Life on the edge of the known universe has its ups and downs

By Ron Ferguson

Published:

IT’S not so long ago that Aberdeenshire was picked out as having the best quality of life among rural local-authority areas. Performance in the nine rural local-authority areas throughout Scotland was scored across a range of indicators which influence the quality of life. These variables included employment, earnings, housing quality, weather, carbon emissions, crime, education performance and health.

The survey reported that residents of Aberdeenshire were not just the healthiest, they also had the highest life-expectancy rate of 77 years for newborns.

Martin Ellis, chief economist at Bank of Scotland, which carried out the survey, said: “People living in Aberdeenshire have the best quality of life in Scotland's rural areas. They tend to be healthy, live in larger-than-average houses and have relatively high earnings. However, living in Aberdeenshire comes at a price, with house prices £48,228 above the average for Scotland.”

Other studies, however, show that living in rural areas can literally drive people mad.

A joint study by academics at Glasgow and Dundee universities destroys the popular belief that the countryside offers the perfect antidote to fast and furious city life. Townsfolk who move to the countryside to escape the strains of city living can end up more miserable than before.

Professor Chris Philo, one of the study's authors, said many people were persuaded to move permanently to places such as the Highlands after spending restful holidays there. However, he said the research showed the remoteness and isolation could exacerbate stress levels and increase the likelihood of people developing mental health problems, including depression.

Dr Alistair Hay, a consultant psychiatrist based at Newcraigs Hospital in Inverness, agreed. He said: “People are under the misapprehension that after being on a summer holiday to somewhere such as Skye, where they forgot about their stress and problems, they can move there full time and all their worries will go away. Instead, they find out that their stress levels rise and their original problems return and get worse because they are socially isolated.”

Of course I, as a resident of Orkney, am exempt from this tendency to madness. True, I have, from time to time, received letters from Press and Journal readers suggesting community care might be appropriate. Some have gone as far as to describe me as “completely bonkers”, but these observations are affectionate rather than clinical, don’t you think? No?

The point of the report, however, is a serious one. People do retreat to remote areas to escape the pressures of urban life. During Orkney’s best summers, many visitors talk about how much they would like to live here. The spring weather so far this year has had many delights, and Orkney does feel like the Garden of Eden when the sun in shining.

But when the breezes become less than balmy, do the incomers become barmy? Some undoubtedly do. Many “ferryloupers” move to Orkney – accompanied by great hopes and a single goat – after having visited the northern isles on a stunning summer’s day. Some will have sold their city home for good money and bought a place in rural Orkney, having viewed the croft only on the internet. Now that is evidence of madness.

Then comes the winter. Now, I actually enjoy winter here – most of the time – but it’s definitely character-building stuff. You soon find out why so many farm buildings are anchored to the ground. We’re talking serious wind here. There are days when people weighing less than 15 stone don’t leave the house in case they end up in Bergen.

While it is wonderful to witness the awesome power of nature, sailing across the Pentland Firth in a force eight is not for the fainthearted.

The first couple of times we came here as a family on a summer holiday, we were sick. One theologian observed that the only reason Noah endured the stench on the ark was because he saw the size of the waves outside. The adversity bonded us. One could say that the family that bokes together yokes together.

Yes, the island or rural summer idyll looks different in the winter. The darkness of the days takes its toll. SAD – Seasonal affective disorder – can make people depressed, and some of those who succumb to the condition titled Morbidis Orcadiensis are people who sought the good life and got more than they bargained for.

Moving to an island or a remote rural area to get away from stress may seem appealing while sitting nose-to-tail in traffic on the M8, but it is not for everybody. Rural life has its own stresses, and it is romanticism to think otherwise. After a while in relative isolation, the stress-filled city can suddenly seem very alluring once more.

Fleeing to the isles as a way of dealing with personal problems is not a wise move. Island life puts pressure on people, and the self you tried to escape from in the crowded, urban community will be there to meet you, round the first corner in the country.

Alcoholics know well the illusory nature of the “geographical cure” – the notion that if only you can move to somewhere else, your problems will disappear. The sad traffic of older, wiser people, with goat, back south, gives the lie to that notion.

I don’t wish to exaggerate all this, though. Life on the edge of the known universe has many, many compensations and attractions. Having lived in towns and cities for a good part of my life, I wouldn’t exchange the electronic croft in Orkney for a mansion in the central belt.

I enjoy going back to mainland Scotland now and again, especially to see family and dear friends. I like the buzz of the city, and journalism and broadcasting take me down. And the football, which I miss. But I always want to go back home to Orkney. After crossing the Pentland Firth, I always inhale the fresh air deep into my lungs, before heading for the deepest Orkney countryside. And I will be glad. And probably just a little mad.