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The Pentagon plans to spend $37.2 Billion on next gen weapons in the next 12 months... [LOGO OST]( At times, our affiliate partners reach out to the Editors at Open Source Trades with special opportunities for our readers. The message below is one we think you should take a close, serious look at.   1923, which premiered on Sunday in the US, is the latest addition to a television empire so enormous it has a name, the Taylor Sheridan universe – or more simply, the "Taylorverse". Once a struggling actor, Sheridan turned to writing films with acclaimed screenplays that merged action and complex characters in Sicario (2015) and Hell or High Water (2016), and later wrote and directed Wind River (2017). But the old-fashioned Yellowstone, which he co-created, was a popular success that changed everything for him. Sheridan has since created 1923 and an earlier Dutton origin series, 1883, as part of a reported $200 million contract with Paramount for multiple shows. They include the current Tulsa King, with Sylvester Stallone, and The Mayor of Kingstown with Jeremy Renner, and two upcoming series, the contemporary Yellowstone spinoff 6666 and the CIA drama Lioness with Zoe Saldana. What are the Taylorverse's politics? The three Dutton family series are a phenomenon partly because of their singular, retro vision. Sheridan's shows embrace the heroic myth of the Old West and of American individualism, reinventing it for today's increasingly divided country. It is a paradoxical vision. The shows have always acknowledged that white settlers usurped the land, tragically robbing and mistreating the Native Americans. At the same time, the series' message seems to be: Hey, the Duttons own it now, and they're in no hurry to give it back. The Dutton heroes speak most directly to those conservatives who want to return to a glorified past, when patriarchs ruled and the government left them to their own devices. But the shows are elusive enough culturally, and entertaining enough as drama, to reach liberal viewers, too. Sheridan has said that his series are not, as they are often called, Republican "red-state shows" – yet while they do avoid overt political statements, his claim is disingenuous. With Yellowstone's emphatic idea that the country was better in the past, its politics quickly became a flashpoint, a central part of the cultural conversation about the show. John Dutton is constantly battling the Native Americans and big corporations that want to take over his ranch. He rails against the government, city dwellers and environmentalists. In the current season, the show's fifth, he has become Montana's governor, running on the promise, "I am the opposite of progress. I am the wall it bashes against". Governor Dutton's political party is never acknowledged one way or another, but if that message isn't conservative (with a small c), nothing is. As the sociologist and cultural critic Tressie McMillan Cottom said in a discussion with Vulture about the show, "Yellowstone is a powerful cultural object in large part because it does not feel like a political object to millions of people". And just last week, The New York Times bluntly called the show "a mirror for American politics". The article that followed was a focus group with what the paper calls "superfans" from across the political spectrum about the show's appeal. The feature itself is an indication of how central Yellowstone has become culturally, even though the results are disappointing, with bland answers that praise the series for "authenticity" and for the Dutton family's tight bond. Yellowstone is conventional and sometimes not very good, its dialogue on-the-nose and ridiculous – but it continues to expand its reach The trajectory of Yellowstone's cultural traction is easier to chart. The show premiered in 2018, and was popular almost exclusively in the heartland, but by 2021 it was US television's highest-rated drama overall. In the last year alone it has gone from what Vanity Fair called "The Most-Watched Show Everyone Isn't Talking About", to generating a flutter of articles wondering why it didn't get Emmy nominations. That question shouldn’t be a mystery. The show is conventional and sometimes not very good, its dialogue on-the-nose and ridiculous. When John Dutton's daughter, Beth (Kelly Reilly), warns a business competitor: "You are the trailer park, I am the tornado", the line does not land as ironic or campy. But the series continues to expand its reach. According to The Wall Street Journal, by season four, 28% of viewers were in small towns and 28% in major cities, where it barely registered at first. Yellowstone has proved a potent force with its mix of Western elements, melodrama and contemporary political currents (Credit: Paramount/Alamy) Yellowstone has proved a potent force with its mix of Western elements, melodrama and contemporary political currents (Credit: Paramount/Alamy) Part of the secret of the Sheridan universe's success is that the natural landscape is vast and pretty, and the family's loyalties, betrayals and infighting can be absorbing even when the plot turns are ludicrous. In 1883, the Duttons headed West and Jacob's brother, James, created the Yellowstone ranch on the site where his daughter, Elsa, was