Rue, Britannia

P erhaps you’ve heard of the troubles besetting the perfectly named English town of Piddington, in Oxfordshire. The townsfolk number about 350 — which, in American terms, would be the 4 a.m. Sunday population of a Buc-ee’s. Recently, they were a bit alarmed to learn that 1,250 “migrants” — Middle Eastern men who trek to the tip of France then decide the grass to which they are entitled must be greener on the other side of the Channel — are about to be deposited in an unused military barracks in their neighborhood. The womenfolk were wondering about the possible safety impact of having men from cultures in which the sovereignty of shameless Western females was not held in automatic respect. They were not mollified by the idea that the government would make the migrants sit through video sessions in which they’d be instructed not to rape anyone. The locals’ objections, of course, strike right-thinking people — which is to say, left-thinkers — as unmitigated Islamophobia, a dereliction of humanitarian ideals. One is simply not allowed to wish that the character of one’s peaceable hamlet not be changed irrevocably by the introduction of a tenfold influx of another culture.

And so the locals held to vote to secede from the U.K. in protest, and the referendum passed with greater than 90 percent approval. If allowed to proceed, they would be a state so tiny that it would make Monaco look like Brazil. But of course, they will not be allowed.

As it happens, I’m currently in a similar British village on the other side of the country. Last night, we walked home from a party on the small high street in absolute darkness. No streetlights; the pub was closed; everything slumbered under a scattering of brilliant stars. It would have felt different if one knew that a mile down the road was a barrack full of men who had arrived with the idea of getting three hots and a cot in perpetuity, in addition to a cellphone and full dental benefits, and that a few of them left the barracks to wander around at midnight, perhaps cataloguing the sound of nocturnal birds or checking loose doorknobs on the cottages.

This morning at the breakfast table, while eating good rustic bread with orange marmalade and fine brown eggs from local chickens, I read in The Telegraph how the aggrieved folk of Piddington are trying to stop the influx with a brilliant move: They’re sounding the alarm about the potential impact of the migrants on the great crested newt population.

It seems that the surge in human population might adversely affect the well-being of newts, and given that the amphibians have a protected status, introducing more people would affect the life cycle of the local amphibians and qualify as a “nature crime.” And it’s not just the newts who’d be hurt. According to the article, there are “12 different species of bat, nightingales (including the only breeding pair in Oxfordshire), badgers, and an otter” that might be affected.

But it’s mostly about the newts. They are a “European protected species under British law,” and that means any developer can’t so much as look at a shovel or wrench without conducting impact surveys. Whoever wishes to disturb the newts must get a license from the government and might be required to relocate the affected amphibians.

It’s too delicious. (The situation, not the newts. Although who knows? Some ghee, some curry powder — might work for a nice supper.) The dislocation of the human locals’ way of life is of no concern to the government, but glance crossways at a rotting log in which a newt might nest, and all of a sudden, it’s paperwork and sharp looks from officialdom. The hierarchy is clear: Migrants trump citizens, but newts over all.

You know how it will end up: The newts will be moved to a safe place, the migrants installed in the barracks with the instructions not to trod on newts for fun, the locals will be told that the sight of a hundred glowering men hanging around the village green doing nothing has actually enriched the culture of their town, and Nigel Farage will say, “They’re eating the nightingales, they’re eating the badgers, and the sole otter is behaving nervously.” But the boats keep coming. On to the next Piddington.