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The British love affair with property is the latest victim of the pandemic. Thousands of home buyers and sellers, landlords and tenants have been caught in the middle of transactions, as the

entire housing market has screeched to a halt.  For many people, this latest blow comes after years of economic and political uncertainty. The double whammy of Brexit and coronavirus has

temporarily dammed one of the economy’s vital sources of activity. Just as the flood of suppressed demand was beginning to flow again, the whole market has been frozen by the imperatives of

Covid-19. Nobody can move house or borrow money until further notice. This is almost as traumatic a shock to our way of life as the closure of the nation’s pubs, clubs, restaurants and

churches. For millions of us, dreaming of the perfect home has become an emotional necessity. Like the lure of holidays and travel — yet more pleasures indefinitely postponed — the hope of

finding that idyllic country cottage or cool urban pad is a virtual balm for our bruised and battered egos.  For some, home ownership is a measure of success and status; for others, it is a

haven of security. For the young and mobile, who often prefer to rent, the essential thing is freedom to be a rolling stone. For the middle-aged, downsizing and liberating equity is the

longed-for reward for a life of hard work. For the elderly, it is just home, sweet home — and perhaps the satisfaction of passing on an inheritance to the next generation. This Anglo-Saxon

preoccupation with property is often mocked by other nations, who cannot understand why we prefer to tie up our wealth in bricks and mortar. The French, for instance, are happy to flog us

their unwanted rural retreats, while themselves obsessing about acquiring (usually rented) flats in the right Parisian _arrondisement_. For countries which lack Britain’s historical

continuity and ancient liberties, property has a much more utilitarian significance. Yet the conviction that an Englishman’s home is his (or her) castle runs very deep. We see our identity

through residential lenses. Hobbit-like, we guard our snug little burrows fiercely against the intrusions of the state.  All this explains why the British have been almost as influential on

domestic architecture as they have on lifestyle and fashion. Just as we invented the male suit and the miniskirt, so we pioneered bathrooms and kitchens, drawing rooms and gardens for the

masses. The renaissance men of Italy and France may have built elegant blocks of flats while the English were still living in wattle and daub or timbered cottages, but how grateful we are

now that many of us still have the space and independence of our own plots of land. From the United States to the furthest corners of the British Empire, countless families have created

their own homes based on a domestic ideal imported from the British Isles. Home is not only a place, though we do need our own physical space. It is just as much a state of mind, in which

the restless impulses of ambition and desire that drive us forward can find repose. The threat of coronavirus is so terrifying partly because it has invaded this private place of safety.

Those who are medically vulnerable are even advised to observe social distancing at home: sleeping, washing and eating in different rooms from other members of the family who may have the

virus. Such a sinister presence within the home is a truly existential threat. We are predisposed to protect our property as if it were an outer skin, keeping hostile interlopers, whether

people or plagues, at bay. It is unsettling to feel that not only are we engaged in a life and death struggle with an unseen global enemy, but that this battle has transformed our homes into

virtual prisons. Whether we are cooped up with our families, or isolated in solitude, our feelings about home are in turmoil just now. All we want is to go back to some semblance of

normality. It will happen, but not yet — indeed, not for what will seem to most of us an inordinately long time. All this may seem a far cry from the mundane business of moving house. Yet,

now that the property market has suddenly been put on hold, it is time for us all to appreciate what we have. We may not be able to undertake home improvements, the usual British fallback

when times are tough, because builders and handymen are unable to ply their trades. But we can still enjoy the glorious spring weather, the familiar comforts and happy memories to which

every home, however modest, is entitled. The meaning of life, as the late Roger Scruton reminded us, is gratitude. Let us just be grateful for small mercies.