How does stuff work when you live on a tiny rock in the Bristol Channel?

Nice day for it: the view from Lundy. Image: Jem Collins.

As I write these words, I could get an ice cream delivered to my door in less than 20 minutes. If I really did have an avocado crisis at 3am, I’m able to pop down to the 24 hour off licence five minutes from my house, I can get a bus to the other end of London at anytime of day or night, and if I really want to liven things up I can go to see a piece of a fatberg (though, to be fair, this is also available on livestream for some reason).

Cities are built for convenience – but even if you don’t live in one of the UK’s bigger hubs, you’re probably still used to a certain degree of comfort and accessibility. For the most part we know there will be water when we turn the tap on, electricity at the flick of a switch, and a friendly doctor who can sort us out if we do have an unfortunate accident with the aforementioned avocado.

But what about when you live on a rock that’s less than 2 miles squared, about 12 miles off the mainland? Little more than a decent-sized rock, with, according to the most recent census, a population of just 28?

Lundy in context. Image: Google Maps.

It’s a question I’ve always wondered about, as the rock in question, better known as Lundy Island, is pretty visible from my hometown in North Devon. On a clear day you can even make out the silhouette of the church. So, at the grand old age of 26, I went to find out.

“You’ve got to be a certain type of person, it’s quite isolated”

“You’ve got to be a certain type of person,” Phil tells me as our boat, the MS Oldenburg, pulls out of Bideford Quay. He’s the island’s electrician: first coming over to Lundy in the early 1990s to scuba dive, before starting work in 2002. He now spends some 20 weeks a year here. “It’s quite isolated, most people stay for two to three years. But for some it’s just a couple a couple of weeks.”

So why would people move on so quickly from an island so many people, and write ups, label as ‘magical’? The answer comes as Phil begins to explain the logistics of island life.

The boat.

I’d already known some things about Lundy – there’s no phone signal, the electricity generator is turned off at midnight, and there’s only one pub (which happily doles out £1 fines if you even try to sneak a look at your phone). But there were also other things I hadn’t thought of.  

All rubbish has to be taken off the island by boat, for example. There are essentially no on-island emergency services (though about 20 residents have received training from the coastguard and a helicopter can arrive in about 20 minutes). And there’s no such thing as going to the doctor or dentist, without visiting the mainland. “For us [going to the dentist] is just an hour off work,” Phill adds, “but for them it’s a whole day.”  

He’s interrupted by an announcement that we’re approaching Lundy. It also warns visitors that in order to preserve the “natural beauty” of the island, there are absolutely no warning signs near cliff edges, bogs or any other hazard. It’s clear normal rules just don’t apply here, and I haven’t even set foot on land yet.

“I’d never even heard of Lundy beforehand”

When I do, I’m confronted with yet another obstacle – a lack of transport. Bar a select few vehicles working on the island’s farm and a Land Rover masquerading as a fire truck, there are no cars on the island, let alone any form of public transport. Which can be a small inconvenience when you discover the harbour is right at the bottom of a hill.

The view from the top.

Civilisation, or a compact version at least, is found at the summit. There’s a newly restored church, a pub called The Marisco Tavern, and the island’s one and only shop. Overnight visitors to the island are asked to pre-order any food in advance, as the only way it gets there is the same way I did: by boat.

While perusing the shelves stacked with an excellent mix of storecupboard goods and Lundy Island puzzles, I overhear staff partaking in some good natured grumbling about a rather ambitious cheese order from a group set to arrive. It isn’t going to happen. The same goes for any Amazon orders: Prime does not work its magic here.

 

The shop.

That’s not to say island life doesn't have its attractions though. Kerry, the Welshman often found manning the shop counter, has been here for 10 years. Fiona, who came after seeing a job advert in the paper, has chalked up the best part of a decade, and Ash on the bar has been here for more than a year – despite having “never even heard of it beforehand”.

“Just days like today, with the mist, it’s incredible”

I’d be lying if I said the place didn’t have an addictive charm about it. Highland cows and deer wander freely across the moors, there’s a lighthouse with deckchairs at the top where you can watch the sunrise, and on a clear night you can see so many stars it’s impossible not to get lost in the sky.

