For five years after leaving the metropolis for life in the country I basked in the knowledge that I was “the only Jew in the village”. But now another one has moved here and suddenly I feel I’ve lost my USP.
He’s called Stephen, he’s come here from one of those Jewish enclaves in north London that I tend to avoid (I’m east London, innit?) and he’s an accountant, though nowhere near as boring as that sounds. I thought about joining up with him to form some kind of support group where we could tell “in” jokes and argue about something inconsequential. We’ve settled for being in the same village hall WhatsApp group instead. There’s fewer Jewish jokes but just as much complaining.
At first, I wondered whether being Jewish would be a “thing”. Would it seem slightly exotic to the locals or would it see a mob wielding pitchforks set me alight in a giant Wicker Man…?
In 2019 my wife and I upped sticks to relocate to the, er, sticks. We sold the house in Loughton and bought a remote cottage on a Suffolk nature reserve. All my life up to then had been spent in areas with a Jewish community – Stepney, Ilford, Loughton – the strength of which gradually watered down with each eastward journey. My wife, Sue, who isn’t Jewish and has lived all over the place, constantly reminded me that I’d never lived outside a small radius of London and Essex and it was about time I tried it.
The kids had flown the nest, we could both work from home, and if we stuck to somewhere no more than a couple of hours away from London we could still see friends, get to the theatre, and I could still go to Spurs (OK, that’s not an advantage these days). We have big skies, we have nature – we have to keep deer out of the garden. People say hello. The pubs are welcoming, everyone has a dog.
What we don’t get we can cope with – a lack of public transport, shops within walking distance – while now our gas comes from a tank and our water from a hole in the ground (yes, really). There’s also no noise and no Palestinian flags (though there are a couple of Ukrainian ones, bless).
At first, I wondered whether being Jewish would be a “thing”. Would it seem slightly exotic to the locals or would it see a mob wielding pitchforks set me alight in a giant Wicker Man as I sang something suitably Jewish such as Don’t Rain On My Parade? Well, no. Truth is, no one could care less. Including Stephen. I’ve tried to slip in the odd reference to gauge a response such as referring to chicken soup on a menu as Jewish penicillin or just coming right out with “yeah, well, I’m Jewish” to spark some curiosity. It doesn’t.
Maybe that’s because most of the “locals” have retired here from the same places where I’ve lived – predominantly towns in Essex – as Suffolk is the next county up.
Not to be too socio-economically nerdy about this, but are we losing the need to stick together? Or is this an example of our nomadic streak, the kind that applies not just to Jews but to minority communities all over the UK? I’m not setting a precedent by breaking away, not even within my own family. Back at the turn of this century, my parents relocated and were “the only Jews” in a rural village in Wales called Llanddewi Brefi.
If the name seems familiar it is because it was used as the fictional setting in the Little Britain sketches about Daffyd Thomas, “the only gay in the village”. So they were the only Jews in a village now famous as the only-gay-in-the-village village.
For centuries, Jews have stuck together and to a large part we still do. But greater mobility, a shrinking population and better technology means some of us no longer find it necessary. There are still aspects of Jewishness out here, in particular the sense of community. It’s what gives you the feeling of “belonging”.
Stephen and I both do the whole joining-in thing, volunteering at village hall events running the bar, serving soup and puds for the old folk.
Stephen helps with the archives, I’ve volunteered with the local RSPB and am a member of the local moth-trapping group. Don’t worry, we let them go. There’s even a species of moth called the “Setaceous Hebrew Character”. I may use that as the title of my autobiography.
