The truth behind those hysterical Salcombe headlines
Another peaceful community has succumbed to Covid chaos. Shell-shocked residents tweet that their beloved town has disintegrated into “a war zone”: a “hell”, where they are “too scared” to risk venturing onto the streets. “We need police presence before someone get [sic] really hurt!!!”.
But this is no war-ravaged country. These twysterics are being torpedoed from the seaside town of Salcombe, a picturesque idyll in Devon. It’s known for families living their very own Enid Blyton dreams; frolicking in chilly seaweed waters, constructing sandcastles to match Brunel’s engineering marvels, and feasting on picnics of mustard laden sandwiches and sandy lemon squash. Good, wholesome fun.
Recently, however, the national press has dubbed Salcombe “Chaos-on-Sea”. ASBO-worthy youths, barred from trips to Kavos, terrorise the Devon lanes and, according to the town mayor, excessive numbers of tourists aren’t respecting the town they “claim to love”. It was only a matter of time before an intrepid GMB team swooped onto Whitestrand Pontoon to report from the belly of the beast.
So is it really true? Will Sun, Sex and Suspicious Parents soon be filming in the South Hams? Will wetsuit clad families of crabbers, distracted by the struggle to attach bacon rind to a rusty fish hook, soon be bumped off their quayside spot by Mykonos Z-listers?
A stroll down Fore Street – taking around six minutes – tells me otherwise. I’ve been on holiday here for years and the scenes never change, even in 2020. Families dressed in Breton stripes peruse shop windows, yummy mummies pick up a handful of picnic chipolatas from Coleman's butcher and strangers bond over the breeding details of a Golden Labrador.
Of course, these ice-cream fuelled meanderings offer no exemption from Boris’ lockdown regulations. Masks are compulsory in shops and customer numbers are generally limited to two. How the mayor can claim shopkeepers are “exhausted and overwhelmed” by visitor invasion is perplexing. Visor invasion, more like.
Rules are obeyed with impressive discipline. Parents, resplendent in a tangle of fishing nets, kill cords and knotted crabbing lines, spend twenty minutes queuing for a lemon bonbon, come rain or shine. Delis strap card machines to badminton racquets to offer out-the-window payments. Punters adorned in deck shoes, rugby shirts and pink chino shorts wait calmly outside Crew Clothing to purchase deck shoes, rugby shirts or another pair of pink chino shorts.
The Winking Prawn, a much-loved beachside café on North Sands, has offered the most comprehensive coronavirus defence; a strict one-way system, tables spread out, customers given a welcome brief with clear instructions. Staff and customers act with respect and courtesy. No sweat. No drama.
Of course, I don’t want to mislead you. There have been moments of confrontation.
In one trendy bar, customers must exit and re-enter the building to use the facilities. Commenting on this M25-esque experience, a friend jested it was – perhaps – excessively cautious, only to be reprimanded with “It’s either this, or death!” Better take the bypass, then.
Next, my cricket-obsessed 16-year-old brother headed for the creperie, where I once spent a summer flipping pancakes. It’s run by Mano, a charming chap from Brittany who was “born with a crêpe in his mouth”. But the moment my brother’s flip-flop hit the pavement, he was in trouble. “Pay attention. Walk on the left”. Such unprovoked confrontation was a shock to the system after five months devoid of school discipline.
The third incident occurred at the cliffside Venus Café. A father distributed a round of Twisters to his troop of children. Proffering a £20 note, he was horror stricken to learn that this was now a card-only premises. Boiling alive inside his full-length wetsuit, he frantically patted his neoprene body in a fruitless search for his wallet, whilst four creatures, unrecognisable under a viscous paste of sand, suncream, hair and glucose, slurped through the yet-to-be-purchased Twisters. It was tense. Would Twistergate erupt into the total war we had been promised by the tabloids? Was this our Franz Ferdinand moment? The staff were charming, and the matter was settled with decency and common sense.
These are the dangers Salcombers have risked. Trivial non-events. Certainly not earning the blackened reputation of the whole town. The vibe is low key. No one is looking for trouble. Shop-workers don uncomfortable PPE and implement tedious rules with good grace. Parents whisk children aside and carefully navigate picnic benches to keep a distance. The streets are narrow and some walkways only a metre wide. If social distancing is being compromised, it is not deliberately so.
The council claim numbers are swelling to an unbearable 25,000, but this number is no more than the annual influx during Regatta week. Shopkeepers want to get on with their jobs. “I’d love to comment”, said one, “but please don’t get us involved. This press nonsense makes a mountain out of a molehill”.
If Salcombe has become a war zone, it’s nothing to do with postcodes or wealth, careless Londoners or overworked shopkeepers. This is a war between an officious twitter-preaching minority who employ regulation and bureaucracy to boost their own ego, and those who strengthen communities by getting on with their lives with good will, jollity and common sense.
If you’re thrilled by the sea air whipping at your hair, amused by families bedecked with enormous orange life jackets, or invigorated by walking in torrential rain in a no-longer-watertight anorak, Chaos-on-Sea welcomes you with open arms.
