With one of the worst pub food experiences, a deserted high street and a pint-glass littered river front – there is only one thing going for this Essex town.
Driving out of the sun-dappled bucolic roads of Highgate, a sense of stillness and dread descended on our A12 approach to Burnham-on-Crouch.
Drizzle spat onto the window as the windscreen wipers failed to fully clear the smudgy stain obscuring our first St George’s flag sighting on turning into Maldon – arguably patient zero of the recent redecorating of the country.
“Oh my God, look at the price of petrol”, my friend and driver Pierre shouted, veering off the road.
At a truly shocking £1.289 a litre – this was easily the highlight of the trip.
Trudging out of our faded periwinkle Nisan Micra in the co-operative car park, it seemed we had injected the only shade of colour into the bleakest town in the UK, reports The Express.
The sky was white-grey, the community boards bleached into oblivion, and the streets were desolate, and strangely perfumed with what smelled like incense.
Along the so-called high street we stumbled upon our first stop, the Essex & Herts Air Ambulance charity shop. A man in a fitted leather jacket best left in the early naughties made a B-line for the front desk and asked the cashier if they “had any war records.”
This would have seemed odd if it weren’t for what sounded like a 1940s factory choir blasting through the sound system. Lined by pebble dash magnolia homes, the high street was thronged with bloated Land Rover Discoveries, surprisingly well polished against the cracking paint of the houses behind them.
Walking on, we got chatting to a man on a stall outside a barber shop. He said he commuted from London to the family business. When asked what he thought of Burnham-on-Crouch, namely the amount of St George’s flags, he said only “I try to stay out of politics.”
Next on the charity shop roster was the Helen Rollason Cancer Charity. A volunteer came bustling out of the back shouting to her second that she needed back up because “there are quite a few customers out here.” There were a total of four of us in the shop.
It was a surprise some wares had made it past the screening process onto the shop floor. Specifically, one doll dressed as a Native American had made it to the shelves and it looked old enough to pre-date the toy industry’s push for better representation of the global population. The book shelves were almost-exclusively stocked with war books, with Allan Bullock’s questionably named ‘Hitler and Stalin: Parallel Lives’.
Considering the St George’s flag to actual human being ratio, the town’s war memorial was surprisingly sparse following the recent 80th VJ day. There was just one kitchen-clock sized wreath next to the monument, yet every chiropodist, beauty salon, hairdresser and corner shop was adorned with either a Union Jack or a St George’s flag.
Walking along the promenade, it was clear the River Crouch itself was Burnham’s best chance at making a convincing postcard. However, considering the dregs of the September sunshine, it more closely resembled a milieu for a disgruntled Brit-slop ITV detective to look out on whilst toiling over his case.
Then was our lunch. With a couple of suspicious looks up and down, and the smell of a carpeted woody interior- the pub seemed nice enough. I ordered the cranberry and brie toastie, and Pierre ordered a tuna melt with chips to share.
I became nervous when I heard the (deathly quiet) table next to us complain about something in their food. Then, Pierre pulled a food-covered hair from his toastie, before, astoundingly, ploughing on.
This was handled with an apology and we were offered a free pudding – which we declined – and they ended up taking our lime soda and pint off the bill.
After lunch I proposed a tea stop at The Cabin Dairy. This was the town’s one saving grace. The interior resembled the height of neo-Victorian maximalism of 2009, with the shelves looking like a jumbled raid of TK Maxx’s knick-knack section.
The staff were warm, and the scone was delicious, soft and straight out of the oven.
I was surprised to be so happy to fork out any more money in what I had decided was indeed the bleakest town in the UK. If you do find yourself near Burnham – don’t go if you can help it – but know that the Cabin Dairy is there to mop up the emotional drainage of your, hopefully brief, stay.