I have just returned from Torquay, part of the larger conurbation known as Torbay — several towns pressed together along the curve of the bay, sharing a coastline but retaining their own distinct characters.
We stayed in a modest two-star hotel a stone’s throw from the harbor. About 160 guests were on the same three-night bargain break, most of them in their seventies. It was cheerful rather than glamorous. Dinner, bed, and breakfast were included, along with evening singing entertainment and a bar whose prices felt pleasantly out of step with modern inflation. A full glass of wine is around £4; beer is just over £2 a pint. Nothing pretentious—just practical hospitality.
Traveling by car proved wise. A coach would have added several hours each way, and the freedom to stop and explore suited us. Torquay itself, however, confirmed something important: it is large, spread out, and in many ways dominated by visitors. My original idea had been to wander the streets and collect stories directly from residents, but I quickly realized how many of the people I might approach were tourists with little connection to the deeper rhythms of the place.
I met with one of the administrative leads from the Community Builders group and offered my services — either to write a book in the spirit of my Mendip villages project or to assist with public relations. It was a good meeting, thoughtful and cordial. Yet as I reflected afterwards, the two-hour journey each way and the scale of Torbay made the project feel less organic than I had hoped. It is difficult to write a “living history” when geography and logistics stand between you and the life itself.
That is not to say the trip lacked interest. We explored the museum, used the free bus passes available to pensioners, and visited Brixham—almost island-like at the southern tip of the bay. Independent shops flourished there, and in one café a man dressed as a pirate offered a theatrical nod to the town’s maritime past. There was vitality, certainly—but it felt dispersed.
On the way home we stopped at Chard, where a Community Showcase event was taking place. Local charities and organizations had gathered under one roof to encourage participation. As I walked around speaking to stallholders, I experienced a distinct sense of déjà vu. It reminded me of the cream tea in Priddy that sparked my first village book.
The difference, however, is scale. Priddy and its neighboring villages together numbered around 1,500 people. Chard has close to 14,000. That alters everything. The variety of voices is broader; the potential reach is greater; the complexity is deeper.
I recorded a couple of short interviews and later sent them on. I floated the idea of a book to one or two people, though no firm response has yet emerged. Still, the instinct feels sound. Chard seems compact enough to grasp, yet substantial enough to sustain a serious “living history.”
I do not mind writing another town book. In fact, I enjoy the process—meeting people, asking questions, tracing the invisible threads between projects and personalities. There is also, I admit, a certain thrill in the mechanics of self-publishing. Through KDP/Amazon, if one follows the process carefully, a manuscript can become a printed book within days. It costs nothing to upload; one pays only when ordering copies. The barrier between thought and print is now remarkably thin.
What I am weighing is not whether I can do it, but whether it feels rooted. Torbay felt expansive and slightly out of reach. Chard, by contrast, feels closer to the bone.
Perhaps that is the real test.
