Coastal vestiges: the seaside resorts of north Wales
Beth McAulay explores the promenades and piers of the north Wales coastline, reflecting on why we should reconsider our nostalgic attachments to our seaside resorts
It’s a mid-week afternoon in February, so I am surprised by the density of off-season crowds lapping Llandudno’s promenade. Overhead, an equally dense cluster of rapacious seagulls congregate, plunging periodically to thieve donuts and 99-Flakes from the heedless tourists. I can more or less identify who is not wholly familiar with Llandudno pier by whether they’ve purchased any food. The seagulls here are exceptionally malignant, so to stroll holding any of the available confectionery is to put your very life in peril.
Perhaps such an evaluation – quantifying the proportion of tourists to natives merely by whether they’ve unsuspectingly subjected themselves to the insatiable predation of the birds – isn’t great journalistic practice. Nonetheless, it’s habitual for me to make this distinction whilst walking in the areas of North Wales that have long been dependent on the tourist economy, and have therefore long been defined by the sector’s attractions.
Llandudno, by my estimations, appears to remain the healthiest of the seaside resorts along the northernmost stretch of Wales’ coast. Rather anomalously, it’s retained its kitschy resort allure, continuing to successfully define itself by its celebrated past. This degree of preservation – historical, cultural, architectural – is quite unparalleled across the region’s various coastal towns. The epicentre of this campaign is, indisputably, the Grade II listed Victorian pier: the longest in Wales, now privately maintained.
I’m intrigued by the pier as a symbol, or nexus point for evaluation of seaside resort towns in my locality; their economic health and residual touristic value. Piers are artefacts that date from a period of prosperity for tourism in Wales, an industry which since the beginning of this century has suffered a witnessable erosion. On the northeast shoreline, resort town communities have already markedly suffered from this decline in the tourist inflow. Some drown in disrepute, waste in economic atrophy, endure the consecutive closures of attractions, and consequently a reduction in historically reliable seasonal work. Towns like Rhyl, where I was raised, enjoyed a prosperous tourist trade in the twentieth century. But having lost its pier several decades ago, the town now awaits the kind of redemptive reinvention that efforts to modernise could offer.
Despite this deterioration, I find that my hometown and several of the ex-seaside resorts situated on the northern coast still embrace the now contestably anachronistic identity of the Welsh littoral resort. It’s been advantageous in the past for Wales to be partly characterised by the popularity of its coastal offerings. But I’m concerned that this nostalgic complacency – and retrospective favouritism – perpetuates an over-reliance on the same domestic tourist markets as several decades prior. By this I mean the successive generations of British visitors who, compelled predominantly by a nostalgic impulse, return to our coastal resorts year after year. As a young Welshperson, furthermore, I’m concerned that such a staunch inclination towards preservation at the expense of development is an impediment – not only to the diversification of our tourist economy, but also to the retention of Wales’ younger population.
I advance along Llandudno pier as it protrudes above the sea. Beyond the lysergic hysteria of the arcades, the redolent miasmas emanating from food kiosks, and the few children’s rides partly enveloped by tarpaulin. I then approach a succession of retail cabins: half of them unoccupied entirely, some enclosing troves of bizarre objects blanketed by strata of dust. One that is open sells an obscene assortment of pet food, and has a wooden crate at the fore of its display containing an amputated, near-necrotising deer leg. Opposite, a temporary pop-up tasting booth promotes the nearby Aber Falls distillery. These additions seem discordant, not merely amongst themselves, but also with whatever retro seaside style is seemingly being aspired towards.
What I do notice, beyond the bewildering and slightly impotent glitz, is that the benches adorning the boards of the pier all seem to be furnished with memorial plaques. Each inscribed with the names of the now-deceased, above professions of their love of the pier. It warps the atmosphere melancholically; and I begin to recontextualise my perception of the pier’s community function. It’s effectively a memorial: to departed eras, departed people. It’s a kind of cenotaph.
Sometimes, these impassioned endeavours to embalm the vestiges of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries conclude rather spiritlessly. Colwyn Bay’s Victoria Pier – derelict and unsuitable for pedestrian use, collapsing into itself and the swell for several decades – underwent a restoration provoked by resident campaigns, only to later be deemed an ‘empty diving board’. As earnest and well-intentioned as these efforts are, retreating to a restoration of the past, rather than confronting the task of installing contemporarily attractive tourist infrastructure, can be deflating.
