Britain’s delusions about the green belt cause untold misery

IF ANYTHING deserves the label “wasteland”, this place does. Pylons and tangles of bramble high as houses tower over a lonely oil drum and a collapsed metal fence. In the distance planes approaching Stansted airport whine; refrigerator units at a nearby food-processing factory hum. Set in the frozen mud is a mosaic of industrial detritus, bits of brick and pipe, beer cans and a discarded condom wrapper. A jaunty yellow arrow informs passers-by that this scraggy parcel of Harlow, in Essex, is a public right-of-way.

Notwithstanding the condom wrapper, there are few signs that locals get any enjoyment from it. Given its good road connections and the chronic shortage of local housing, a sensible jurisdiction would make it available for a couple of blocks of flats, or a few dozen homes with gardens. A study by the local council last year found that protecting it serves no discernible purpose. Developing it would cause Harlow neither to sprawl, nor to annex another town, nor to lose its character. Yet protected this wasteland shall remain; a useless eyesore trapped in the insensitive, crushing grip of London’s green belt.

Such doughnuts...