Nestled into the grassy hills of the Camel estuary is the coastal village of Trebetherick. It’s a Cornish idyllic with fields sloping down to the white sands of Daymer Bay, hydrangeas and agapanthus bobbing in the mild Gulf Stream air.
In high summer the city dwellers migrate to the West Country en masse, in pursuit of a week on the beach during the great British summer. In the first week of August I’m a willing member of this seasonal flock and fascinated to observe how COVID-19 had infiltrated holidaymaker life, and to find out whether local businesses were significantly affected by the inevitable post-lockdown surge to the coast.
The drive down the narrow lane to Daymer Bay’s car park is fraught with danger for the occasional visitor. Nervous city folk lean their heads out of the windows of their fat German SUVs, anxious not to damage their paintwork on thorny Cornish granite, let alone the oncoming traffic. Calamity avoided, frazzled parents unload their beach gear, regretfully establishing what inventory has indeed been left at home. Those with shiny new roof boxes with neatly organised beach bags are the envy of the stable.
Even by mid-morning there is a small procession snaking around the corner away from the car park cafe and beach shop. Impatient fathers with ambitious coffee orders and overly excited children can’t keep the appropriate social distance from their contemporaries. These are the glum sunburnt faces of dads who have been consigned to the same miserable fate. Face masks are not being worn. It’s hard enough to get sunscreen on the kids. The service is agonisingly slow and inefficient. So much tourist money is being left on the table. Why don’t they send someone out to take orders directly from the queue?
Meanwhile, the beach is a riot of colour and frenetic energy. The tide is way out but the families are tightly packed on the sandy high ground. Beach BBQs sizzle, tents and kites flutter in the sea breeze, buckets and spades whir into motion. There is no discernable or obvious clue as to where one household group ends and the next one begins. The bubble has burst in the Atlantic air but my toddler doesn’t care. He just wants to throw pebbles into the sea and to watch the bigger boys damming up the stream.
Over in town, the Oyster Catcher looks down upon the pulsating surf beach of Polzeath. Rolling ocean swell wraps around the headland, the waves peeling to the shore much to the surfers’ delight. Thirsty pub-goers try to make sense of the one way system and fumble through the download of the brewery app. None of the waiters will be making any tips this summer. The brewery has neglected to include any service charge functionality in the online checkout. The staff are rendered dejected beasts of burden, carting trays of Rattlers and empty pints back and forth from the empty bar to the sun drenched terrace.
The Spar is surprisingly well stocked and caters well to the hoards of seasonal campers and self-caterers, perpetually famished by their ocean-going adventures. Here it is easy to distinguish between locals and out of towners despite the compulsory wearing of face masks. Cornish shoppers nervously scuttle between the packed aisles as if to somehow dodge the brattish city kids on the hunt for magnums and cornettos. Will it matter that they are touching everything in sight?
Over the hill, the ramblers are making their way over National Trust land to Pentire Point and the Rump. Narrow paths weave along treacherous cliff tops and lead down to rocky bays. The walkers are a particularly polite and upbeat lot. Sinewy and sun-kissed and only too happy to make eye contact, wave or mumble hello, and to give way to our disorderly rabble of toddlers and tantrums. Social distancing with a smile.
Back in Daymer Bay, golfers drive and chip around St Enodoc’s church, once totally buried by the ancient dunes. Dog-walkers, the curious, and the faithful take refuge from the fairway in the sleepy churchyard surrounding the slate nave. Inside I see the devout, faces partially hidden by cloth bandanas, taking time to pray. Could it be too much, I wonder, to ask for a COVID-free Cornwall, despite the invasion of the maddening crowd?
Checking out of our ‘boat house’ accommodation it became clear that not everything was all well on the south west front. Our exasperated cleaners, impatienced by our tardy departure, had a long day ahead of them due to the new COVID rules. Beds that ought to have been stripped remained crudely made up as if to distract from the seven day mess. A series of other requests had also been lazily ignored by us, the carefree guests. The cleaners’ diligent scrub down and total sterilisation of the holiday rental would now take even longer.
Upon reflection it seems clear to me that the holiday makers are the winners in the battle back to holiday normalcy in post lockdown Britain. Those who are lucky enough to find accommodation for the weekend that is. Their plight is minimal, as long as they are prepared to book in advance, and as long as they are prepared to rely a little more than usual on their own culinary adventure. The unpredictable weather remains their greatest foe.
For workers in the travel, leisure and hospitality industry in Cornwall, it is a harder fight. The onus is on local businesses to cater to the COVID concerns of the city lifeblood, as well as to adhere to government guidelines. Facing a shorter season, wary hospitality footfall, and a potential threat to the health of the regional community, it certainly is a tough summer to make hay whilst the sun shines.