Britain came out onto its doorsteps, driveways and balconies
to applaud the staff of the NHS at 8pm this evening. We watched it on the BBC and it was really
very moving and uplifting; a reminder of the hard work of our doctors and
nurses at this most desperate of times; a well-deserved show of admiration,
confidence and gratitude; and a wonderful display of national solidarity. Here in Cornwall, we didn’t stand on the
doorstep and clap; aside from the badgers and horses, there’s no-one to hear it. We were there in spirit though.
This is one of those remote corners of the land that feels a
world away from an emergency. It still
felt unreal last week when I was at home in Bournemouth, which was then still
relatively untouched by the virus – people said it was like watching a film –
but here, at the southern-most point of Britain, you could turn off the news
and be almost oblivious to anything untoward happening – until you try to go
anywhere else or visit the supermarket, of course.
Living in a small village surrounded by open space and
looking out to sea, there is an understandable hope that the virus won’t spread
as wildly here as in towns and cities with their greater concentrations of
population, but no-one is complacent. People
aren’t visiting each other and when you see someone, they’re sociable but
strict about keeping two metres distance.
There is the same fear here of that first case in the village as there
is everywhere. The locals are all
worried for their families and for the elderly and vulnerable residents. The giftshops wouldn’t yet be open for the
tourist season, but this year they won’t open at Easter as they should. Obviously, the few pubs, cafes and
restaurants in the village all have their curtains drawn and remain in
darkness. There’s concern about the
impact there will be on the local economy.
People have commented though that living here, enforced
isolation isn’t very different from everyday life. They walk to the village butcher, waving to
neighbours through their windows or greeting them in their gardens as they
normally do, and when they get there, the butcher’s is well stocked. You walk the dog through the village to the
clifftop and then for miles in whichever direction you please, only passing
fewer people than usual. Many villagers don’t travel far, nor often but it’s rare to
see the Police in the village anyway so no-one expects to see officers here checking
where anyone is going. They’re
content occupying themselves in their homes, with their gardens, with a good
book, a game of cards or a jigsaw puzzle.
For many, it’s why they choose to live here.
My exercise today was with my parents’ dog across heathland,
alongside babbling brooks, through sharp ravines, over the cliffs and beside
the sea. We accidentally flushed snipe,
were followed by buzzards and ravens and spied upon by a peregrine; we
scattered the meadow pipits and rabbits and seals ducked under the waves as we
passed. There was a chilly breeze but
all the while, the sun shone gloriously.
We walked for ten happy miles and saw only four other people.
With the rest of the world in meltdown, this place ticks
along at a barely changed pace. I’ve
wondered what villages like this were like at other times of crisis – during
the war, for example. Did the war seem a
world away? It’s easier here, not
exactly to forget about the virus, the catastrophe it’s causing, the pressures
it’s bringing and the deaths, but to find peace in isolation in an
already-isolated and beautiful corner of the country. I’m lucky to find myself here.
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