“I grew up in ‘the prettiest seaside village in England’ – but I wouldn’t like to live there now”

I was lucky enough to grow up in what is undoubtedly one of the most beautiful seaside villages in the UK – Mousehole in Cornwall. I came back recently – and realized I really wouldn’t want to live there now.

Welsh poet and writer Dylan Thomas, who honeymooned in Mousehole, called it “the most beautiful village in England”. A Welshman should probably know better – many Cornish, like the Welsh, consider themselves to be part of a proudly independent Celtic nation, one that should never be conflated with England.

Mosehole was a truly magical place to spend my 1980s childhood – and I’m sure it’s still a great place to grow up in now, in these not-so-great twenties. Who wouldn’t want a childhood full of boats, rock pools and death-defying jumps off harbor walls and cliffs into cobalt blue seas?

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But my recent (all-to-short) visit reminded me how much the Mousehole has changed. And how I wouldn’t want to leave my home in the “big smoke” of old-fashioned but underrated Plymouth to return as a full-time resident, the Express reports.

Physically, at least at first glance, the Mousehole has barely changed in the decades since I left. The tightly packed cottages still clung like clings to its rib.

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And Mousehole’s narrow lanes still wind away from its clam-shaped harbor like cracks in the crazy pavement. These ensured that there was little room for modern developments and glass-fronted construction appeared elsewhere in Cornwall.

The changes are much more subtle than the multi-million pound nonsense with epic sea views for the Hollywood elite. In some ways, the changes are much, much more insidious.

When I was growing up, Mousehole was still a real community. It had two general stores, plus a butcher’s shop, a post office and a newspaper rental. These shops – along with the two pubs, the Royal British Legion, a football club and two chapels – were the beating heart of local life.

Today, all that remains of those vital facilities are the Legion, a pub – the famous Ship Inn, home to the infamous Stargazy pie, with fish heads rising through a sea of ​​pastry – and a chapel. The rest have all been swept away by a wave of tourism – and replaced by galleries, craft shops and holiday homes.

The closest mouse hole to a general store these days is a bougie deli. While the produce they stock is undeniably delicious, the artisanal goods come at artisanal prices—and they’re not too much of a cop-out when you’ve run out of beans and other basics.

So what changed? Even in my youth – which is a lot longer ago than I’d like to admit to myself – Mosehole was a mecca for tourists. Indeed, my family – several of whom still call the village home today – exploded as tourists in the 1970s, fell in love with the place and made it their home.

Mousehole’s fame and allure grew exponentially in the years that followed. This was due in part to the catastrophically tragic events of December 19, 1981.

The Penlee Lifeboat disaster saw eight brave men from a village of less than a thousand souls lose their lives. They died in a heroic but ultimately futile attempt to save the lives of eight other people who were stranded on the Union Star, a stricken freighter that had crashed into the towering granite cliffs near Tater Dhu Lighthouse , during a fierce storm.

Every resident of Mousehole lost a friend or family member on that awful, awful night. For an eight-year-old, it was my cousin Kevin Smith, who – at just 23 – was the youngest crew member on board the ill-fated but illustrious Solomon Browne of the RNLI.

The resulting news coverage, of a village in shock and then mourning, catapulted Mousehole into the international spotlight. Its Christmas lights – which now go out every December 19 – kept the village in the news for years to come.

And they, like the story of the Mouse-cat – a beautifully illustrated children’s book inspired by the village’s Tom Bawcock Eve celebrations, which are still held on December 23 – meant that the village still attracted tourists in the winter season, when the biggest part of the rest of Cornwall. was recovered by the locals.

One result of this year-round attraction is that Mousehole has succumbed to the disadvantages of tourism much more quickly than many other places in Cornwall. Its quaint cottages were taken as second homes in increasing numbers.

Today, Mousehole’s full-time population has dwindled to just over 500 people. That’s a 50 percent reduction from 2001, when the village was home to more than 750 people — and even then, it had already been badly hit by the death toll of empty homes.

The results of all this are plain to see today. While Mousehole still has a close-knit community at its core, there are too few residents to support even a single proper store. Instead, residents have to leave the village and head for Newlyn, where there is a co-op – or further afield to Penzance if they want a bigger supermarket.

Having spent the last two decades living in a city, I’m not sure I want a life where I can’t go out for a pint of milk and meet my neighbors. Mousehole will always have my heart – and it will be where I think home is. But even if I could afford to live there, I’m not sure I would – even if it’s still the prettiest village (not) in England…