Second homes: they do more damage than you realise

It’s hard to have a healthy community when locals can’t afford to live there anymore.

I like Oxfordshire - I like it very much. Other than my time at University, I’ve never lived anywhere else, but that’s never really bothered me. Despite the constant presence of David Cameron’s oddly soft looking face (he’s my MP you see, and he never pisses off), the Cotswolds are a fairly lovely place to be. The Hazell line that led to my existence has lived in the same chunk of West Oxfordshire for over three hundred years; it may not mean much in the grand scheme of things, but I do get to indulge in that mildly pretentious sense of rootedness that seems to be elusive for so many.

Obviously I’m not the only one who appreciates the appeal of thatched cottages and winding country lanes; an increasing number of well-off Londoners have warmed to the idea of a country retreat. Why faff about with renting holiday cottages when you can just buy your own? A lovely slice of pastoral bliss, reserved just for you.

An attractive prospect, I’m sure, but it results in what were once homes becoming vacant buildings. The owners contribute nothing to the local area; they spend a weekend enjoying the scenery before popping back off to London to earn some more money. The villages can often feel dead - it’s hard to have a healthy community when locals can’t afford to live there anymore. It’s becoming increasingly common too. The last census found that 165,000 people own a holiday home, 23,000 in Cornwall alone. Within the area of Richmondshire in North Yorkshire almost one-tenth of all properties were listed as second homes.

I don’t want to appear like a pitchfork-clasping yokel, muttering about outsiders - I’ve no problem with anyone integrating themselves wherever they may please. The source of my irritation is the attitude that Britain’s rural landscapes are just conveniently pretty backdrops to be gazed at admiringly, as if they are pre-prepared theme-parks.

The countryside does not exist to look nice for bankers and PR executives - it’s not a cute recreation of Frodo Baggins’s Shire, waiting patiently to be photographed. The countryside has been, and still is, home for communities with their own way of life. For rural Britain to become an empty vista of holiday homes would be a tragedy, one that would negatively affect us all.

Many of the features which holiday home owners find so endearing and quaint face uncertain futures if there’s nobody there to use them. The strain is already taking its toll. In the past year alone one-third of villages have seen a pub or shop close, and once these services are gone, it’s depressingly difficult to establish them again.

One of my favourite books is Lifting the Latch, the memoirs of Montague Abbott (1902–1989), a carter and shepherd who lived his entire life in the small village of Enstone, the same place that my Granddad was born. The book is written in a way that displays Mont’s old Oxfordshire accent, and paints a vivid picture of life as an agricultural worker experiencing the last days of ‘old England’ – the physical toil, the humbleness of personal aspiration, the closeness of the community.

It was a world where the hardness of everyday life required the constant presence of community, people rarely roamed far from the village, and so the place buzzed with activity. It was a hard life, but it was not without its rewards. In the closing pages of the book Mont reflects:

I’ve scratched old England on the back and her’s given me wealth untold. . . Our Enstone, our Oxfordsheer, this England take a lot of beating. ‘Blessed is the man that stoppeth where he be.

I am incredibly grateful that my world stretches infinitely further than Old Mont’s, but it still feels strange to walk through Enstone and barely see a soul. Surely it’s possible to make the transition into a service economy and still retain the essence of the community that used to thrive there? Many rural communities still do, but Enstone certainly feels like a lesser place than it once was. People seem less inclined to ‘scratch old England on the back’ and more disposed to park their sports car on it instead.

I asked the Campaign to Protect Rural England about the problem of overly concentrated second homes. They told me:

We very much support local authorities using the tools available to them, including the ability to charge up to 100 per cent Council Tax on second homes, to try and achieve the right balance in their areas.

Changes to the tax system would definitely be a positive shift, and there are already signs that the government is listening. It was recently announced that the Government’s ‘Help to Buy’ scheme would not include second homes, and the Cornish local authorities have voted to scrap a 10 per cent tax break on the council tax second home owners pay. 