 

Some locals.

Even on more practical level there are plenty of reasons to hunker down. Long term residents pay no rent, council tax, electricity, or water bills, as the whole island is owned by the National Trust – though it’s worth noting you can’t actually drink the water without boiling it due to a problem with the filtering system. There’s also a type of cabbage which you can only get on the island, but I’m not sure that’s much of an advantage.

There’s no denying that society is fundamentally different here. Whether it’s getting water out of the tap or satisfying a midnight craving for ice cream, everything is a little more complicated. Not out of reach per say, but it’s a case of taking the long way round.


But what Lundy lacks in ease, it more than makes up for in community. Walking around the island I see keys left in the ignitions of buggies, overhear conversations about lock-ins, and feel an overwhelming sense of ease and freedom. Coupled with a lack of any electronic-based communication, it’s like you’ve stumbled through a time warp to a different time.

“It’s just about days like today,” Fiona tells me, “With the mist, it’s incredible.” And then there’s her pet sheep Domino, born with a spot on his forehead. “I don’t want to go anywhere while he’s still here” she adds. “Even though he has got his bits cut off. He’s a bit useless,” she muses. Perhaps we’re not back in the 1950s after all.

Jem Collins is a digital journalist and editor who has write primarily on human rights, rural stories and careers. She also runs Journo Resources, a non-profit which aims to help people into the journalism industry. She tweets @Jem_Collins.

Images courtesy of the author.

 
 
 
 

Uber has introduced a levy to fund electric vehicles in London. But who exactly is benefiting?

Bleurgh. Image: Getty.

Uber is introducing a levy of 15p per mile on London users to help fund a transition to electric vehicles and help tackle air pollution. Its goal is to encourage half its drivers to go electric by 2021 and to go fully electric by 2025.

There are a number of benefits to the idea. Moving to cleaner transportation is an important public good with a myriad of general health benefits. It should be an urgent priority for all UK cities. But the question of who pays for this transition is fundamental to whether it is done fairly. As a process, change needs be done in partnership with people, not to them.

So who is actually being asked to foot the bill for this much needed transition? Fresh analysis by the New Economics Foundation shows that while the PR benefits are likely to accrue to Uber, its consumers and drivers will foot the bill in its entirety, while also taking on much of the risk.

Uber estimate that drivers will be eligible for £4,500 in funds to purchase a new electric vehicle after three years of service – the maximum period of time for which drivers can accrue credit. By comparison, the cost of a cheap second-hand electric car meeting Uber’s requirements for UberX costs in excess of £12,000, while a second hand vehicle suitable for UberLux would set drivers back around £45,000.

For those drivers receiving around £4,500, this would still imply the need to contribute thousands of pounds, if not tens of thousands, in personal funds. Even after allowing for a fall in prices for electric vehicles, drivers are being asked to make a minimum contribution of between 55 per cent and 85 per cent towards the total cost of electrification. The remainder of the cost will be met indirectly by consumers – either in the form of higher charges or else being priced out Uber’s services altogether.


Where drivers don’t have access to this sort of cash, the expectation will be that they borrow – which means taking on the risk of debt repayments while earning close to minimum wage. Being able to keep the 15p levy once driving an electric vehicle is unlikely to cover the cost of new interest payments. But failure to use the scheme at all could mean unemployment after 2025.

While drivers are forced into arrears to consolidate their jobs, Uber may also find itself with a considerable surplus from the scheme, as a result of drivers leaving the platform early or choosing not to apply for the grant. Uber has suggested that any surplus will be reinvested into supporting facilities, such as charge points for electric cars. But this means that the cost of moving to green infrastructure is coming at the expense of extra private debt for drivers (which could otherwise have been funded out of the levy). Such a trade-off is simply incompatible with a green transition that is morally just.

The shift in strategy from Uber towards more renewable transport technology is clearly welcome on environmental grounds. Doing so solely at the expense of consumers drivers is not. For any transition to be fair, Uber needs to meet its share of the costs.

Duncan McCann is a Researcher at the New Economics Foundation. He tweets @DuncanEMcCann. You can find NEF’s work on transport here.