We consult them on everything from the global economy to our personal habits. They are the absent father – perhaps with a capital F. All seeing, all knowing. Or the father who only visits every second Sunday, who could also, of course, have a capital F and be dressed accordingly.
Considering those of us who like to believe we are sane neither know nor believe that Martians actually exist, it’s mysterious that we have so much respect for their opinion of us.
So, assuming we are aware of a Martian perching on our shoulder, what would we hear whispered in our ear when we contemplate, singly but in fact in a pact (or a pack) with millions of other humans in Western cultures, the dream of leaving the city to migrate to the countryside?
It’s possible the Martians may have given up in boredom and gone elsewhere. Because very little thought seems to go into it. Especially in the minds of people planning their retirement.
It’s time to awaken the Martians.
The countryside needs young people, not more old people. Village schools need pupils, not more grandparent figures. Towns and villages need regeneration not degeneration. And the almost-old need a great deal more than they bargained for. At 65 they thought they were going to skateboard and cycle and climb hills for ever.
The Martian could have told them they’re going to need a GP, a hospital, a dentist, flat ground, decent pavements for their mobility scooters, shops they can walk to, preferably a cute cinema, a deli and someone who sells organic veges. They are going to need a podiatrist, a chiropodist, a physio,Tai Chi classes, a naturopath if they are smart, and at the literal end of the day, a decent care home.
So in the absence of the Martian, they spend 10 years or so in their picturesque village trying to fit in. They have made wonderful improvements to their homes, adding rooms for their children and grandchildren who they thought would visit. And who indeed did visit until they realised they really wanted to take the children to the seaside.
At 75 or 80, when the village shop has closed and the nearest shop is six miles away and at least one of them is a danger behind the wheel, the Martian revisits. Too late you may say. The village has benefitted from their engagement in the church, and fetes and the local council. But they have to move.
And they discover no one wants to buy houses in the country any more because there is no work. And those who do want houses, want holiday homes. The village doesn’t need people who want to spend weekends and Bank Holidays playing at being local.
When they put their lovely homes on the market the estate agent says “It will suit a retired couple or make a perfect holiday home,” and they know they have nailed down the lid on the coffin containing their idyllic village.
It wasn’t their intention.
Border Lines 