Crowded with Contradictions

We often play a game as we round the final bend before the car park at out regular beach. It’s a hangover from when our kids were little and we lived not far from where we do now. “How many cars?” one of us asks. The other answers first and then the one who asked the question offers their guess. Closest to the correct number wins. There’s an advantage in going last of course, because you can choose a number just below or just above the first person’s guess and thereby have a wider range of high or low numbers within your range. High or low being an advantage depending on how crowded the car park is likely to be. Of course, it’s more complicated if there are more than two players, but most mornings these days, it’s just Rob and me in the car.

On cold winter mornings with the sun feebly glimpsing over the dunes and throwing pale light on the grey water, the safest first guess is generally around three and it is a toss up as to whether saying two or four as the second guess comes with the best odds. Sometimes we are the first car there. Sometimes there might be up to half a dozen, mostly cars we recognise; all the regulars we have become used to seeing at the beach early - Barry, Wendy, Erica, Susanjane, Val, Reid and Eden. On a few occasions last winter, I went later and stumbled across a completely different cohort - all locals who swim regularly but at different times.

Summer holidays tell a different story.

Christmas morning. Five thirty. “How many cars?” I asked. “Six,” Rob said. “At five-thirty?” I scoffed, “No way. I say five.” Confident the lower number would win easily.

We pulled into the carpark. There was barely a space left in the main part of the car park. I counted seventeen cars. “Don’t these people know it’s early?” I lamented. “Shouldn’t they be home opening presents?”

On the beach it wasn’t crowded. After all, seventeen cars doesn’t count as crowded in most beach car parks. There were a few groups of people walking. A few regulars swimming. We said some hellos and merry Christmases to friends. We swam. By the time we left, the main car park was completely full. Dozens and dozens of cars. A new arrival waited for us to leave our bay and slipped straight in as we pulled away.

It gets worse. As in, it gets busier. Worse is the value judgement I lay over the numbers.

One morning between Christmas and New Year the roadside bays as well as the main car park were full when we went down, ‘late’, at seven thirty. We parked up the hill in a secondary car park. I rarely wear shoes to the beach. My bare feet were not anticipating a longish walk along the cement footpath. At least it was early enough that the path wasn’t hot. The beach itself that day was more crowded. People in the water. People walking. People lying on the sand. People soaking up the beauty.

On days like that, I catch myself feeling almost resentful. I prefer the days when I walk along with a clear expanse of beach before me, not a person in sight, or perhaps Wendy or Susanjane coming back from their walk. Perhaps I bump into Erica heading out for her walk as I return. A friendly face. A hello. A quick chat. Not a beach full of strangers.

When I swim, I usually do a lot of backstroke, gliding across the water’s surface with the sky above me. (At least I imagine I’m gliding; I am perhaps flailing!) Gong backwards comfortable in the knowledge that there is no-one around to crash into. With the crowds around, backstroke is a risk.

So these little resentments bubble up in me; a feeling of being crowded, of being invaded. And yet…

And yet the very things that bring these crowds of tourists to ‘my’ local beach are the very same things that made me want to move here in the first place. The absolute stunning beauty of the place. The clarity of the water. The purity of the sand. The serenity - because even when it is crowded by local standards, it’s not exactly a crowded beach. There’s space between the towels on the sand. There is still plenty of room to swim. (Just be careful if backstroke is your thing.)

I am a relatively new resident of this place. I’ve lived here previously but it is little over three years since we returned. In previous years I have been one of those people crowding the place over the holiday seasons and deserting it at other times. Now, fortunate enough to call this special place home, what right do I have to resent those who only get to visit briefly?

I try to change my attitude. I try to feel grateful that I get to regularly visit this place that so many want to come to for a brief holiday, perhaps for a single visit in a life time. And I am honestly full of gratitude for that fact. Full of gratitude for the beauty in which I am immersed so frequently. But crowds of tourists, while so essential to a town like my home town, bring an undeniable shadow along with their pockets full of cash.

This very topic made my hometown hit national headlines a while ago when a sign was erected in a farm paddock saying ‘Hometown not tourist town’ in response to a proposed tourism development. Again, this summer, we have been in the news, along with other favoured holiday destinations in this corner of the world. Local issues about crowds, parking and access. But not just a local problem. They are questions tourist towns the world over ask: How many is enough? How much is too much? What to do when the limits are reached? Who sets the limits? Already here there is a housing and homelessness crisis with holiday rentals pushing locals out of rented homes. What does the future hold?

These are questions I ponder when I think of travel. I’ve not been a great traveller - I am far too much of a homebody to be a bold adventurer. But as my responsibilities to work and others dwindle, I’m increasingly drawn back towards the idea of travel. Of exploration. Of going elsewhere. To visit. To experience difference. To be a tourist somewhere else. Which means I run the risk of being the person whose presence crowds out someone’s enjoyment of their local place, even if the dollars I spend while visiting bring something to that local economy. Which means I need to accept that others will come here. That I will, at times, struggle to find a parking spot at my favourite beach. That the shelves in the local supermarket will sometimes be bare of essentials at the height of summer. That I will pick up litter on the side of paths and, correctly or not, grumble about visitors trashing the place.

I can’t have it both ways. I can’t want to explore the world and keep this place to myself. I can’t want to live here and not welcome others to come here. Life doesn’t work like that. The world doesn’t work like that. Perhaps there is no paradox in lamenting the holiday crowds and feeling grateful that the wild beauty of this place is mine to enjoy year round. Perhaps the trick is in holding the two things simultaneously. In learning also to simultaneously hold the love of being at home with the desire for the adventure of going away.

Thanks for reading,

Jill