buried. In over-the-top Western fashion, she staggered around with a poisoned arrow through her abdomen and even rode a horse before the arrow killed her. Elsa's excruciatingly overwritten narration ran through the series: "The river doesn't care if you can swim. The snake doesn't care if you love your children." Unfortunately, her voiceover turns up again in 1923, but at least she offers useful information, telling us that Jacob and Cora arrived in 1894 and raised James' two orphaned sons. And she follows Cora's lethal first scene with a voiceover that goes to the heart of the Sheridan world. "Violence has always haunted this family," she says. "We hunt it down, we seek it." A promising new entry So far, it is great fun to watch Ford and Mirren gamely roaming around the Old West. Mirren, with the accent of an Irish immigrant, totes a rifle and drives a buggy. Ford wears a Stetson, rides his horse into town amid cars on the dusty street, and figures out how to survive a drought. Paramount+ released only a single episode for review (that premiere drew a large audience of 7.4 million viewers), so there's no way to know how well the series will hold up or how political it might become, but it is obvious that Jacob and Cara will face interlopers and changing times. More tellingly, the new series expands the scope of the Dutton story, positioning them in the context of US history itself. Jacob and Cora's great-nephew, Spencer (Brandon Sklenar), is now a big game hunter in Nairobi, having nightmares about his experience fighting in World War One. A subplot shows Native American girls at a boarding school where they are forced to abandon their own language, and where an abusive nun (Jennifer Ehle) raps their hands with a stick, and a priest (Sebastian Roche) beats both the nun and a student. Sheridan's attention to the injustices Native Americans have suffered is an important strand running through his career. Wind River is a taut, first-rate drama about an investigation into the suspicious death of an Indigenous woman. And in Yellowstone, Thomas Rainwater (Gil Birmingham), the Chairman of the Confederated Tribes of Broken Rock, is a mostly sympathetic character who wants the Duttons' land back for his people and says he will use the white man's conniving business tactics to get it. That one thread tilts the Sheridan universe a bit so that it can't be seen as purely conservative. Violence and scorn for the government and the law are the traits that best define the Duttons and the culture of the Sheridan universe Hitting all the notes of a Sheridan Western, 1923 also includes a cattle drive. If you're not a fan of long scenes of cattle or sheep moving across the screen, the fast-forward button is your friend. And Cora explains to her other nephew's fiancee that the Dutton men will always put the ranch before women; just get used to it. Yellowstone set that pattern, mixing the Western with melodrama and political undercurrents. In the current season John's son Jamie (Wes Bentley) is now Montana's attorney general, plotting against the family. Kayce (Luke Grimes), his youngest son, is married to a Native American woman, Monica (Kelsey Asbille), and they seem to flit between Yellowstone and the reservation from one season to the next. Beth, once a corporate shark, is back at the ranch, smoking and drinking constantly, bent on helping her father and on destroying Jamie. At times Yellowstone resembles Bonanza if one of the sons on that classic Western had been a vindictive, out-of-control, Daddy's Girl. Sheridan's 2017 film Wind River showed his interest in exploring the injustices suffered by Native Americans that has carried into his TV work (Credit: Paramount+) Sheridan's 2017 film Wind River showed his interest in exploring the injustices suffered by Native Americans that has carried into his TV work (Credit: Paramount+) But violence and scorn for the government and the law are the traits that best define the Duttons and the culture of the Sheridan universe, as if even the 2022 descendants still lived in the Old West. The family has a taste for vigilantism, a tactic the shows don't always condone but never actually condemn. In previous seasons, Jamie has killed a snoopy reporter and his own biological father. Kayce has killed his wife's brother in a range battle over cattle, and murdered a sexual predator because he deserved it. John ordered the deaths of two men who had kidnapped his grandson. He is positioned as the sympathetic hero even when he justifies murder, saying “We don't kill sheep, we kill wolves”, a sentiment based on the premise that you can't trust the government to find justice. And as governor, he spends a lot of time complaining about being governor. The show is so cynical about politics and government that Dutton admits to his children that he is only in office so his power will protect the ranch. In a recent episode he chooses to stay home branding cattle instead of meeting the US President, who is giving a speech on the reservation. Yellowstone never lets us know if that President is meant to be Joe Biden or a fictional counterpart. But at the same event, Rainwater makes what is the only specific political reference in all of Yellowstone's seasons. Distrusting the value of any president showing up, he says, "Obama