Coronavirus is teaching me how to be a better neighbour
Helen Kirwan-taylor lives both in Notting Hill and Gloucestershire – and is finally putting her status as an ‘inbetweener’ to good use
Country folk are generous but I don’t blame them for wanting the hordes of Londoners, who have been descending on them en masse, to stay away. As an “inbetweener” (someone who lives between London and Gloucestershire, where I am currently transplanted), I too am concerned about the volume of tourists treating my local village as a cross between Disneyland and a zoo. Wilson, our smelly Cairn terrier, does not normally garner much interest: now he’s swamped with affection by city families flooding in, clutching maps.
The (full-time) locals are furious. “My brother has a farm near Northleach,“says an architect a few villages away. “There were people with dogs running all through his fields of baby lambs. People are so stupid: the number walking through my village all putting their hands on the same gate latch was ridiculous. We were literally invaded!”
I use the term “inbetweener”, of course, to distinguish myself from these “weekenders”, who treat the countryside as a mindfulness retreat and spa experience. I see them in their brand new Hunter wellies traipsing through the faux fields of Soho Farmhouse, bringing noise and air pollution where there was none.
Their idea of a village shop is Daylesford, which is so expensive that locals have to check their blood pressure before entering. Besides, people in these parts make their own sourdough and lemon drizzle: they don’t need to fork out a small fortune for the gift-wrapped experience. They also know how to garden from seed, so no £5 pre-grown basil plants necessary.
I’ve learnt a lot since my countryside self-isolation began (more than two weeks ago now). In Notting Hill, the only communication between my neighbours is about the Amazon packages that land on the wrong door step (these days, accompanied with a vague threat about using hand sanitiser before touching).
Here, in our small but close-knit village, it’s a parallel universe. One neighbour has volunteered to become the local “Ocado”. She takes orders on email, then drops everyone’s parcels on their front step (“no rush to pay me back”). Another is baking brownies and depositing them (along with other homemade sundries) in the old phone box. When I was ill (which I think was flu, but who knows?) my local walking group took Wilson out every day. My book club (“Glook”) hand-delivered peanut butter granola with a “get well” garden-grown daffodil bouquet.
The goodwill was always here, but it wasn’t until Covid-19 descended upon us that I realised what community really means. “People are beginning to appreciate the meaning of localities,” says Tim Hastie-smith, our vicar of Bibury. “Our community shops have milk, eggs and loo paper.”
Hastie-smith has been overwhelmed with generosity: “I see kindness and light and good that will trump all the greed and selfishness we are reading about in the papers.” This includes offers of financial help for those whose pubs and stores have closed.
“I am aware, though, that these are early days and people will need direct contact,” he says. He plans on “de-churching” his sermons and organising outdoor activities for teenagers, while carefully observing self-distancing practices, of course.
We still chat across stone walls and when we pass each other on dog walks, maintaining a safe lane’s distance. Life is the same, but different. A replanted inbetweener friend in Denchworth has offered to subsidise his local pub, The Fox.
Every Friday, for three months, he will pay for each of the 171 villagers to enjoy fish and chips (£5 per head), which can be collected or delivered. Already the idea is being rolled out by friends in other villages. “It will keep many local pubs going,” he says.
The publican in question, Stephen Davidson, is also making takeaway soup and considering Sunday roasts. “I have a lot of stock. I ordered extra potatoes and other non-perishable goods early on,” he says.
For many country people nothing has changed. “The Somer-set have always been into recycling, singing, beekeeping, communal wassailing and apple picking,” says a friend. “It’s really just part of the culture here. Everyone is their own smallholder.” Her village Facebook page is offering free services for childcare and food parcels from locals. “And the shelves are still full of loo paper!” she says.
Another facet of country life that had hitherto eluded me is that - in the absence of 22 juice bars and hipster delis on the corner - people have learnt to do things themselves. We might frequent the local pubs and support the farm shops, but I had never considered that a bread maker, vegetable patch and even a chicken or two (and proximity to a neighbour’s cow), could keep many of us going for weeks.
My farmer friend finds my selfawakening amusing but also commendable, even offering to help me put up anti-fox fencing on our newly designated vegetable plot.
No one needs lessons in gratitude in the country. Last Christmas, my husband and I hosted the village party for the third time. In Notting
In the country, no one needs to be taught gratitude – but going to Waitrose is now a feat of endurance
Hill, communal gardens host summer parties where they pat themselves on the back for their ability to keep other people out (thanks to owning expensive houses with gates that demand keys). Here, we let anyone come, including house guests from a different village.
My husband and I have taken a beekeeping course. (Londoners love posting pictures of themselves in bee suits on Instagram.) But now that going to Waitrose is a feat of endurance, if not courage, I wish we had taken it more seriously.
Nicola Arkell, a Wiltshire beekeeper with 10 hives, also produces her own honey whisky, Beeble, which has medicinal properties. No need to hoard: she is generous with supplies.
Every local friend says their village has a Whatsapp group offering services and produce. Inbetweeners like us are extremely grateful not to be treated as pariahs by the locals. “The village has never been this full,” says Hastie-smith, “it’s like it used to be in the old days.”
Perhaps this, more than anything, brought the message home for me. Over the past few years, the burgeoning number of Airbnbs and holiday lets have emptied many villages of full-time residents – filling them instead with rowdy, ungrateful Londoners. Where we know to keep noise levels down on bank holiday
weekends, they bring out their boom boxes and smelly portable barbecues.
People who live in the country make a huge effort to get along, even when politics separate them. I learnt this when I was researching my book,
Home UK. In London, shoddy builders can scamper off like rats to the suburbs. Here, tradesmen share a church pew; their children go to the same school. When I called our builder to say the boiler had broken down one Christmas Day, he sent his foreman (in London, I would have probably been billed). When my fire alarm went off (because I made microwave popcorn), the whole village came out to check on me – including the volunteer fire brigade.
Self-isolation will be torture for social, globe-trotting, culture-addicted and atomised Londoners. Here, people are used to being on their own. They’re self-sufficient. They also know the name of every person within two miles.
The retired policeman who chases the old rogue cow from my garden, inquired as to how I was coping. It never occurred to me, until now, that they might feel sorry for us.