|
BY JOHN MORRISON
from Milltown: An Unreliable History At dinner parties during the Eighties, yuppies bragged smugly about how much their houses had risen in value between the sweet course and the After Eight mints. During the Nineties, in a neat reversal, Milltown folk were more likely to boast about how little they d paid for their houses when they first came here. Anyone who paid less than a fiver for his gaff got a look of ill-disguised envy - and maybe a nod of grudging admiration - from more recent arrivals. Recalling being presented with a set of house-keys by a tearful householder on his way out of town for the very last time, some folk insisted they got their homes for nothing at all. But, of course, people were liable to say anything after a few joints and half a bottle of duty-free ouzo. Things have changed again. In a way that would have seemed unimaginable in the early Seventies, house prices have risen at a rate that would have made the millhands shake their heads in disbelief. Terraces of top and bottom houses , once earmarked for demolition, have been transformed from squatters crash-pads into the compact and bijou homes whose photographs fill the window display of Roofe Leakes, the town s foremost estate agents. Yes, Milltown is the place to live these days, folks, as long as you can afford it. People looking for a cheaper lifestyle have to move to other towns in the valley - a few miles and about forty years away - and are seldom seen or heard of again. The rise in house prices has created its own momentum. Buildings that once seemed surplus to requirements - just waiting for a strong breeze to blow them down - are now being wreathed in scaffolding. Milltown has proved to be such an agreeable place to live that no patch of land is safe from the developers. Guys in smart suits are strolling round Milltown like they own the place. They run the rule over parks and playgrounds and millponds: anywhere they could squeeze in another small yet exclusive development of executive homes. The modus operandi is depressingly familiar. Step one: bulldoze an area of ancient woodland and kill every living thing. Step two: build shoddy detached houses of no architectural merit whatsoever, and build them so close together that fat dogs, skinny kids and footballs can get stuck in the gaps between them. Step three: in a display of jaw-dropping cynicism, name the roads after all the trees that had to be cut down to create the estate. So look out for Beech Walk, Sycamore Close and Hawthorn Way; there ll be nothing as common as a Street or a Road . Step four: create a tiny wildlife pond , to mollify the tree-huggers, in compensation for all the wildlife that was lost to the bulldozers. Step five: Sell the houses to upwardly mobile folk who are jaded by city life. Step six: Bank the cheques. Job s a good un. Houses are now worth more than pubs. If your local boozer has a couple of lean weeks, the next time you go for a pint there ll be some bloody family living there. And they won t take kindly to you standing where the bar used to be and ordering a pint of cooking bitter and a bag of dry-roasted nuts . The argument that s raged for years - what can we do with all these redundant mills and warehouses? - has largely been answered. Until recently they d been left in the hands of asset-strippers - the unsentimental undertakers of the textile trades. They transformed weaving and spinning sheds into carpet warehouses and DIY superstores. Old mills - unloved and unlovely - now have a new lease of life as luxury apartments. This is all very good news for Roofe Leakes. Being an estate agent is not, as too many people imagine, just money for old rope - like being the agricultural story editor on the Matrix films. The hard-working folk at Roofe Leakes deserve every penny they make. And it s by no means all clear profit; there are all those For Sale signs to buy.
Also from John Morrison: |