visited Standing Rock two years before he tried to run a pipeline through it". Whether that comment remains an anomaly or not, the outsized fictions of the Sheridan series have always stood in for real-life issues. The hunting, gun culture of the West is a core value of the Duttons, and divisive in reality. Beth Dutton's underhanded financial manoeuvres and the show's depiction of the corporate world send a message that big business has long been evil and corrupt. Although Sheridan's empire continues to grow, he may have built the ending of Yellowstone into the series from the start. In 1883, a Native American points James Dutton toward the land that would become the family ranch and says, "In seven generations my people will rise up and take it back from you". James answers, "In seven generations you can have it." The seventh generation is Kayce and Monica's adolescent son, Tate (Brecken Merrill), the grandson John has frequently referred to as his heir. Tate has always been the potential figure of reconciliation, both a Dutton and Native American. He may be the future for a country that was built on the division between its Native people and the settlers. But given Sheridan's slippery, retro West, don't count on it. Dear Fellow Investor, [Space]( The Pentagon plans to spend $37.2 Billion on next gen weapons in the next 12 months... And [these 4 companies]( stand to benefit most. At just a fraction of the size of their competitors... These defense contractors could be the best deal on the market right now. [Get the name of these companies here ]( "The Buck Stops Here," [Signature] Described as "almost Shakespearean" by the LA Times, the gentle UK comedy about metal detecting has wowed audiences worldwide. What's the secret of its success, asks Neil Armstrong. T The Danebury Metal Detecting Club is not an exclusive organisation. On the contrary, new members are welcomed with open arms. Yet it remains a small group. There's club president Terry Seymour, probably one of the leading experts on the buttons of North West Essex. There's Louise, who can be pretty loud, and her girlfriend Varde, usually very quiet. There's "young" Hugh (actually in his 30s), sarcastic Russell – and Andy and Lance. More like this: - The buried ship found on an English estate - The UK's mysterious ancient pathways - The 21 best TV shows of 2022 The latter two, old friends who regularly go detecting together, are the focus of the beloved, Bafta-winning BBC comedy Detectorists. We've followed their ups and downs for three six-episode series and a Christmas special. Now, after a five-year gap, they are returning for another festive special which, its writer, director and star Mackenzie Crook tells BBC Culture, will probably be the final instalment. Detectorists is defiantly low-stakes, cheerfully bucking every TV trend. In a world of expansive, expensive epics, it’s a priceless miniature Crook plays Andy. Toby Jones is Lance. In 2014, in the very first episode, we were introduced to the pair detecting in a ploughed field. Andy had found "Three shotgun caps and a Blakey". Lance pulled something out of the ground. "What you got?" asked Andy. Inspecting his find through a magnifying glass, Lance replied: "Ring pull. '83. Tizer." Metal detecting is not all Roman gold and Saxon hoards. In fact, it very rarely is. Why do they do it? "Metal detecting is the closest you'll get to time travel," Lance explains. "See, archaeologists, they gather up the facts, piece the jigsaw together, work out how we lived. We unearth the scattered memories, mine for stories, fill in the personality. Detectorists – we're time travellers." The show charts the pedantic pair's finds and their minor domestic dramas. It is defiantly low-stakes, cheerfully bucking every TV trend. In a world of expansive, expensive epics, it's a priceless miniature. It's not about questions of life and death or the fate of humanity. There are few problems that can’t be solved over a pint in the Two Brewers or a cup of tea during a break in the corner of the field. ("Tea without sugar is just vegetable soup," insists Lance). What's at stake is whether Lance's daughter will ding his treasured yellow Triumph TR7 if he allows her to drive it, or whether Andy's wife Becky will be annoyed when she discovers he's packed in the job he hates. Or Andy and Lance's friendship, which is what the show is really about. The sitcom Detectorists is set in Essex, UK, and is based around the members of the Danebury Metal Detecting Club (Credit: BBC) The sitcom Detectorists is set in Essex, UK, and is based around the members of the Danebury Metal Detecting Club (Credit: BBC) It's often described as a "gentle" comedy but there are plenty of laugh-out-loud moments. Some of the funniest come during the pair's run-ins with a rival metal detecting duo who have a very cavalier attitude to the detectorists' code, and who are always changing their name. They've been the Antiquisearchers, the Dirt Sharks and Terra Firma. Lance and Andy have dubbed them Simon and Garfunkel, although they're actually called Phil Peters (Simon Farnaby) and Paul Lee (Paul Casar) – Peters and Lee, get it? There's a running gag in which they are introduced with the opening bars of Sound of Silence, and Andy smuggles a Simon and Garfunkel lyric into the conversation, which