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(Photo of the ciffs at Slapton. Photo by a.mcgahern @ flickr.)
Between the lighthouse at Start Point and the beach at Slapton Sands lies the abandoned village of Hallsands. Here, on the southern coast of England, the deep red of Devonian cliffs shear off into the sea below a patchwork of farmland. The shades of green pasture and yellow grain make a madras stitched together by hedgerows and speckled with sheep. Between the sleepy summer towns, and the second homes of the wealthy, its hard to believe that here, where England feels like old England, man would be fighting to slow down nature.
Strictly speaking, Slapton Sands is a thin ribbon of shingle beach running between the English Channel and Slapton Ley -- the largest body of fresh water in the Southwest of England. Viewed as a snapshot, it's a beautiful place, with two ecosystems nestled against each other. Moreover, it's the home of many rare flora and fauna, and has been officially designated a Site of Special Scientific Interest (SSSI) within the larger South Devon Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty.
Extend the timeline, however, and the picture becomes more dynamic. Slapton Ley is being recaptured by ecological succession, where sediment and nutrient rich agricultural runoff are filling in both lakes within the Ley. Meanwhile, Slapton Sands is slowly being thinned by the natural recession of the coast. Together, they form a one two knock-out for the villages perched on the edge of the coast.
In January, 1979, for instance, a major storm hit the neighboring towns of Beesands and Torcross. Houses were destroyed, much of the beach changed, and the large sections of the ribbon of a road that runs between Slapton Sands and Slapton Ley was destroyed. Another major storm hit in 2001. The storm came as a warning, and prompted a heavy investment in coastal protection. Millions have been spent by the government to erect what amounts of a cross section in coastal protection design: sections of concrete sea walls meet rock deposits meet beach nourishment and rip-rap. Together, these efforts amount to an expensive campaign to stop natural processes and protect what are, predominately, second-homes.
What the storm should have reminded them of were the Trout sisters, the last residents of the town of Hallsands, a few miles south of Slapton. The Trout sisters were, as our guide said, fisherwomen bred of hard stock. One night, a storm hit the coast and a wave came down upon and through their thatched roof, flooding the house, and nearly washing grandma Trout out the door. With the staircase up the cliff washed away, she was forced to climb up the cliff face and into the local village with her four grandchildren. All made it out alive, but the village was, after this, largely abandoned.
(Photo of abandoned house at Hallsands, used couresty of NoelJ @ flickr. Creative Commons license.)
The story reminds one of the salt-of-the-earth hardship we tend to celebrate. But as an analogue to the current residents of Beesands and Torcross, and to those who wish to protect Slapton Sands, it is a reminder of the foolhardy nature of their gambit. The tides rise and fall, sea currents shift. The beach can no more be protected than these forces stopped. It is a fool's errand, and an expensive one, paid for by the UK taxpayer.
Look no further than a new housing community at Beesands. One house, closest to the water, is perched on a ledge. Behind it are abandoned homes. In the driveway sat a shiny Range Rover towing a boat. And beneath it, should you care to look, are caves that extend 30 to 40 meters back into the cliff and under the house.
This story breaks down into the essential elements of tragedy. There is the Slapton Ley Field Center, acting as the force of good. There is a nature herself as a force of destruction. There are local houses, and coast, as the unsuspecting victims. There is class warfare. And there is a plot that, for unfolding slowly, is ever more painful.
I would like to think there is also a lesson. If not a lesson, than a question: Who are we protecting this beach for?
Other questions follow. If we claim to be preserving biodiversity, how much will we spend to protect species that may be critically endangered here, but abundant elsewhere? And if we're protecting biodiversity, do we claim to be protecting it against human harm or preserving it against natural processes? Put slightly differently, are we spending millions to protect this natural landscape from ourselves or from itself?
If we're honest, I think the answer is a bit of both. Either way, it strikes me as partially ironic, partially sad. We are losing this place. And there is little we can or should do to stop it.
Mowing the Lawn