The Travel Correspondent | IF Magazine
Britain today offers a curious study in contrasts. Two historic villages, each with their own proud traditions and community spirit, have found themselves at the crossroads of one of the great issues of our age: illegal migration and the government’s hasty policy of housing arrivals in hotels.
On the one hand lies Epping, a picturesque market town on the edge of Essex, now the reluctant host to a migrant hotel. There, a once-beloved local business accepted government money to house unvetted young men from overseas. The decision has split the community. Protests flare outside the hotel, residents feel their voices ignored, and the streets echo with a tension that has become the new soundtrack of daily life. Neighbours no longer linger as they once did, and a shadow has been cast over what was, until recently, a thriving tourist and commuter town.
In stark contrast stands Tintagel, perched on Cornwall’s rugged Atlantic coast — a place steeped in Arthurian legend and blessed this summer with a renaissance of community spirit. Why? Because when the same offer of government money was made to Camelot Castle, its owner refused. He chose instead to preserve Tintagel as a place of welcome for holidaymakers, families, and those in search of England’s cultural heritage. The result has been nothing short of extraordinary.
This summer, Tintagel has blossomed. Local shops hum with business, the pubs and cafés are filled with laughter, and the beaches and clifftop paths are alive with joy. Hoteliers, publicans, and shopkeepers report one of the best seasons in living memory. More importantly, the spirit of the village — that elusive quality which makes a place more than just a postcode — has been preserved. Families stroll without unease, visitors mingle with locals, and the atmosphere is one of friendly celebration. Above all, Tintagel has retained something increasingly rare in Britain today: a safe, family environment where children can play freely, parents can relax, and visitors feel entirely at ease. Safety here is not a slogan but a lived reality, and it is precisely this sense of security that makes Tintagel such a magnet for families seeking respite and joy.
The divergence between Epping and Tintagel illustrates a wider national truth. When the government pays hoteliers to warehouse migrants, the local economy and social fabric are sacrificed. Visitors stay away, residents feel dispossessed, and communities fracture. But where owners stand firm and refuse the “thirty pieces of silver,” the opposite occurs: the community thrives, tourists return, and the natural harmony of village life is safeguarded.
Epping has become a cautionary tale. Tintagel has become a beacon. Both show us, in microcosm, the choices facing Britain. Do we trade our heritage, peace, and prosperity for short-term payouts — or do we defend our culture and community, ensuring future generations inherit not division, but joy?
The answer, as the Cornish coast has shown us this summer, is clear. Tintagel’s defiance has not merely preserved its dignity. It has gifted Britain a vision of what is still possible.