usually ends in infantile insults being exchanged. Set in Essex but filmed in Suffolk, Detectorists feels quintessentially British, and is packed with British cultural references. How many non-UK viewers understand, say, the conversation about the accepted protocol when correctly answering a starter for 10 on University Challenge? ("What you want," says Lance, "is a humble smile and a nod to your teammates as if to say 'I know you guys knew that one too'." "That's it. Spot on," agrees Andy). Yet the show has a dedicated and growing following outside Britain. Do they know what a "chinny reckon" is in Tel Aviv? Seems unlikely, but an Israeli newspaper called Detectorists "buried treasure". Are they familiar with Fiona Bruce in Bordeaux? Possibly not, but a French paper described Detectorists as "délicieuse" and "un baume apaisant" – a soothing balm. In an online discussion, a fan from India wrote "this is not a TV show, it's soul food". A viewer in North Carolina poetically described it as "a deep, grassy field in an asphalt world". In appreciation of the show's pastoral elements, the LA Times said it was "almost Shakespearean" and compared it to A Midsummer Night's Dream. Toby Jones, after the Baftas ceremony where the series won an award, told the story of cycling through New Orleans when two guys rushed out of a bar to tell him "Man, we love the Detectorists!" 'About hobbyists, for hobbyists' Crook appears genuinely embarrassed when this global adulation is mentioned, and says he can't explain it. "Toby is able to wax lyrical more than me about those sorts of things," he tells BBC Culture. "It was always my idea to write an uncynical comedy about hobbyists for hobbyists – people with obsessions – and I guess those sorts of people are all over the world, and they're not often championed so perhaps they can relate to it." Jones, incidentally, is quite clear on why it is so universally loved. "It's a brilliant, brilliant piece of writing," he says. Ben Lindbergh is a senior editor at The Ringer, a Los-Angeles-based pop culture and sport website and podcast network, and has written about the show. The fact that it's set in a distant, slow-paced land of pubs and rolling hills and quiz shows only enhances the sense of escape and immersion – Ben Lindbergh "I imagine most Americans who appreciate Detectorists like it for the same reasons British fans do," he tells BBC Culture. "It's just a well-written, well-acted, keenly observed show, and its theme of trying to find one's place and purpose in life is universal. "It is very British in some respects, and perhaps it helps to be a bit of an Anglophile, but I didn't find any of the references or settings exclusionary or alienating. The specificity of the show is what makes it for me: it fondly and respectfully captures a niche subculture that I otherwise wouldn't know much about, and the fact that it's set far from my native New York City – in a distant, slow-paced land of pubs and rolling hills and quiz shows – only enhances the sense that I get when I watch it of escape and immersion and spending some time in a different world. My wife and I took a trip to Cornwall a few years ago, and we were excited when we turned on the TV and saw University Challenge." The show is filled with surprising little Easter eggs. For example, how many viewers missed the fact that – spoiler alert – the first season ends with an aerial shot of Lance and Andy walking away, completely oblivious to the faint outline in the grass of a buried Saxon ship? Who could have predicted, in the final episode of the third season, a supremely silly homage to the barn-building scene in 1985 Harrison Ford film Witness? Lance (Toby Jones, left) and Andy (Mackenzie Crook, who also writes and directs the series) are old friends who share a passion for metal detecting (Credit: BBC) Lance (Toby Jones, left) and Andy (Mackenzie Crook, who also writes and directs the series) are old friends who share a passion for metal detecting (Credit: BBC) And there are exquisite, understated moments of joy and sadness. Watch the scene in the second season in which Terry's wife Sheila (Sophie Thompson) – a woman with a very literal interpretation of the adage that when life gives you lemons, you make lemonade – is sympathising with Lance over his difficulties with his daughter. Thompson's brilliant performance makes plain that Sheila has known devastating loss, although it is never specifically mentioned and we never know what it is. "It is my favourite scene in all that I've done," says Crook. The fact that Sheila is usually such a comedic character makes it all the more poignant and piercing. There, in the background of another scene – blink and you'll miss it – is Varde on one knee, proposing to Louise with a ring she's just found. You can actually buy Louise and Varde tote bags, T-shirts, duvet covers. You can buy DMDC (Danebury Metal Detecting Club) T-shirts, T-shirts bearing a Detectorists' guide to ring-pulls. There is even a fanzine Waiting For You, named after a lyric from the haunting theme song by Johnny Flynn. There have been three issues so far and a fourth is due. Waiting For You is edited by Cormac Pentecost, a self-employed publisher from Shrewsbury. "I was very late in discovering Detectorists because at the time it