Tax law, however, is not the source of the problem - we live in a society where we believe that we are entitled to ‘have it all’. We are taught that if you can afford it, then you possess the right to anything and everything.

A juicy pay packet does not remove one’s responsibility to wider society. The way we live our lives will always affect those around us. So please, assorted rich people, start viewing the countryside as more than just a pretty place to relax – you’re doing more damage than you know.

 

A view down the high street of Burford in the Cotswolds. Photo: Getty
Getty
Show Hide image

A swimming pool and a bleeding toe put my medical competency in doubt

Doctors are used to contending with Google. Sometimes the search engine wins. 

The brutal heatwave affecting southern Europe this summer has become known among locals as “Lucifer”. Having just returned from Italy, I fully understand the nickname. An early excursion caused the beginnings of sunstroke, so we abandoned plans to explore the cultural heritage of the Amalfi region and strayed no further than five metres from the hotel pool for the rest of the week.

The children were delighted, particularly my 12-year-old stepdaughter, Gracie, who proceeded to spend hours at a time playing in the water. Towelling herself after one long session, she noticed something odd.

“What’s happened there?” she asked, holding her foot aloft in front of my face.

I inspected the proffered appendage: on the underside of her big toe was an oblong area of glistening red flesh that looked like a chunk of raw steak.

“Did you injure it?”

She shook her head. “It doesn’t hurt at all.”

I shrugged and said she must have grazed it. She wasn’t convinced, pointing out that she would remember if she had done that. She has great faith in plasters, though, and once it was dressed she forgot all about it. I dismissed it, too, assuming it was one of those things.

By the end of the next day, the pulp on the underside of all of her toes looked the same. As the doctor in the family, I felt under some pressure to come up with an explanation. I made up something about burns from the hot paving slabs around the pool. Gracie didn’t say as much, but her look suggested a dawning scepticism over my claims to hold a medical degree.

The next day, Gracie and her new-found holiday playmate, Eve, abruptly terminated a marathon piggy-in-the-middle session in the pool with Eve’s dad. “Our feet are bleeding,” they announced, somewhat incredulously. Sure enough, bright-red blood was flowing, apparently painlessly, from the bottoms of their big toes.

Doctors are used to contending with Google. Often, what patients discover on the internet causes them undue alarm, and our role is to provide context and reassurance. But not infrequently, people come across information that outstrips our knowledge. On my return from our room with fresh supplies of plasters, my wife looked up from her sun lounger with an air of quiet amusement.

“It’s called ‘pool toe’,” she said, handing me her iPhone. The page she had tracked down described the girls’ situation exactly: friction burns, most commonly seen in children, caused by repetitive hopping about on the abrasive floors of swimming pools. Doctors practising in hot countries must see it all the time. I doubt it presents often to British GPs.

I remained puzzled about the lack of pain. The injuries looked bad, but neither Gracie nor Eve was particularly bothered. Here the internet drew a blank, but I suspect it has to do with the “pruning” of our skin that we’re all familiar with after a soak in the bath. This only occurs over the pulps of our fingers and toes. It was once thought to be caused by water diffusing into skin cells, making them swell, but the truth is far more fascinating.

The wrinkling is an active process, triggered by immersion, in which the blood supply to the pulp regions is switched off, causing the skin there to shrink and pucker. This creates the biological equivalent of tyre treads on our fingers and toes and markedly improves our grip – of great evolutionary advantage when grasping slippery fish in a river, or if trying to maintain balance on slick wet rocks.

The flip side of this is much greater friction, leading to abrasion of the skin through repeated micro-trauma. And the lack of blood flow causes nerves to shut down, depriving us of the pain that would otherwise alert us to the ongoing tissue damage. An adaptation that helped our ancestors hunt in rivers proves considerably less use on a modern summer holiday.

I may not have seen much of the local heritage, but the trip to Italy taught me something new all the same. 

This article first appeared in the 17 August 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Trump goes nuclear