Similar sentiments could be expressed about Rhyl’s SC2, the self-professed replacement for the Sun Centre, which does not receive the same degree of esteem as its predecessor. It appears that even efforts to amalgamate heritage with modern engineering causes a kind of ambient absence, a simultaneous suffocation of both old and new auras, resulting in something redundantly confused.
However, the preservation of some of these landmarks, such as Llandudno pier, I consider to be substantially justified – imperative, perhaps, to a respectful treatment of our collective national memory. And, it would appear, the memories of those who’ve now passed. That doesn’t negate the fact that they only feebly scaffold what remains of North Wales’s halcyon era. The pier remains the preeminent attraction, testament to desperate sentimentalisation, the nostalgic myopia by which this attrited era is fortified. Which, in turn, I fear is compromising the evolution of a new North Wales coastal ‘brand’ and the erection of modern attractions for the young.
Wales, particularly in the northern and rural localities, contends with the fact that it cannot adequately retain its youth. Seduced by the vivacity and opportunity of places elsewhere, young people simply relocate beyond our borders. No wonder, when our leisure infrastructure favours memorialisation over providing more than an increasingly narrow selection of truly appealing social and cultural facilities. Indeed, much of the past success of our ex-seaside resorts can be attributed to the selection of youth-oriented social spaces (nightclubs, concert halls, fairgrounds, etc.) that have since been closed down.
The issue of our disengaged youth is inextricably entwined with broader obstacles in the tourism sector: the dominant groups amongst those who visit our country continue to be older people, or family units. And this, at least in the instance of our seaside resorts, likely derives from the emphasis on a sustained nostalgic appeal – an appeal that will inevitably be progressively lost.
In 2023, the Welsh Affairs Committee published a parliamentary report expressing concerns that Wales does not present an equal degree of clarity in its international reputation as its British counterparts. Which, in turn, is reflected in our proportionally low visitor rate compared to England, Scotland and Ireland. Succinctly, there’s a lack of understanding abroad about what Wales can show for itself.
Fortunately, there have been successes in elevating North Wales’ status as a tourist destination by somewhat diversifying its offerings to an international audience. Namely, the ‘Welcome to Wrexham’ campaign, or the promotion of adventure sports facilities in Snowdonia. This is a start, though admittedly it remains too localised; and seems an exercise in simply relocating our areas of touristic value without ameliorating the sorts of challenges facing our coastal towns.
As it stands, then, our seaside resort towns depend considerably on the revisitation of tourists who have a pre-existing affiliation with these areas; that is, those who can indulge in a personal nostalgia. Our piers seem integral to this experience.
For some towns, like Rhyl, this almost ironic nostalgia is all that now scaffolds our tourism industry, with many of its past attractions now defunct or demolished. Moreover, Rhyl serves to evidence that establishing such an economic over-reliance on tourism is like constructing a pier in a ferociously corrosive sea. We need to construct facilities that will attract existing populations, and enliven the town’s own social and cultural scene. In turn, the issue of whether North Wales is reputationally exciting enough to attract younger tourists will become far less intimidating, far less insurmountable.
Interestingly, international tourists report that one of the most important aspects of holidaying in Wales is an authentic encounter with Welsh culture, customs, and heritage. Perhaps I’m too cynical, but I’m inclined to consider whether our seaside resorts represent a part of Wales that is marginalised in international perceptions of ‘Welshness’.
Due to the protracted dominance of tourism, as well as coaligned patterns of migration into Wales from northern England, I fear that the seaside resort towns of North East Wales exhibit few remaining demarcations of traditional ‘Welshness’. I’m hesitant to categorise certain areas as ‘Welsh’ and others ‘not Welsh enough’. But, I think it is reasonable to hope for an opportunity for our ex-resort towns to recoup a relationship of cultural exchange with the wider Wales, with more prevalent notions of ‘Welshness’ - especially if this constitutes new touristic trends. I’ve always believed that the perpetuation of the seaside resort town – an identity that persistently imposes itself on our coastal communities, and purposes them predominantly as domains of tourist leisure – is restrictive to these towns reconciling a thorough and proud claim to Welshness.
We’re fortunate in North Wales to have such well-maintained piers, as well as communities who care about our past sufficiently to exert themselves preserving it. My concern with these landmarks lies with what they represent within the wider ideology of place: what do our seaside resort towns now stand for? Who are they for? The pier, ultimately, continues to emblematise the seaside resort, and the affiliated cultural identity that is gradually failing our coastal communities. Such loyalty to this culture is an impediment not only to providing for the young and visitor demographics of today, but to these town’s evolutions entirely.
Love the description of the malignant seagulls! 🤣