was broadcast I wasn't really watching TV but I kept seeing posts on the Folk Horror Revival Facebook group about how some of the episodes had eerie, ghost-story elements, and that prompted me to give it a watch," Pentecost says. Mystical elements "On a first viewing, it's the comedy and the generosity of the characterisation that appeals but there's something about it that draws you back for repeated viewings. Partly it's the landscape photography, partly the sense of solitude and quiet that it radiates – unusual things for a sitcom. More deeply, as we watch Andy and Lance searching for treasure, we can sense that these minimum-wage workers, who by many measures might be judged to be losers, are in touch with something sublime in the English landscape. Almost by accident, they have discovered a spiritual side to life." I don't believe in the supernatural but I've been fascinated by it ever since I was a kid – Mackenzie Crook The beautiful landscape is certainly a key part of Detectorists. Crook also likes to include shots of the local flora and fauna in every episode – insects, birds, deer and so on. But watching Lance and Andy slowly drift across a field, gently wafting their detectors from side to side is like watching a pair of meek and mild ruminants wandering over a pasture. They are as much a part of the landscape as all the other creatures that inhabit it. Also, the show has leaned more into the brushes with the supernatural as it has gone on. On a few occasions, including in the new feature-length episode, the past seems to bleed into the present, and some sort of unseen hand seems to be guiding Lance and Andy. "I don't believe in the supernatural but I've been fascinated by it ever since I was a kid," says Crook. “I got The Unexplained magazine – about ghosts, poltergeists, spontaneous human combustion, whatever – and I loved it. I guess my fascination with it comes out in my scripts. When I did Worzel Gummidge [that Crook also writes, directs and stars in] it was an opportunity to explore those mystical elements and themes in a far more obvious way but, yes, there are a few things going on in this." Crook is an occasional detectorist himself and his creation has the approval of the detectorist community. Julian Evan-Hart is the editor of Treasure Hunting, a monthly magazine for detectorists. "It is an amazing series, and it is obvious that it is written by a detectorist because there are little jokes in there which, in inverted commas, a 'normal person' probably wouldn't pick up on," he says. "The show has just become part of metal detecting culture now. I get articles for the magazine quoting it, and we all know a Lance or a Terry." The characters nicknamed "Simon and Garfunkel" are a rival metal-detecting duo (Credit: BBC) The characters nicknamed "Simon and Garfunkel" are a rival metal-detecting duo (Credit: BBC) It is sometimes suggested that Detectorists has boosted the pastime of metal detecting, although Evan-Hart says such claims are difficult to quantify. However, it has definitely created at least one new detectorist. Carey Mulligan, star of another work about uncovering old treasures, Netflix film The Dig, told Talk Radio how she had bought a detector after watching the show. The new episode is set five years after the last and there have been some big changes in our heroes' lives. Sadly, one of these is reflected in real life. Rachael Stirling plays Becky, and Stirling's mother Diana Rigg, who died in 2020, also played her mother in the show. Her death is addressed in a particularly moving scene. But some things will never change. Lance and Andy are still searching for that big find, and they're excited to have a whole new farm to prospect. They'd love to find gold but what they really want more than anything is to hold in their hand something that was held by a Saxon or a Roman or even a… well, watch to see what they unearth this time. The new episode of Detectorists is on BBC2 in the UK on Boxing Day, and elsewhere later in 2023. Small hydropower plants have long sustained remote communities in the Alps – but there is a growing debate over their environmental impact. T The Furtalm, an idyllic mountain farm in South Tyrol in the northern Italian Alps, is surrounded by waterfalls. Their rushing sound fills the air, along with the bells from a small herd of grazing cows. Hikers sit at long tables outside a tiny farm kitchen, enjoying hearty meals of homemade cheese dumplings and apple strudel. Having arrived after a bracing hike, I order a plate of dumplings, and enjoy the view over a nearby stream. Apart from looking very charming, the stream is doing me a practical favour: it is helping provide my lunch. A tiny hydropower plant, tucked away out of sight, generates the electricity for the entire farm: enough to run the milking machine by the stable, the fridge in the dairy where the cheese is made, and all the kitchen appliances used to make my dumplings. "Electricity is free here, it's always been that way. When it's right next to your door, you don't have an electricity counter," says Alexandra Larch, who runs the farm and restaurant with her family in the summer months, and spends the winters in the valley. Her parents have an even smaller hydro plant next to their own mountain farm: it's so tiny they have