers are given a rough ride, regardless of their contributions. A world famous musician tried to take over a local pub to show them how it should be run. The village decamped to the other pub.
Nor is it fair. I recall that I used to be charged what country tradesmen called among themselves “plum-in-the-mouth” prices; until I adopted a tinge of the local burr. But at the same time, those tradesmen were driving around in shiny new vans, well beyond my means.
There are economic disparities between London and the rest of the country. Londoners have more disposable income: over £30,000 on average after tax and benefits, compared to most regions on £20,000, according to the ONS. But throw in London housing and transport costs and for anyone on a modest wage, that gap will close fast.
Rural dwellers, by comparison to urban dwellers — London and other cities in the UK — are actually better off, according to Defra’s Statistical Digest of Rural England. That found the rural dweller had £86 more income per week. (It’s the post-industrial towns where poverty is acute.)
It’s true that the countryside was not waiting to be saved by an influx of Londoners, who thought they knew better. They wouldn’t be trusted with the spade. But while the values of community and civic pride are to be admired, if rural folk think Londoners are smug, they could also take a look in the mirror.
A flash bank card doesn’t buy you entry to this world
The countryside, it turned out, was the harder choice than staying put, as many a Londoner found out. Sure, you could get a dog and take it for a long walk on breaks from remote work. But there was much real work to do: constant repairs on weather-beaten houses, working yourself into local communities through small conversations and kindnesses, digging in. A flash bank card doesn’t buy you entry to this world.
Those folk who live in the countryside earned the respect of this Londoner. They perform (and I also have performed) real hard work, just to stand still. And with some sense of achievement in doing so. But that isn’t all there is to life.
London’s ceaseless urgency, its search for novelty, even its neuroses, are entertainment. I used to think, when things were getting too much, it was time to escape to the country. I now escape to London.
Joy Lo Dico is a writer and owner of Voltaire’s Wood
