HERE we go again. In what appears to be a pathetic attempt to drum up new business, Trevor Phillips of the Commission for Racial Equality has turned his sights on the countryside.

He accuses country dwellers of "passive apartheid" because not many black people live in the sticks.

"There is no law and I doubt anybody in the countryside wants to keep people out," he spouts. "But I think we are seeing a gradual drift towards a difficult situation where people from ethnic minorities feel uncomfortable."

Are we really? Or is is something he dreamed up during one of those long journeys from one conference to another, because he knew it would ignite some publicity?

Apart from being a huge insult - doesn't he think that anyone in the green and pleasant bits of Britain ever campaigned against the real apartheid? - Trevor's main plank of evidence appears to be flimsier than Jordan's knickers.

He says that when he visits a village shop, "People stare at me as though I'm from the Planet Zarg."

Of course they do. People in the countryside stare at anyone who is not from their village. Even if you've only come from the next one.

They stare at you for wearing a suit, driving an unsuitable car, or having a strange accent.

When I was growing up, I can still remember the general excitement when a Catholic family moved into the village where we lived.

When a family of well-heeled Brazilians arrived, there was practically a parish welcoming committee, because people were thrilled that such exotic creatures would bother to pitch up at our little backwater.

Even today, my American brother-in-law is the object of much curiosity, if he pops into the village shop to buy The Guardian.

And one of my acquaintances is still introduced around the place as "Dawn from Essex", a full decade after she moved down here.

It's how we are. We are also, if I may venture, a sight more friendly than people in towns.

Catch the eye of anyone in one of Trevor's beloved, multicultural cities, and watch them clutch their handbag and glance anxiously around for an escape route.

Smile at anyone in a town and they look genuinely afraid. No thanks. I'd rather live where I know everyone and everyone knows me.

And where kids don't run the risk of picking up needles at the rec, and being gunned down on their way home from the fun-fair, like poor little Danielle Beccan.

If black and Asian families make the break and come and live here too, they'll find it's much the same. And a darned sight safer for their kids.

Sure, some people in the countryside are racist. Some take pride in keeping themselves to themselves. But most are fascinated by strangers.

Yes, they will ask you what it's like where you come from, but they don't mean Nigeria, or Pakistan or Jamaica, they mean the Big, Bad City.

What they want to know is why you came.

And, if it's as they suspect, because you were sick of living in the dirty, unfriendly, crime-ridden, polluted town, they'll agree and tell you: "You've done the right thing, love." Whatever colour you happen to be.