On Saturday At stressful times it’s good to be a local

BEING a local… Three little words so many of us take for granted, but you could write endless books on the subject.

Not that anyone ever has, as far as I know – because viewed in some lights, what’s to say? Everyone is a local somewhere, so what’s the big deal?

But as everyone reading this newspaper will know, the concept – the idea or notion – of being a local runs deep and it is ring-fenced with greyareas and question marks.

In the worst extreme cases, aggressive localism could be redefined as racism. “Locals only need apply. Foreigners out!”

At the other end of the scale you could say, with some accuracy: “We are all citizens of the world. Full stop. On this newly interconnected planet, we are all participants in a global community.”

But it’s the act of feeling local that I’ve been pondering. The thought struck me while on holiday in Cornwall last week, a rocky granite land that, even in early October, was so laden with tourists it was in danger of sinking into the Atlantic. Not only were car parks full, the over-flow car parks were overflowing. In October!

I’ve never seen crowds like it outside August before and said as much to my friends – who duly retorted: “Don’t complain! After all, you’re nothing but a visitor – an outsider – just like the rest of ‘em.”

They were right, of course. But I didn’t feel like an outsider. Having been editor-at-large for the region’s main daily newspaper for donkey’s years, I sort of feel part of the Cornish scene. I know scores of Cornish people – hundreds actually – many of whom are good friends.

One night we went to The Logan Rock Inn at Treen - one of my favourite pubs - to meet my old pal Robin Turner and his wife Rebecca, and you don’t get more Cornish than Robin. We were welcomed by that most excellent of landladies, Anita George, whom I also know.

So, although I’m not a true local west of the Tamar, I do regard myself as being a kind of quasi-local, by which I mean, a person who has long been connected to a locality, for both work and personal reasons.

Added to that, some would say you can use the word local in a regional sense. If you’re born and bred and live, eat and breathe in the highly identifiable peninsula west of Bristol, then you are a Westcountry man or woman. Which has at least some degree of local status, and all the linkage attached to it.

The same applies to anyone who has lived here for a long time - although how long it actually takes to become a “local” is a sub-section of this subject upon which entire volumes could also be written. A decade? 20 or 30 years? A generation – or maybe two?

Anyway, the localness thing was really brought home to me this week. My elderly mum has been admitted to our small local hospital, which obviously is worrying, although not a fraction as disconcerting as seeing her attempt to live at home alone when she’s so weak and infirm.

What is comforting is that she is receiving first-class care and attention. And somehow – I don’t know why exactly – I find it even more comforting that she is in a local hospital which is staffed by quite a few local people. I know a lot of them. I grew up with some of them many moons ago. My now grown-up children were, or are, friends with others…

The first person I met when I went to see mum after her admission was a lovely young care assistant who, letting me into the ward, said: “I know your daughter, Nancy. It’ll be a pleasure looking after your mum.”

One of the senior nurses is an old friend of mine and she has kindly given me a great deal of advice and reassurance. The ward receptionist is another old friend – one who recognises my voice when I phone to book a visit (a modern Covid necessity). She puts my name in the visitors’ book in a jiffy – no questions need to be asked.

These people and others pop into mum’s room on a regular basis to see how she is and cheer her up. Which she loves hugely. Indeed, she has somewhat miraculously rallied in strength and wellness since she’s been at Minehead Hospital.

I love that. And I absolutely love all this human interconnectivity which is somehow made extra-special because my family is local.

We are of this place. A lot of local people know us, whether it’s one of us, several of us, or all of us. And we know them.

My son noticed it when he came down from London to visit his grandmother. “It’s a wonderful hospital,” he said. “You really feel you belong. Even I feel I belong, despite not having lived here for 14 years. It’s a thing that wouldn’t really happen in London.”

He added: “Maybe the old-fashioned thing of belonging to some place is disappearing. I probably won’t have it when I am granny’s age.”

Which is sad. And perhaps it is something the world ought to start thinking about as the ravages of a pandemic continue to reshape our society.

‘My Mum has been admited to hospital. It’s comforting she’s among local people she knows‘