City Living vs Country Life by Alexis Self

London.

If you’re lucky, the past few months will have been a kind of phony war. Everywhere you lay your eyes doom-laden prophecies speak of impending collapse—of the economy, the healthcare system and, if you read certain newspapers, society as a whole. And yet, despite the dystopian rhetoric, a lot of us have just had to lie down on the sofa and wait for things to blow over. 

Like all proper crises, coronavirus has exposed many of Britain’s deep fault lines. Some of these divisions are well-worn. Our experience of lockdown will have differed greatly depending on whether we are rich or poor; young or old; work in key industries; or have children; inter alia. 

Even I, a concretised, pigeon poo-splattered, parking ticket-festooned urbanite, am beginning to gaze wonderingly at the greener side of the fence… 

But, perhaps the most pressing of these, at least while we’re confined to them, are to do with how and where we live. Unsurprisingly, extended immuration has forced many of us to consider these four walls. With socialising outlawed and most shops and entertainments closed, city living isn’t looking so slick as it used to. Even I, a concretised, pigeon poo-splattered, parking ticket-festooned urbanite, am beginning to gaze wonderingly at the greener side of the fence. 

Those less stuck in their ways have already set the wheels in motion—figures released in June by estate agents Hamptons showed a doubling of interest year-on-year in people looking to leave London for the countryside. This planned exodus has been attributed to a number of things: the inexorable rise of property prices, the inexorable rise in air pollution, the newfound viability of working from home etc etc. For many, lockdown seems to have been the final straw. But the truth is, the camel’s back has been close to buckling for a while now.

The Yorkshire Dales

As a child, I used to look at my rural contemporaries with bemusement, thinking what bad luck they had suffered to be where they are. Imagine having to get in a car and drive 40 minutes to buy a pair of trainers, I sneeringly thought to myself. Imagine not having several world-famous art galleries, sports stadia, music venues or international airports a bus ride away, I madly muttered.

Now that these fruits are forbidden, and my trainers bought online, I’m beginning to think that my younger self wasn’t just a little naïve. Sure, London is where most of my friends are, but these days, if the weather’s bad, I’m not really able to see them. My social life has come to resemble that of an Austen heroine: ‘I’ll be walking into market on Saturday afternoon… if the sun’s out perhaps I’ll call in on Mr Ingrams for a pot of tea in the front garden…’ 

London.

This carry-on is all well and good during midsummer, but what will happen come autumn? I’m not sure I can handle the heavy ennui that comes with a socially distanced tin on Wormwood Scrubs in late November. I’d much rather be looking out my window at acres of cornfields and rubicund forest. Surely all my fellow metropolitans feel the same. 

Judging by the preponderance of drawn curtains around Ladbroke Grove during lockdown, lots of people made their minds up early and fled. But these citizens are, undoubtedly, two-timers: second homers. They want, and have, the best of both worlds. For the rest of us, there is a choice, we can either be the country mouse or the town mouse, the one or the other. 

The Lake District

If you were young and ambitious, up until very recently, the choice was simple: the rat race. Britain’s capital city is a behemoth, contributing one-third of the nation’s GDP and a palette-dropping 40 percent of its creative jobs. While its streets weren’t paved with gold, they were paved with opportunity. But that isn’t really true these days either. 

Unless you have another job, or a wealthy benefactor, making ends meet as a young artist in London is impossible. This is nothing new. What is new is the fact that those supplementary jobs are now all-consuming and, most often, highly unedifying. If you want to do something even vaguely creative, you must spend your days as the cringe personification of a tea bag company on Twitter. If you want to prosper, and not have to beef with Marmite, you have to go corporate. 

London.

No wonder so many are leaving town. Last year, the number was over 340,000, the highest since records began. A significant proportion of these are working-age millennials fed up with falling living standards. Mostly they’re moving to other UK cities, but many are choosing to go full rural. This is a damning indictment of the way London is headed but it’s also undeniably a good thing. 

For years we’ve been told that an urgent rebalancing of the country’s economy is needed and now it seems to be happening organically. It might have taken a deadly pandemic, but more young people living in provincial towns and cities will reinvigorate places that have come to resemble ghost towns. Residents should be lining up to give guards of honour to the new arrivals. 

Bude, Cornwall

The irony is, of course, that the rivalry between city and country, which has been bubbling away for years, has reached new levels of enmity during the pandemic. Banners draped from bridges on the A30 give four-lettered expression to curtain-twitching denunciations made against flighty second homeowners. 

An already fractious relationship would seem more polarised than ever. But there’s hope. Remote working no longer looks like a trend but a probable future for many professionals. Maybe then, everyone intent on a successful career in a creative… digital… media… scientific… field won’t have to cram into three or four cities on Earth. They’ll have more choice, and that’s always a good thing.

London.

For the past decade or so, rural and city-dwellers seemed to be diverging at an alarming rate, if their aims and dreams become more aligned it’ll be to the benefit of both. Put down your Oyster card and grab a hoe. Let’s go back to the land!