Upon arriving at Frinton-on-Sea, the sight of a blackboard promoting fresh cream teas instead of vending machines signaled a journey not only across the country but also back in time. Initially assuming a leap of about a decade, I quickly realized my mistake. Strolling from the station to the pub, I was serenaded by wartime tunes emanating from pet shops and the resonant strains of military marches from charity shops.
The pub interior was adorned with dusty wartime front-page frames bearing the iconic statement “We Never Surrender.” Entering the Frinton War Memorial club, known as “the Mems,” it became evident that the town was frozen in the era of the first VE Day, serving as a poignant tribute to World War Two.
Queen Elizabeth II’s gaze fixed upon the royal blue velour seats and matching navy carpet of the pub, while Union Jack flags adorned a wall beside an altar-like structure. Various items, including a drum, plastic poppies, and unremarkable trophies, were perched atop a bookshelf, reminiscent of a grandfather’s attic collection. Notably, a prominent book titled “Commando Call of Battle: The Best 10 Commando Comic Books ever!” stood out among the assortment.
Despite blending seamlessly into the town’s aesthetic, the lingering gazes of passersby hinted at their recognition of outsiders. This sentiment was particularly palpable upon entering the club, where heads turned conspicuously to acknowledge a newcomer. An additional formality involved signing a document with personal details and an association with a member named Pierre, who held a temporary membership card, possibly due to a protective stance toward their pricey £5 pints.
My purpose for the visit, the Frinton Summer Season, introduced the most striking contrast. The series of summer plays, each running for a week, took place in the magnolia pebble dash theater opposite the members’ club. Before the performances, the predominantly elderly audience stood to sing the national anthem with heartfelt reverence.
Seeking a respite, Pierre and I ventured to the beach for a traditional fish and chips meal at Young’s Other Place. The bill for one small and one large battered cod with chips and mushy peas amounted to a steep £32. While identification was not required for the meal, the purchase of ketchup by the bottle added an unexpected touch.
Returning on the air-conditioned train to Liverpool Street evoked a sense of relief, juxtaposing the experience in Frinton with the bustling streets of Bethnal Green upon my arrival home. Despite the summer heat and accompanying scents, the familiarity of the urban environment in 2025 was a comforting contrast to the preserved ambiance of Frinton-on-Sea.