Welcome to Whitefroth. A quiet town of proud locals, outdoorsy tourists seeking a calm getaway in

the local bed and breakfast, and returning travellers setting up home at the campsite.

The salty air is brisk and waves lap at the coast, ushered in by the small island about 13 miles out.
 

The town, like many, has been left behind by modern society, and clings on to faded shopfronts, an
old-fashioned town hall, and a train service that runs only three times a day. There is an

atmosphere that is still and unchanging, much like the attitudes of many around here.
 

The townsfolk are friendly enough and welcome the visitors that keep the local economy going, but
perhaps are blind to the more unusual aspects of Whitefroth. Theres lots of funeral intimations in
the butcher’s window, why is that dusty looking church all locked up with chains? The ageing picture
house, abandoned fairground, and a derelict aquarium are maybe signs of better times gone by, but
why do these forgotten attractions never inspire an ambition for rejuvenation? Maybe they’re
overshadowed by the rustic fish market that still does a good trade, or the surrounding woodlands,
the observatory perched on the hillside, or the picturesque seafront that attracts the artistic types to the area.
 

For a sleepy place where not a lot happens, there’s a tone of the unfamiliar, an aura of the
unsettling; there just might be more to Whitefroth than meets the eye.