Name me a village where a Nobel prize was won

brooklyn-nyc-4ea28a2f“Some cynic said to me, name me a village where a Nobel prize was won.” I heard Professor Ricky Burdett of the LSE’s Cities Institute say this on an excellent piece of radio on London’s development the other day and it got me thinking about the city and the countryside.

The city – as a major, heavily populated and diverse conurbation – is routinely lionised as the place for creativity, innovation, revolution. Yes, there are major problems to deal with – slums, overcrowding, pollution etc – but, the argument goes, cities are a melting pot for the creation of new ideas.

This praise for the city tends to go hand in hand with criticism of the countryside, often as conservative and backward looking, as Burrett’s Nobel prize comment implies.

Cities are of course wonderful  for all the reasons cited, but at the same time the countryside needs defending. I don’t know if any Nobel prizes have been won by villagers, but that’s beside the point. (Nobel prizes are won by individuals often  in universities who may or may not live in city itself.)  There are other goods that come from people living in rural areas:

It offers vital space for reflection. Cities are places of investment and innovation, they are places where things are made to happen. The countryside offers time for thought and reflection. Frederic Gros’s book, The Philosophy of Walking, shows how thinkers like Nietzsche, Thoreau and Rousseau used the time and space of walking in the wild to think deeply.

 It is less consumerist. The city is awash with commerce – fast paced living where acquisition and new experiences are endlessly consumed. So many of these, from the latest purchase to meals out, are transitory experiences. What Karl Marx said of capitalism is most accurate of all in its depiction of the city: ‘All that is solid melts into air.’ Much of life in the countryside is different: slower, with less intense but perhaps deeper experiences llike walking, gardening, being home, and so on.

It’s home to experiments in different ways of living and organising.  With such overcrowding and inequality, it is said – by David Harvey In Rebel Cities and Mike Davies in Planet of Slums among others – that the city is likely to be the site of resistance and revolution.  But at the same time, rural areas have often been places for new movements to emerge too. To name a few: the low ;impact living movement is a network of people trying to live off the land and off grid. ‘back to the landers’ in the ’60s and ’70s were aiming for self-sufficiency as an alternative to capitalist development; the landless peasants movement in Latin America, the Zapatistas in Mexico, and the network of self governing villages in Southern Spain at the time of the Spanish Civil War.

 It tends to create tighter bonds of community. A big area of discussion for city builders is how to create a sense of community in large and often transitory city neighbourhoods.  In the countryside, by contrast, communities are often well established and connections between individuals are strong because they are so frequent: through schools, social activities, work, travel, meeting regularly, people see one another so regularly in different contexts that multiple tight bonds develop easily and quickly.

None of this is to say that the countryside is better than the city or that it doesn’t have its problems. Just as the city as its good and bads, rural areas do too. But it is to say that the countryside can offer, among other things, non-consumerist spaces for reflection and experimentation – and for that reason we shouldn’t just talk about cities as the places for progressive ways of life.


The reality of jobs and growth – a view from a bike


Yesterday I spent my lunch break on a bit of a cycle around the border of Manchester city centre and Salford. I didn’t see anything special, or remarkable, but learnt a lot, I think, about the economy, jobs, work and growth in Manchester’s apparently booming economy.

Building work and infrastructure development were everywhere in the centre of Manchester, it was hard to move; the cars were snarled up and people were busily hurrying between work and shops.

The inner suburbs of Salford, down Liverpool Road into Pendleton, were different: shops few and far between, the building projects were on freeze, people were on the streets, but just walking, or in groups talking, hanging out, not rushing around.

Pendleton precinct was busier, apparently overflowing with supermarkets – Aldi, Lidl and a Tesco Extra, all in one small space, competing on price for the same customers. Very different from fifteen years ago when I lived here, with just one small Tesco available to people without transport.

The Salford University strip was all-but abandoned in the summer, save for lone international students; and the old performing arts building that previously brought music (mostly a crash of drums) to a corner of Lower Broughton has now closed, moved to a state-of-the-art facility at Salford Quays.

Greater Manchester, apparently, is the only city in the UK that grew its economy as much as London in the decade before the recession. But a short ride like this, around the Manchester – Salford border, tell us more than growth figures can.

It’s not just the startling difference between the glass high rises of the centre and the concrete high rises of Pendleton. Or the difference between the busy workers of the city centre and the slower pace of the Salford streets.

It’s more than this: in the heart of city, in this shiny model of regeneration and growth, the faces of people hurrying to and from work, nipping out for a sandwich, off to the shops of a lunch break, tell all: Manchester is not a city of high powered jobs and executive lunches groaning under the weight of economic growth; it’s one of mundane office work and plastic sandwiches. Some might be enjoying the spoils, but for most Manchester’s is a service sector economy where growth has little meaning for the people with the jobs, let alone for those without.


I must admit, the snow makes a lot of places very attractive, and central London is one of them.

 What I love about snow in major cities is that it slows them down, everybody travels slowly, people don’t go to work or leave early, people stay at home rather than go shopping. they become different places, less about speed and consumption.