As a teenager, the thought of staying in Morecambe seemed laughable to me. I had dreamed of leaving since I was 14. The grey sea, the dangerous sand, and the persistent wind that tangled my hair left me uninspired by the view of the Lake District fells. The town felt isolated, with only two options: left or right along the promenade. Going straight ahead meant getting stuck in mud and waving for the coastguard.
Over the coming year, the Guardian’s Seascape team will explore the lives of young people in coastal towns across England and Wales through the “Against the Tide” project. Compared to their inland peers, young people in many of England’s coastal areas face higher rates of poverty, poor housing, and limited education and job opportunities. In the most struggling coastal towns, cutbacks in public services and transportation restrict their options further.
Documentary photographer Polly Braden and I will travel to ports, seaside resorts, and former fishing villages, inviting 16- to 25-year-olds to share their experiences and feelings about their hometowns. By highlighting their perspectives, we aim to identify what changes they need to build the futures they envision.
This summer, 25 years after I left, I returned to Morecambe to speak with young locals as part of the “Against the Tide” project. Research consistently shows that life chances decrease dramatically if you grow up on the coast, contradicting Morecambe’s motto: “Beauty surrounds and health abounds.” In reality, poor health is prevalent. One in four people suffers from a long-term illness or disability; smoking and drinking rates are high, and depression is 20% more common than the national average. Men in Morecambe town center have a healthy life expectancy of only 56 years, with an overall life expectancy of 72.
Deprivation is a major issue. My mother, a psychiatrist in Morecambe, often said that no prescription could make poor people rich. Life can be challenging for young people here too. Eleanor Adamson, a witty and bright 22-year-old carer, spent part of her teenage years living in a homeless hostel on the promenade, hardly an ideal environment for a child attending sixth form.
Eleanor finds Morecambe beautiful, particularly the views of the Lakeland that didn’t appeal to me. Her eyes widen when I mention what’s vanished since I was her age: a wild west-themed amusement park called Frontierland, Bubbles—a pool with slides—and a music venue on the promenade called the Superdome, where I saw Blur perform. “No way,” she says in amazement, “They came to Morecambe? Wow, imagine that.” Eleanor hopes for a return of a music venue to energize the community, lamenting the lack of activities for teens beyond visiting the park and “trying to meet fit lads from the grammar.”
I visited Morecambe Bay Academy, my old school, located a block from the promenade. As a student, I was unaware of the hardships many classmates faced, even though I knew some lived in caravans or B&Bs. Today’s sixth formers are more aware of others’ struggles. Nearly 40% of students at Morecambe Bay Academy qualify for free lunches and a third have special educational needs, both figures much higher than the national average. Last year, only 46% achieved a C or above in GCSE English and math, compared to the national average of 65.1%.
Imogen, who moved from Nottingham, notes the prevalence of poverty, food banks, and food clubs. The school recently started a “preloved uniform” sale, offering affordable clothing. The 17-year-olds I interviewed are clear about the town’s decline. “I’ve lived here all my life and a lot has changed…things have disappeared rather than appeared,” says Eve. When asked about leisure activities, some mention “walking up and down the prom and maybe stopping at Aldi.”
Florence believes Morecambe is underserved by government funding. “We don’t have anywhere to go because no one funds it,” she says. Lucas thinks local young people are overlooked, with too much emphasis on attracting tourists. “They need to think about the locals, because there’s actual people living here. It’s not just a destination,” he insists.
There’s hope pinned on the Eden Project, a £100m eco-tourist endeavor proposed for the seafront, intended to “reimagine the seaside resort for the 21st century.” Despite the Guardian first covering Eden North in 2018, ground has yet to be broken. Matthew remains optimistic, believing it will create jobs and boost funding to address existing problems. Eve is more skeptical: “Why isn’t the Eden Project here yet, when they’ve been promising it since, what, 2018?”
Rishi Sunak’s government contributed £50m, and Eden’s management promises construction will start later this year, aiming for a 2028 opening. However, beyond the Eden Project, what else is being offered to the young residents? I spoke with Russell Walsh, a recent Reform UK council member, overseeing youth services in the area. Acknowledging Morecambe’s trend of closures, Walsh admits he’s unsure what alternatives to offer. “That’s a very good question,” he concedes.
While reviewing his social media, I noticed his focus on opposing local housing developments and fixing potholes, with little aimed at young people. “You’re right,” he admits. “You’ve caught me out.” He agrees it’s a matter to prioritize in the future.
I recommend that the Reform councillors visit More Music in Morecambe’s West End. It’s a lively space where teenagers form bands and dream of rock stardom, like Linus and the Zits, three boys with eastern European roots and big ambitions. More Music leader Leroy Lupton notes that Morecambe sometimes feels isolated and forgotten compared to nearby cities like Liverpool and Manchester. “I often think it has echoes of happiness,” he says, reflecting on the town’s bygone days as a major holiday spot. For him, More Music represents a beacon of hope, a little ray of light.