The consequence of the decline in agriculture is a social catastrophe

The consequence of the decline in agriculture is a social catastrophe. The death of the small farmer – whether he is tenant or owner – means the death of vibrant communities. And I’m talking community in a sense that many of us who live in cities have rarely experienced.All of this goes beyond sympathy for tenant farmers, to a belief in preserving social and cultural pluralism We are settling for a world made grey from homogenisation. Whether it is in food or popular culture or even politics, we have become addicted to glutinous pap. The small and the contrary are being pushed ever further onto the margins.Until now the crisis in rural Britain has been a matter not so much of concern, but rather profound aggravation to the average urbanite. These are the people who clogged the roads and threatened to bring the country to a standstill after all.

The farming voice has too often been heard as an elastic whine, going on with the same sad song.Foot-and-mouth may, however, serve a purpose, if it reminds us all of how inter connected we are; the urban/rural divide is not as absolute as either the farmers leaders or their enemies among the chattering classes have managed to portray. As the present crisis deepens, it is time we started giving farmers the benefit of the doubt.The writer is a BBC Special Correspondent. It is not a thought I often entertain but, looking speculatively around me at the state apartments of St James’s Palace last Wednesday evening, I wondered if it would be worth persuading any of my daughters to marry a prince It’s an impressive squat. The banisters are covered with red velvet, a furnishing touch I might well introduce to what our landlord refers to as the “common parts” in this unlovely block. It is not a thought I often entertain but, looking speculatively around me at the state apartments of St James’s Palace last Wednesday evening, I wondered if it would be worth persuading any of my daughters to marry a prince It’s an impressive squat.

The banisters are covered with red velvet, a furnishing touch I might well introduce to what our landlord refers to as the “common parts” in this unlovely block.
We’ve had our differences, he and I, about said parts. In the good old days when the parts were not merely common but dead common, we were allowed to leave our bicycles and prams in the hall downstairs and use the windowsills on the landings outside our front doors to store books and boots.Occupying as we do the attic floor, we have the additional facility of the iron fire-escape ladder to the roof, which made a useful washing line for smaller items of clothing, socks, tights, nappies etc Sheets and tablecloths I draped over the banisters. It didn’t matter if they dripped down the stairwell onto the lobby below because, like the stairs, the floor was concrete and rarely washed.Mr Clements, the bomber pilot who lived underneath us often congratulated me on this unorthodox but nonetheless efficient method of mopping. “His nibs should pay you (our landlord is a viscount) for keeping the place shipshape, ” Mr Clements would say when we met on the stairs “Come in and have a snifter.