INSTEAD of bringing people closer, the Covid-19 crisis is making some dream of escaping far from the madding crowd. Already in Italy there is talk of almost deserted hill towns in remote regions being recolonised by city evacuees. Unlike the trend in recent decades, the idea is not for Milanese or Neapolitans to invest in a holiday bolt hole, past whose shuttered windows tumbleweed will blow in the bleak winter months, but to relocate permanently.

Now that working from home could become a legal right in some countries, a culture shift which could set the dominoes tumbling in sequence across the West, panicked and traumatised Italians want to get out of urban hotspots. They are fixing their sights on inaccessible, often vertiginous and dilapidated settlements which modern life has by-passed. These are places scoured by wind and scorched by sun, where the commute to work takes a nanosecond between kitchen and study – or balcony – and masks need be worn only on carnival weekends.

After suffering a mortality rate almost as bad as our own, they yearn to change the way they work and live. The same is true here. Estate agents are reporting a surge of interest in family properties in more far-flung areas, with Inverness and the Shetland Isles topping the wish list. Close behind come Ullapool, Orkney, and the likes of Pitlochry and Fort William. Steady on, you might say, and yet who doesn’t sympathise with the urge to shake off the noise and grime of the over-populated central belt? And why should a wholesale shift towards the 21st century version of the Good Life be mocked, when its benefits are so obvious?

Putting aside the fact that Tom and Barbara were living in stockbroker belt suburbia, hence the comedy, many urbanites are feeling claustrophobic and anxious. Trapped in concrete corridors, uncomfortably close to strangers in the park or supermarket, and unfamiliar with neighbours, they are coming to think that high-density living is neither natural nor healthy.

But as eyes turn towards the boondocks, it’s worth pressing the pause button. Escaping contagion is not a long-term reason for fleeing. Nor, I suspect, is the countryside much safer, in terms of infection risk. If the idea of the pastoral idyll includes virtual self-isolation, then house buyers will be in for a surprise. Rural society depends upon community, even if it’s strung out across several miles, between farms whose lights are the only human contact on cloudy nights. If you’ve never spent a night in a cottage far from other habitation, you don’t yet understand the meaning of darkness. There is a velvet depth to the blackness that descends at dusk which can be almost suffocating. Noises of creatures in the undergrowth are unnerving, a vixen’s scream can give you palpitations, and the creaking of trees outside the window can sound more like an axe-murderer sharpening a blade than firewood in the making. A crow pecking on the chimney pipe becomes a burglar trying the back door.

Such areas are usually welcoming to incomers, who bring fresh life, ideas, and energy. Whether it’s a clachan, village, or small town, they will find they are part of something bigger than themselves. Out in the sticks, no-one is allowed to be an island. Mucking in, helping out, getting to know others is an integral part of the big move. If your default mode is loner, then a city is the best place for you. If not, you’ll soon find yourself with countless new friends.

Rosemary Goring's Country Life: finding distraction and delight, right outside the window

Island living represents the premier league of isolation, and brings its own pressures. Accessible only by sea, occasionally cut off for weeks at a time, it can, in my experience, be far more oppressive than inner-city life. But for some it is the answer to their desire for freedom. In her recent memoir of impulsively moving to a Hebridean outpost, Tamsin Calidas writes of suspicious islanders, who treated her an outsider. Her experience is salutary, showing that taking a leap in the dark is fraught with danger. Yet for all the problems she encountered, it turned out pretty well in the end.

As Calidas writes, “It is always during the notion of transit that your heart opens and all of your dreaming begins.” That’s the stage many hoping to relocate to the wilds have reached, and I remember it well. Taking steps to turn a pipe-dream into reality is invigorating. There can’t have been many more clueless, impractical house-hunters than us, when we started out, viewing near ruins fit only for bats, or so off the beaten track that sherpas would have been required to guide us to the nearest town.

A word of caution for any aspiring rustic who’s used to lounging around in T-shirts. Old houses are cold houses. For me, that has been the most significant challenge. They don’t make chests of drawers deep enough for jumpers as thick as mine and in such quantity. Country living also requires forethought, but since we’ve all been thinking ahead recently, with larders, and a weekly shop, and making sure the wifi is fast enough to keep us connected, that will be second nature by now. Weight gain is a potential worry, since the car becomes essential, especially in winter. But, in my case at least, this is offset by zero alcohol consumption when socialising beyond the village, thanks to the sobering cost of taxis.

The biggest difference between the built-up and bucolic is outlook. It takes more planning to live away from the centre of things, and more effort to keep up with friends, family, or culture. Shuttling off-spring between extra-curricular activities can turn parents into a ferry service. But one of the great boons of remoteness is space, both physical and mental. The pace of living is slower, yet no less productive, and arguably more. And the quality of silence is a revelation. You really can hear yourself think. At first, it can be unnerving. It’s not long, though, before trips to the city take on the aspect of an expedition or outing. Is it really necessary? You are probably no safer than in a city centre, but living near fields and woods offers security of another kind. You might even call it sanctuary.

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