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.

 
 
 
 

Do “the creative industries” really matter for city economies?

That bloody elephant in Nantes again. Image: Getty.

Creative industries have long held a special place in economic development. But recent discussions that I’ve been party to in relation to the industrial strategy have underlined to me how confused the thinking on the creative industries is. Here are three areas where this is particularly apparent.

The definition of the creative industries itself is a source of confusion. According to DCMS, it is a combination of nine different industries ranging from architecture to fashion design, and including crafts, libraries and museums in between. This creates confusion on two counts.

The first is the mixing of highly productive industries like computer programming with much less productive activities like artistic performance. One sells to international markets, while the other is much more likely to rely on public subsidy to make ends meet. For a policymaker concerned about increasing productivity, one is much more relevant than the other.

The second is the mixing of industries (e.g. architecture, computer programming) with employment in cultural amenities, such as museums. By grouping cultural amenities in with businesses, we very quickly get into boosterist language about the supposed economic impact of such institutions in order to justify their grouping with the industries.

This is positively encouraged by the government, which requests that bids for things like City of Culture status set out the economic impact they will have. So in order to get funding, bidding bodies need to play the game. The result? We get grand proclamations on the economic impact of a City of Culture programme, no doubt sourced from the pages of a report written by a handsomely-paid consultant (the same is true of lower productivity industries in the definition too).

But this sadly distorts objectives and unfairly expects cultural institutions or activities to do something that they just aren’t able to deliver. Investment in a library is not done for any direct economic benefit, while investment in a museum should not be expected to bring about culture-led regeneration. Yet all these things are all too regularly confused, with April’s House of Lords report on seaside towns being the latest example.


Crucially, playing on these terms means that this is an argument that advocates of culture, in particular, are likely to lose. There’s no way we should expect libraries, crafts or museums to be making a direct contribution to improving the UK’s productivity. The data shows that not only do these activities have below average productivity, it’s actually lower today than in 1990 (as we should expect). And yet strangely exactly these arguments are being made about activities that are simultaneously reliant on public sector subsidy to make ends meet.

Losing this argument is a shame because cultural investment is important – it is likely to have impacts on things like civic pride and it exposes people to new ideas and experiences, for example. These are worthy aims that all policymakers should be attempting to achieve. But we should be clear about the reasons that we are making such investment, and be reasonable regarding the impacts we expect it to achieve. In terms of the industrial strategy, increasing productivity is not one of them.

A final source of confusion is the conflation of creative industries and creativity.

In response to the critiques above, the conversation usually then segues into the importance of creativity in the economy. This is exactly right. Creativity and new ideas are what drive innovation, which in turn drives long-run productivity growth. And policy should look to support this.

But let’s be clear. Despite being similar in name, the creative industries have no exclusivity over creativity. And it is not clear that supporting these specific industries through a sector deal, for example, improves the creative capacity of a local or national economy. Instead, improving education across the country would seem like a much more direct way to do so.

I don’t say this to be unkind or because I have any particular issue with the creative industries; although I’m sure there are many that will take umbrage with the above. I instead say this in the hope that we can bring clarity to what it is that we’re trying to achieve with different policy interventions – be that productivity, cultural engagement or civic pride. Because if we don’t have this clarity of thought, we’re all just going to end up disappointed when our expectations don’t get met.

You can hear more on this topic on our latest podcast.

Paul Swinney is head of policy & research at the Centre for Cities, on whose blog this article first appeared.