No room at the gastropub

It is at this time of year that Galilee is forced into our consciousness. And when it is it reminds me that the Biblical bit of land to the West of Israel that hosted the Nativity is not dissimilar to the Cotswolds. Both areas are composed of limestone hills with ample rainfall and scores of small streams, the whole supported by tourism, agriculture and a little light industry. Furthermore both places enjoy fishing (in Galilee the sardine is the preferred catch while in Gloucestershire it is the brown trout) and shooting (Katyusha rockets and Purdey shotguns respectively).

However despite these similarities there is one startling difference, the Christmas story would and could never have happened in the Cotswolds. Besides anything else, can you think of an inn that hasn’t had its stables converted into a dining extension or bijou residence?

But just suppose for a moment that Joseph, a carpenter (there aren’t many of those left in our gentrified villages), and his pregnant girlfriend Mary left their detached period hovel in Nazarus-on-the-Water and headed off to local town of Bethlehem-under-Wold. It would be a struggle to get there by footpath, as most are too narrow to cope with a donkey while others are poorly sign-posted or deliberately made difficult to traverse by wealthy landowners. The couple would in fact be best to go by tarmac road using the fashionable local conveyance – a shiny high-powered Mitsubishi pick-up truck.

At the metropolis of Bethlehem it would take some time to find the pub. The local NIMBYs will have objected to it being lit-up ‘like a Christmas tree’ at night. And anyway the young things would be mad to think that they could get a bed for the night. Firstly the odds are that the pub will be a ‘destination’ gastro-pub with no rooms and an over-priced menu designed to specifically exclude the hungry and weary poor. And secondly, if Joe and his partner Mary had forgotten to confirm their booking by email in the autumn there would be no chance of getting a room at the inn. Every Cotswold hostelry is choc-a-bloc during the festive season with metropolitan escapees who wish to spend the Yuletide holiday somewhere more conducive than a one-bedroom flat in Balham. Furthermore, the innkeeper would not dream of putting them in the stable, even if he still had a working one. Mine Host would not risk his business by allowing a couple of illegal immigrants to doss in his outhouse. Customs and Excise would have been informed before you could say ‘amen’. Social Services would have taken the new-born child away and burnt the unhygienic swaddling clothes. Health and Safety would note the dangers of a wooden manger and have reported the landlord to the fire safety officer for burning incense and the absence of fire doors. The Food Standard Agency would have rapped him over the knuckles for serving victuals in the same room as animals. The VAT man would have been suspicious about the Wise Men’s gold and you can be sure that a prudish member of the public would have complained about the noise from the rabble in the stable.

Furthermore the likelihood of a group of shepherds turning up to wish the young family well would be nil. Hobby farmers, not shepherds, now manage the few Cotswold sheep that are left grazing the hills. The soft-handed sods are not going to spend Christmas Eve hanging about a seedy stable block when they can enjoy champagne and canapes in their luxury farmhouse kitchens. And anyway, if the Angel Gabriel did by chance appear on one of their fashionable granite work surfaces to bring tidings of great joy, those tidings would come from Tesco’s online grocery and shopping delivery service.

The star in the East would not, I fear, be some astral sign flying high in the sky (unless it was an American bomber out of Fairford), but rather a host of glittering celebrities fleeing the capital – chased by flashing paparazzi – to spend Christmas in the Cotswolds. And the Wise Men that followed would be the well-established London bankers bearing gifts from Bond Street. And you can be confident that those moneymen would not be bringing expensive London presents for some local chav’s mewling urchin.
For in the fashionable Cotswolds, Joseph, Mary and Jesus would be seen as just another dysfunctional family of travellers. They would be ignored by most local residents who would be more interested in spotting Liz Hurley in Waitrose – at least she has made the cover of Hello – or eye-balling the Princess Royal at Cheltenham races.
In these hills, unlike those in Galilee, if you want to be worshipped you need sandals from Gucci, Frankinsence from Floris and a stable painted in Farrow & Ball.

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