The village splits in two today: the one I know and love, and the one that arrives with
cool boxes, sun cream, and opinions to be unpacked like beach towels.
Until now we have had busy weekend skirmishes, from today it’s a full on invasion.
The lilywhites appear first… pale as unbleached paper, dressed in clothes they wouldn’t risk wearing within fifty miles of home. “Old Guys Rule,” their T‑shirts declare, as if the village needed reminding. Accents scatter loudly across the streets like dropped chips: Brummie, Valleys, Penarthish, Yorkshire, Chinese, American, Cockney, and yes…… Brummie again, echoing like a chorus no one rehearsed.
Cyclists glide past in vacuum‑sealed lycra, training for a Tour de France that will never call their name. Runners follow, equally shrink‑wrapped, as if shorts and a T‑shirt were outlawed sometime last Tuesday.
Dog walkers sweep the pavements with at least three dogs on twenty‑foot leads stretched wide like tripwires. They ignore the beach signs, ignore the picnic tables, ignore the concept of sharing. The tide laps politely. The dogs do not.
Refuse collectors move quietly, the village’s steady heartbeat beneath the summer noise.
The swimming groups, numb nuts and bluetits, stride into the water, proud disciples of the one-minute-per-degree rule. Fine in winter, by August, they’ll need forwarding addresses.
Listen to the flags. The young lifeguards keeping us safe. No Hasselhoff or Anderson, but still very Baywatch.
A toddler screams for a toilet with the urgency of a political scandal.
Cars queue around the seafront, children’s faces pressed to windows, waiting for the first glimpse of the sea as if it might have moved since last year.
A boy clutches his bucket and spade like ceremonial tools. He will build a kingdom…. His father will build an Empire….. Balance must be maintained.
Coastal walkers arrive dressed for Kilimanjaro, armed with laminated maps, water tubes, safari hats, and enough gear to survive a minor apocalypse. They walk three miles and call it a pilgrimage.
A convoy of mobility scooters hum along the promenade. A gentle procession of independence and can-do persistence.
Someone feeds the seagulls. Despite the signs. Chips fly. Screams follow. Aerial bombardment commences.
The tides Ebb and Flow, a reliable constant for us all.
The open top bus rolls through, blue and cheerful, carrying people who gasp at the coastline stretching out before them, believing they’ve discovered it for the first time in human history.
Beach trolleys creak under the weight of everything except common sense. A child sits Royally on top. Another may be underneath. Hard to tell. In between it’s everything from body boards to dry robes, cool boxes to beach tents.
Café tables spill onto pavements, families grazing, coffee machines hissing out a dictionary of options no one truly understands. Doughnuts melt. Chocolate drips. Bacon sizzles. The village smells like temptation and regret.
A visitor explains confidently that the tunnels were built twenty years ago for the benefit of the tourists. The stones, older and wiser, listen without saying a word.
The sensory gardens breathe quietly, a small miracle of colour and calm ignored by most but grateful sanctuary for the few.
In the harbour boats bob. Paddle boarders wobble between courage and gravity.
An open water swimmer traverses the bay, dragging a small child behind him…oh no, silly me it’s a buoyancy aid.
Children haul up crabs, screaming triumph, while the crabs contemplate escape and the circling gulls contemplate lunch.
Ice cream vans chime, their songs drifting like childhood memories that refuse to fade.
Families fortify themselves behind a wagon train of windbreakers, a circle of cloth and hope. Smoke rising from barbecues like signals in the sky.
The sweet sound of a ladies’ choir drifts across the square ….. “Myfanwy” floating over the chaos like a calming hand.
A coach unloads its visitors. All desperate for a loo, not a view. They form a queue and quickly discover that with clever door‑management, one 40p pee can serve the whole bus.
A family uses their phone like an open‑mic speak‑easy, kindly sharing how poor Aunty Mary broke her wrist, tripping over a hosepipe after filling the bird feeder with fat balls.
The Rotary Club sandcastle competition turns the beach into a battleground of competitive families, each digging like the trophy depends on family honour. Castles rise in every imaginable form, moated fortresses, dragon‑shaped ramparts and mermaid
kingdoms. Stern looking Judges wander past with clipboards, trying to be impartial…while parents negotiate victory through smiles sharpened like weapons.
Young men strut. Young women master the ancient art of pretending not to notice.
And through it all, the village stands —Part joy, part irritation, part beauty, part uproar.
A monochrome symphony painted in sunlight.
Saundersfoot in summer: exhausting, exasperating…
….. exactly why I love it.
David Baxter
These are just a few of the little things that make me smile every summer. I’m sure you’ve spotted plenty more. If you have your own favourite Saundersfoot observation, I’d genuinely love to hear it. Please leave a comment below.
More observations: The Coffee Morning Chronicles
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