I hope this finds you well. How are you these days, all right? I’m ok, I suppose. I’ve been better, but there we are. It’s been a while, hasn’t it? I know. When did this all start? Remind me, ten years ago? Something like that. We’ve met on a number of occasions, remember? And we really enjoyed it, you know. Everytime we went to visit you. And we kept you in our minds. How can one not fall in love with you, you old charmer. Maybe one day we thought, maybe. Nice people, we thought, the coast, the weather, those beautiful villages, countryside, the sea. Not too expensive. Not cheap either, but definitely worth the money. So we made plans, we added numbers and looked at prices. And we looked at towns and regions. And we came to visit you again. And we loved it.
But things have changed, you know. You know it.
Times have been tough for you. For decades. So far away from London. Pretty though, very pretty. But being pretty is not enough, when it comes down to facts. One of the poorest areas in Blighty. No jobs. Expensive to live though. Because of all those pesky home owners from London and elsewhere. It’s not easy to survive down in the South West.
But there is always the tourism. No more mining, fishing is getting tougher, but because you’re so pretty, the tourists are coming. They have their tinted glasses on, bless them, and they pay to see you pretty and innocent and happy. They don’t want to hear anything about child poverty and unemployment and deprived areas. That’s fair enough though, isn’t it?
But you’re not happy, are you. Oh no, you’re not.
So on June 23rd you voted out. You showed the rest of the world two fingers up. You told the politicians look, you can’t even look after your own, so why should we tolerate all those foreigners? We don’t and we won’t. Not anymore. Do something, Westminster. We want our country back. We want to take back control. No more fishing quotas for those nasty Europeans, up yours EU. You received a lot of money from the EU throughout the last decades though but all those clever politicains told you that nothing would change after we leave. Ever. Everything would be better. Promise!
But here’s the thing, Cornwall. Politicians are serial liars. You shouldn’t trust them. You should know that. And I fear that all will go downwhill from here. Which is sad, really. But it gets worse, you know. Because I don’t care. Not anymore. Because when you voted out, you told us not to come anymore. We are foreigners now. You don’t want us any more. Fine.
But why would you care? You have taken back control and that’s all that matters. Brilliant news. But you see, there is no such thing as a free lunch. Take us for example. We will take our retirement money and move somewhere else. Somewhere where we feel welcome and at home. And we won’t be the only ones, I promise you that. We will not go down to the harbour to buy some fresh fish, we won’t enjoy a meal at the local restaurant and we won’t buy our newspapers at he local shop. So what, you say, the house prices will finally fall and all foreign workers will dissappear. Britain for the British people. And that’s exactly what we wanted. We don’t need you.
Well, good luck with that Cornwall. Because Westminster never really cared about you, and that won’t change. Never ever. You’re just not important enough to them. Just a few thousand jobs in the fishing industry, that’s all. In the grand scheme of things? Sorry mate, just a drop in the ocean I fear. Excuse the pun.
But at least the tourists will come, which is good. They always come. Because they pay to see this marvellous county in the South West of England the way they want it to see. Without a care in the world. As long as the weather is nice and as long as the food tastes good and for as along as the ocean waves linger around those beautiful coasts of yours.
We wish you well, Cornwall. But your future is not ours anymore.