to switch off everything else in the house before they switch on the milking machine. As I enjoy my delicious dumplings, I can hear a faint clanging sound in the distance. It comes from a construction site for another hydro plant, built by a local cooperative. South Tyrol and its Alpine neighbours are known as Europe's hydro powerhouses, mainly thanks to their large plants, which mark parts of the landscape with their valley-spanning reservoirs and giant pipes. Hydropower generates more than 7,300 gigawatt hours (GWh) a year in South Tyrol, some 90% of its total electricity production, enough to export about half of it to other Italian regions in the summer months. Over 80% of that hydropower output is generated by only 30 big plants. But in recent years, another aspect of the Alpine energy supply has been gaining increasing attention: hundreds of small hydropower plants, many rooted in traditional cultures of self-sufficiency and self-determination. You might also like: The floating solar that tracks the Sun The surprising benefits of blue spaces Spain's magnificent medieval waterways There are about 1,000 hydropower plants in South Tyrol, and the vast majority of them are small or medium-sized – ranging from tiny ones powering a single farm, to clusters of more sizeable ones covering an entire valley's supply. Most are run-of-river diversion plants, meaning a part of the stream is diverted, typically by small dams or weirs, through a pipe to a turbine. (There is no standard global definition of small hydro, and the upper limit can vary hugely between countries, but international reports tend to define it as up to 10 megawatt installed capacity. In South Tyrol, small typically means up to 220 kilowatt (kW) capacity, and medium, up to 3 megawatts [MW]). Elsewhere in the Alps, the picture is similar, with a multitude of small or mid-sized plants allowing individual farms or villages to be self-sufficient, while typically making a modest contribution of only around 10% or so to national hydropower production. Advocates of small hydro present it as a relatively low-impact source of energy, with scope for global expansion. As rocketing energy prices and fears of blackouts, along with climate change, accelerate the quest to find alternatives to coal, gas and oil, the idea of a robust, renewable local energy source may sound very appealing. But critics argue that the ecological cost of small plants may be higher than previously thought – and needs to be carefully balanced against their benefits. The Furtalm farm and restaurant in South Tyrol, surrounded by waterfalls, harnesses the power of Alpine streams to generate its electricity (Credit: Sophie Hardach) The Furtalm farm and restaurant in South Tyrol, surrounded by waterfalls, harnesses the power of Alpine streams to generate its electricity (Credit: Sophie Hardach) A few months after my summer hike, in November, I call the Pflersch energy cooperative, which is behind the new power plant being built near the Furtalm, in the beautiful Pflersch Valley. The managing director of the cooperative, Franz Schwitzer, chuckles as he tells me that he is getting a lot of media requests these days: with the world gripped by an energy crisis, his resilient cooperative is attracting attention. In Brief: How sustainable is small hydropower? Historically, small hydropower helped bring electricity to many remote communities such as farms and villages in the Alps. As a legacy of this decentralised energy landscape, there are still thousands of medium-sized, small and even tiny hydropower plants in the Alps, some powering entire valleys, others, a single farm, or even, a single milking machine. New ones have also been built, based on the assumption that their environmental impact is relatively low. However, criticism of small hydropower has been growing. There is mounting scientific evidence that their impact is larger than was previously thought, and that they can disrupt streams, damage habitats and harm migratory fish. Although small hydropower has faced criticism, those opposing it don't necessarily rule it out altogether. Rather, a common view is that the ecological impact and social and economic benefits have to be assessed carefully, case by case. The cooperative owns four small-to-medium-sized hydro plants in the valley, the biggest of which has an installed capacity of about 3 megawatts, as well as the one under construction. Its roughly 300 members, such as farmers, villagers, small companies and small hotels, pay only 3.1 euro cents (3.2 US cents/2.7p) per kilowatt/hour (10 euro cents/10 US cents/8.7p including taxes), up to a consumption of 1,250kWh per month. (At the time of reporting, the market price in Italy was 66 euro cents (69 US cents/57p) per kWh for the typical household, including taxes). The cooperative also supplies non-members at the market price, such as big hotels and a ski lift. For most of the year, the hydro power it generates is enough to make the Pflersch Valley self-sufficient. "If the Italian grid were to collapse, it wouldn't be a problem for us during nine months of the year – spring, summer and autumn – given normal weather. We'd just switch our network to 'isolated operation' [for self-consumption]," says Schwitzer. In winter, the cooperative purchases additional