by “This is Dad’s Army England and we want to keep it that way. What’s wrong with that?”
It’s a good question for a cold afternoon in the Essex seaside town of Frinton-on-Sea. I think about it for a bit as I watch the mobility scooters whizzing down the main street, where the shops are closed because it’s Wednesday. That’s something that happens here, the stores close on Wednesdays. Frinton plays by his own rules.
“He has a reputation,” admits the fifty-something Frintonian I speak to, who prefers to remain anonymous. “It’s always been pretty traditional.”
That’s a euphemism. Frinton, a downright snobbish seaside resort famous for resisting change, is the unofficial capital of England. He infamously said “no” to a fish and chip shop until 1992, amid concerns he would tone it down. He fought tooth and nail against the radical pub concept for similar reasons, and finally agreed in 2000. He is now leading the fight against second homes.
In a sign, perhaps, of things to come for the rest of England, local councilors – in anticipation of the new powers they will soon be granted – have voted to increase council tax on properties that are not occupied in time complete from 2025. .
The aim of the 100 per cent tax increase is to discourage outsiders from buying holiday homes in the Tendring district, where Frinton is located, and turn them into Cornish-style holiday-only ghost towns. The locals I speak to widely applaud the move, but hope it “makes no difference” given how deep pockets must be to shop around here.
That Frinton is among the first towns in England to take advantage of the new powers (Welsh councils and, as of December 2023, Scots already have the option) is no surprise given its history of daddy’s army resistance.
Although it’s funny, I don’t remember Bedouin restaurants or tapas bars in Dad’s Army. But Frinton has one of each, and everyone I talk to raves about them, including the anonymous local.
“We’re not against change, we’re just against change,” he says. “I realize that sounds terribly snobbish.”
Indeed. But it’s an attitude that feels collective at Frinton, and there’s honesty in it; perhaps it is a reminder that there is an agility hidden within all of us. Walking down the main street towards Frinton’s unusual grassy promenade, I can’t help but feel there is something to be said for (sometimes) clinging to the old ways.
If Frinton had rolled out the red carpet for big chains, as most cities have done, it would probably have a lot of empty stores on its hands. Instead, he is full of small independents. Some look like they haven’t seen a punter since the Blair years, but no matter: Frinton is, if nothing else, defiant. No an identikit town (despite Greggs and Costa breaking through).
“Everything is online now, so it’s nice that we still have all these independents,” says Karen Kent, who is shopping at Great Danes, a super-trendy Danish homewares store on the high street.
One of Frinton’s few concessions to the chill, Great Danes is directed by Birgitte McLain, a former Danish translator for the European Parliament. Why Frinton? “I was looking for a sandy beach to walk my Labrador,” she says. “And it’s close to London.”
Great Danes also doubles as a wine bar on some nights. A cork pops, suggesting this is one of them. “I come every week after I’ve done my shopping,” says Ann Tooby, a glamorous former City of London runner, as she sips wine.
“I did the bar thing because I thought something was missing here,” McLain adds, pouring me a glass. “Here everything closes at 5:30, even in summer, it’s very strange. But you can’t tell them, they won’t listen.”
They? The local nimby brigade, who were up in arms a few years ago when the council replaced the man who opened the level crossing gates with automatic barriers. “They had to remove the doors in the middle of the night. [in case of protests]”says McLain. “This is what you’re up against.”
The doors, however, were hugely symbolic at Frinton. The only way to get in and out of the city, they were for a long time an indicator of status; Living “within the gates” carried a certain cachet, an air of exclusivity; “outside the gates” not so much.
It’s an attitude that persists among some older residents. A bit of local news I heard almost everywhere (a testament to how small Frinton is, but also his perspective) concerned a local woman and her Jaguar. Versions of the story varied, but she was allegedly stopped for driving without insurance, taxes or MOT (and, according to some, without a licence). When the police officer highlighted her many misdemeanors, she simply responded “it’s okay officer, I live within the gates.”
I walk to the Lock and Barrel, the first and only pub within the gates. Peter Clarke, its owner, believes that even the most ardent local skeptics have flocked to the pub.
“I see them standing outside, looking out the windows at 11 in the morning to see what we’re doing with the place,” he says, as fruit vending machines flicker nearby. “People are realizing it’s a warm, welcoming, family-friendly pub.”
In front of Lock and Barrel, Hannah Giles closes Caxton Books for the day. Giles grew up in Frinton and never planned to return after pursuing a career in television. But something made her back away.
“It’s a little bubble, a close-knit community,” she says, surrounded by beautiful book displays. “There are a lot of people like us who try to stay creative. Summer theater is great. It is an elegant and traditional coastal town. It’s not a kiss-me-quick town. I love it.”
Another returnee is the elegant restaurateur Andreas Mina. Having worked at London’s Soho House, he migrated across the Essex marshes to Frinton to help his mother, Zsazsa, run Avenue Bistro, which wouldn’t feel out of place in the West End.
“It’s a fun place,” he says of Frinton, but everyone does it: they’re aware of its weirdness. “You either love it or hate it, but we love it. “He has given us a lot over the years and we wanted to give something back.”
I walk out of Avenue Bistro into the cold night. On the way back to the station, two schoolgirls pass me in a shopping cart. It’s a nice bit of crime in prim and proper Frinton; a reminder that what is a dream for the elderly is often sad for the young. I want to ask them if they’ve heard of Dad’s Army, but they’re going too fast.
