How Wales’ nature-led smallholdings came of age during the COVID-19 crisis and point to a new way of living in a planet under threat
It’s a few weeks into lockdown. Over a patchy Skype call, I watch as Matthew Watkinson trudges up the slopes of his off-the-grid property in Pembrokeshire, West Wales.
On most days, the windswept hillside above Newport Beach feels wild and rugged – a sea of green hues punctuated by craggy ridges. At this time, while city dwellers remain cooped up in cul-de-sacs and apartment blocks, it appears like a Celtic Shangri-La.
“We didn’t really trust the rest of the world to look after us properly,” Matthew says about why he and his family left their suburban home in Essex for Pembrokeshire. “We weren’t really predicting a viral pandemic like this, but we were concerned.”
The 2008 financial crisis was a wake-up call. He and his wife were worried about species decline and climate change. But they felt further unease as the global economy faltered.
“I’m not really a prepping, conspiracy theorist type person, but mainstream science was telling us there’s a big problem environmentally,” he says. “It just struck me that I didn’t want to be that reliant on all these massive corporations when there’s a different way.”
Today, his mostly timber home – built from a recycled horse lorry – a camper van and two flat bed trailers, blend into the landscape. But, amid the fern and gorse, the family of four have enough resources to satisfy their basic requirements.
Solar panels, a wind turbine, firewood and a biogas digestor provide their energy. A spring supplies them with fresh water, and honey and egg sales generate income. Within a few years, the land should also provide most of their food.
“I don’t think we could have done a better job of making sure the family was in the best position for something like this,” Matthew says, referring to the COVID-19 pandemic and looming UK recession, likely to be the worst for 300 years.
“We don’t have a mortgage, we don’t have utility bills, so we’re not worrying about electricity or water or losing our house through repossession or anything like that. We’re not totally separate from society… but we’re more insulated than most.”
The Green Deal
While this might seem like an exercise in individualism, Matthew’s living situation in fact stems from a radical Welsh planning policy, which set a new precedent for rural existence.
His property is a One Planet Development (OPD), a subsistence-based smallholding built in open countryside. In total, there are 42 dotted throughout Wales. But this planning status comes with conditions.
A household’s ecological footprint must be a fraction of what most produce. Its occupants must also meet 65% of their minimum needs after five years – taking account of food, water, energy and waste. Additionally, their premises must be carbon neutral and allow for an on-site business.
“If people were going to have access to purchase land at agricultural prices in the countryside, they had to give back big time in terms of their stewardship functions of that land,” says Dr Jane Davidson, the ex-Welsh Minister responsible for the policy.
OPDs sprang from ‘One Wales: One Planet’, a sustainable development scheme launched in 2009. This tied factors such as national prosperity and public health to citizens living within their ‘environmental limits’ and later inspired Wales’ landmark Well-Being of Future Generations Act.
“For me, this was about a different form of governance,” Jane explains. “Environmentalism, [viewed] by traditional economists, is seen as preventive and stopping actions. I don’t see this at all in that way. For me, it’s about… changing to new actions.”
This nature-led approach sits at odds with Boris Johnson’s ‘Build Back Greener‘ policy to boost economic growth after the pandemic. Groups such as Greenpeace and the National Trust say that the Prime Minister’s proposal for re-launching the economy in this way is ineffective and poses risks to wildlife habitats. Action group Plan B has gone a step further, taking legal action against the recovery measures, which they say will contribute to a “climate breakdown”.
But, by allowing people to live on agricultural land, covering three-quarters of Wales, the OPD concept wasn’t without controversy.
“It flew in the face of conventional planning wisdom – ever since the Second World War and the attempt to preserve greenbelt around cities,” says David Thorpe, a writer and journalist.
His book, One Planet Life, argues that mass job creation, food security and the replenishment of soils would result from “recolonising the countryside” with labour-intensive OPD farms. But he also suggests small settlements, and even cities, could adopt their principles.
“There’s two different kinds of community,” he says. “One is a cluster of houses, where they’re all still responsible for their own management plan and they live fairly separate lives… [another], where it’s a genuine village, where a lot of the services are combined.”
A New Way of Living
Tucked away amid Pembrokeshire’s Preseli Hills, Lammas ecovillage shows how this could work in practice.
The community formed in 2009, obtaining permission to do so under a council-led initiative.
“In a sense, we were a continuation of the low-impact development movement that has been evolving in this country for decades and decades,” says Tao Wimbush, a founder of the village. “But we were pioneers in that… instead of acting outside the planning system, we were attempting to create a niche and operate within it.”
Back then, he believed self-sustaining communities were essential for the future of human existence. Today, he sees this as beyond doubt.
“On one level, it’s just a kind of game – patience and waiting,” Tao says. “The current social, political status quo has to transform. And it can either choose to embrace that transformation or it will be forced upon it. Why? Because the ecology will require it.”
Lammas began as a collaborative enterprise, whereby stakeholders made joint decisions about community needs. Over the years, this system evolved. Today, families tend plots for their own requirements.
Like on most OPDs, Tao cultivates indigenous crops that flourish without the need for fertilisers. Proponents say that this model, known as permaculture farming, yields up to five times the produce of industrial practices, while increasing biodiversity. But volatile weather remains a challenge.
“It’s a constant dance,” Tao says about working in this way. “Last year we had ‘the beast from the east’, which brought in some really heavy frosts in late March, beginning of April. That had a knock-on effect right through the growing season.”
Tao doesn’t just rely on plant-based protein, however. From his window, he motions to a “wether”, a castrated male goat, in a nearby paddock. “It’s walking around at the moment,” he says, “[but] I’m just waiting for the right time to kill him and chop him up.”
For city-slickers, bred on a diet of cellophane-wrapped meat, this may sound alien. But Tao insists that OPD life isn’t about disavowing society altogether.
“Most of us do a bit of part-time work in the mainstream… whether it’s nursing, a bit of mechanics, a bit of planning consultancy,” he says. “We drive vehicles. We use a bit of fossil fuel. But by and large… our lifestyles are balanced, and in a way, that’s what the planning policy does.”
Veggie Experts
On the border of Caerphilly and Cardiff, close to the capital’s smartest suburb, lies Dan and Sarah Moody’s OPD.
As teens, they felt inspired by John Seymour’s Complete Book of Self-Sufficiency, a bible for those wanting to live off-the-grid.
“We just used to browse it and kind of dream of maybe… having a little smallholding of five acres, and having sheep and chickens, and growing vegetables,” Sarah says.
