Has Covid widened the cultural gulf between England and Scotland?

Anyone opting to holiday at home instead of venturing abroad this summer may feel on unfamiliar territory in one part of the UK. I’m not sure if this is post-pandemic related or a reflection of a broader cultural divide, but Scotland seems to have diverged so far from England of late that, frankly, France feels more in tune with the rest of Britain.

Some of these differences are enshrined in law. Take the train, for example, which I frequently do, between London and Edinburgh. Now that both Scotland and England have eased their Covid restrictions, you would think one rule would apply on the route between the two capital cities. But no. Passengers can travel mask free from Kings Cross, but just beyond Berwick, they will hear this over the tannoy:

“We are about to cross the border into Scotland, so may I please remind you that face coverings are mandatory on all transport.” (There is no reverse instruction on the return leg, by the way.)

The diktat makes little sense from a health perspective – surely the carriage does not become more of a germ risk after three and a half hours. But it does at least prepare the unwary for the Scottish experience, which although not quite in the New Zealand league, sometimes gives the impression it would like to be.

In England, mask-wearing is no longer a legal requirement, and while recommended in certain situations – on London’s public transport networks, for example – people now go mostly mask-less about their business (the Commons, where masks signal political affiliation, excepted).

In Scotland, masks remain a must in shops, on any form of transport (excluding your own car, which the powers that be have yet to commandeer), in restaurants, bars and cafes (unless seated). And, more disturbingly, in classrooms. One father tweeted as the new term began: “Why is my 12-year-old wearing a mask all day at school? This dad just wants to understand the medical logic.”

In churches here, too, the congregation are in masks though they are now, at long last, allowed to sing, but only through their masks.

There has been mass confusion over the return to vertical drinking in pubs, otherwise known as standing at the bar with a pint in hand. Ministers couldn’t agree whether to allow this or not, and so the decision is left to the publicans’ own discretion.

If you thought that would mean freedom for all, forget it. An alarming number of pubs (our local included) still insist on table service only, and an even more alarming number of customers don’t seem to mind. This might come as a shock to tourists who perhaps didn’t expect to encounter puritanism in the grassroots of the Scottish hospitality sector.

There has been further dithering over dancing in Scotland. Like singing, dancing has been a no-go throughout Covid, which was fine when all the occasions that might be associated with dancing were also forbidden. But when Scotland, reluctantly and much later than England, permitted nightclubs to re-open, ministers couldn’t quite stomach the abandon this might provoke and toyed with the idea of making masks compulsory on the dance floor. When this appeared impossible to police, a grand concession was made to dancers – which led some rebels to dance in supermarket aisles to get round the still gainfully employed Covid wardens.

Scotland has also clung to social distancing with a fervour that suggests it could become permanent. In London, Andrew Lloyd Webber now has capacity crowds at his shows, and the Proms are in full swing in the Albert Hall.

In stark contrast, Edinburgh’s famous festival exists only in hybrid form, a tribute to its organisers for sure, who have managed to bring live music to a city that has seen almost none since March 2020. But our concert halls are all largely closed to the classical ensembles that would usually pack them out in August, and restricted audiences make do with open-sided tent structures.

The other day I watched Nicola Benedetti, Scotland’s favourite musician, who can easily sell out the 2,200-seat Usher Hall, play her exquisite solo programme to a handful of devotees, spread out in one of the makeshift spaces.

The argument against filling these temporary venues and enabling many more to enjoy star performers is that a few ticket holders might complain that they are not as socially distanced as promised. This panders not to the vulnerable, now protected by vaccination, but to those who liked it when the world stopped and don’t want it to start again.

In the one indoor event I have attended so far, Verdi’s Falstaff at the Festival Theatre (another triumph by festival bosses), about a third of the seats were occupied, and on a Saturday night. The nervous couple in the upper circle wearing gloves to match their masks may have stayed at home if the hordes had been admitted, but their loss would have been a gain for hundreds.

Is it a Calvinist streak that encourages Scotland to embrace the Covid curbs too eagerly? There is more guilt attached to going out here, more caution, and a degree of frostiness, even in summer, from some (by no means all) Highland hosts that pre-dates the pandemic. But the cultural gulf that Covid has opened up between attitudes here and in the south has more to do with our rulers than with national stereotypes.

Yes, let’s blame the Scottish Nationalists. It was they who tried to close the borders, who refused to condemn the “keep out of Scotland” separatist vigilantes, and who have attempted this week to grab forever the authoritarian powers they acquired at the onset of the crisis. If they can’t let go of Covid, it’s hardly surprising that the country they have conditioned can’t either.