energy from the market. If it could store the energy from the warmer months, it would be self-sufficient all year round. The community-centred model is not unusual in the region, where small firms and cooperatives are seen as adding diversity and resilience to the energy sector. According to Thomas Senoner, the director of South Tyrol's public agency for the sustainable use of water resources, part of the region's energy policy is to support rural life in the mountains, including traditional cooperatives. To people whose lives are currently blighted by soaring energy prices, such self-sufficiency may seem like the ultimate luxury. But as Schwitzer points out, South Tyrol's cooperatives were a result of necessity, and extreme marginalisation. The traditionally German-speaking region came under Italian rule in the early 20th Century. Some local families still harbour heartbreaking memories of the time when the central Italian government built big hydropower plants in their pristine valleys, flooding historical villages and centuries-old farms, to provide energy for Italian factories, not remote Alpine communities. Today, South Tyrol is still part of Italy but an autonomous province with control of its own energy resources. "The cooperatives were originally created because of a disadvantage, because we were in the periphery. In the 1950s, we would never have received electricity from the main grid," says Schwitzer. "So the people said to themselves, fine, we'll do it ourselves, we'll build our own power plant. They were brave pioneers who used their private funds as collateral to take out credit and pay for the turbines. And that disadvantage of the past, has now turned into an advantage." His cooperative has an especially long history: the local priest and three farmers started its first hydro plant in a hamlet called Boden almost 100 years ago. The priest recorded the event in his church chronicle in an awestruck tone: "14 November 1923. At 14.30 in the afternoon, Boden lit up with the glow of electric light for the very first time." Large hydropower plants in South Tyrol have flooded large areas of land for their reservoirs, submerging former villages (Credit: Getty Images) Large hydropower plants in South Tyrol have flooded large areas of land for their reservoirs, submerging former villages (Credit: Getty Images) Today, tighter environmental regulation is making any further construction beyond the cooperative's fifth plant unlikely, says Schwitzer. He sees wind and solar power as possible options for the future of his valley, but for now, both face constraints. Wind farms have faced resistance from Alpine hiking associations. Solar panels can only be installed on roofs in South Tyrol, not as solar farms on the ground. Renovating and optimising existing hydro plants, especially the big ones, is an important step, he says. Nevertheless, in his view, small hydro shouldn't only be judged on efficiency, but also on its social role enhancing life in the mountains. "There's a broad consensus here: the water used to generate this energy comes from our valley, and that's why we want to keep the value it creates. It's always been that way here, we organise ourselves, we're not that dependent on outside help." He compares it to the long tradition of mutual aid in bad weather and emergencies, and the tight network of volunteer-run associations, from the local orchestra to the fire brigade. Proponents of small hydro argue that it could boost the wellbeing of many other communities around the world, too. The World Small Hydropower Development Report by the United Nations Industrial Development Organization promotes small hydropower as a "renewable and rural energy source for sustainable development". The report suggests that small hydropower could help provide power to the estimated one billion people worldwide who still do not have access to electricity. Critics of small hydro power do tend to make an exception for remote, isolated communities. But they also emphasise that it should be used as a last resort. Cipra, an Alps-wide organisation promoting sustainable development in the area, for example recommends using small hydro plants "for limited and isolated local needs only". Using them for energy production beyond these remote areas would require such a large number of plants "that the cumulative environmental impact would be ecologically unbearable". After all, the existing multitude of small hydro plants contributes little to the overall energy output, even in places where such plants have a long history. In Switzerland, more than 1,400 tiny, small and medium-sized hydropower plants of up to 10 MW capacity, together produce about 10% of the country's total hydropower output. In Bavaria, in Germany's mountainous south, 94% of the region's over 4,000 hydro plants have a capacity of under 1 MW, covering only about 9% of total hydropower output. In Austria, 95% of grid-connected hydro plants have a capacity of less than 10 MW, and generate about 14% of total hydropower output. There are another 2,000 or so off-grid plants in Austria, supplying private households. [divider] From time to time, we send special emails or offers to readers who chose to opt in. We hope you find them useful. 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