A small beached boat marks the final redoubt of a centuries-old fishing community in Cromer. As the tide gently recedes, the fragile wooden structure of the vessel becomes visible, tucked away among the colourful beach huts and rotten timber sea walls that adorn this brief, windswept stretch of the north Norfolk coast. As I watch from afar, I notice an old diesel tractor towing a trailer and backing up along the shore. After securing the boat to the trailer, an elderly man in blue overalls decides to make a hasty retreat. A quick rev of the engine sends it hurtling into the distance, along with a thick belch of black smoke. After a little while, the only sound I can hear is the waves breaking with a metronomic regularity, punctuated by the occasional chime from a fruit machine in a nearby bar.
Cromer has an air of decaying grandeur. To enter the town is to take a step back in time. Its streets are lined with quaint charity shops, mom-and-pop cafes serving fish and chips, and amusement arcades. Only a few months of the year see it bustling due to its heavy reliance on tourism, but it serves as a powerful case study of what happens when you ignore the people who live in coastal communities across the country. Like all these seaside towns, this was once beautiful, but years of neglect have left it in a perpetual state of decline, much like the town’s historic pier being eaten away by the salty seawater. Nevertheless, the ocean’s contents, not the surrounding landscape, best tell the tale of the cultural and economic downfall of this small and charming fishing town.
Around seventy boats would set sail from Cromer Beach during the turn of the 20th century, a period known as the golden age of sail. These days, there are less than ten vessels in operation, and the few skiffs and catamarans that remain are scattered throughout Norfolk’s coastal villages. While the few remaining fishermen land whelks and lobster, there is another highly sought-after catch that has become synonymous with this town: the Cromer crab. And the warm, shallow waters a few miles out to sea are the perfect place to catch this wonderful delicacy.
The Cromer Shoal chalk bed, known locally as the Marle, is the world’s longest chalk reef. Located a few miles offshore, it stretches along the coast for twenty miles from Weybourne, west of Cromer, to Happisburgh, to the east—it is 125 square miles of ideal ground that nurtures a small but distinctively sweet brown crab that has made Cromer famous and provided a living for generations of fishermen.
Its surroundings have an impact on its unique taste. Living on the chalk reef, the crab imparts a distinct sweet flavour from the clear, unsullied waters it filters. They also grow more slowly in these waters than in other areas, notably the English Channel, which contributes to the meat’s succulent and tender texture. However, because of the limitations on the area in which it can be caught, the future survival of this iconic seafood appears bleak.
Numerous reasons explain the industry’s downturn. Examples are not difficult to find.You can provide statistics demonstrating the decline of fishing, such as the high operating costs and the shifting national dietary preferences. But the most important is environmental regulation. A report by Natural England, the government’s advisory panel on the natural environment, found that the laying of crab pots on the seabed was damaging the chalk. In order to compare the harm being caused to the chalk bed by natural causes and potting—the traditional way of using pots to catch shellfish—three areas have been designated as “no fishing zones”. Fishermen will no longer be allowed to fish at three 150-metre-square sites off the coasts of Sheringham, West Runton, and East Runton. These areas will remain closed until November 2026.
Britain has an abundant culinary heritage, and the Cromer Crab is one of the best local specialties. It is as important to the local cuisine as haggis is to Scotland and Glamorgan sausage is to Wales. Written in 1722, more than sixty years before Robert Burn’s homage to Scotland’s national dish, Daniel Defoe described Cromer’s shellfish arriving by boat in London. Still, word didn’t start to spread across the country until the late 19th century, when a newly constructed railway line connecting Norwich to Cromer was opened. The railway not only facilitated wider distribution, but it also allowed tourists and gourmets to sample the delicacy directly from the source.
Residents of Cromer take great pride in the crab’s cultural legacy. As a component of its historic identity, the town actively promotes it. Visitors and local chefs congregate along the pier each May for the annual crab and lobster festival, which honours all the wonderful aspects of this under-appreciated but important sea food. But the animal rights mob found even this family-friendly celebration of everything crustacean to be a mortal sin. PETA urged the committee to embrace “plant-based” seafood in a letter to the festival organisers in 2020.
Crabbing is one of the few industries that still operates the traditional way. A tractor is used to launch boats from the shore. Individual pots are cast after being baited. Each crab’s size is verified one by one as they are manually pulled up and emptied. Rejected into the sea to continue growing are those that are judged too small to land. Frequently, while returning to shore, the catch is prepared on board and sold the following morning to nearby retailers. When it’s peak season (March to July), they begin work as early as 3 am, but generally they start at 4 am. Suffice it to say, it is hard work.
I know this because. I lived on a small island in eastern Canada for a while when I was a teenager. I offered to help out with the neighbour’s lobster catch one chilly August morning. Our 5 am start time made me foolishly believe we would arrive home in time for tea, but it was 9pm.
There are eighth-generation fishermen among Cromer’s crabbers. They are anchored in culture and community, and are what David Goodhart refers to as the “somewheres”. Many worry that the industry will die, for the next generation seems unwilling to work long hours. Additionally, it is viewed as beneath them—carrying the stigma of a menial, unqualified job. These are Goodhart’s “anywhere”, who often relocate and prefer tech employment in big cities like London. The most disappointing prospect is that we could lose the art of crabbing if the knowledge and skills are not transferred.
One of the finest seafood products to come out of our oceans is the Cromer Crab. But the fact that we are a net exporter of it, with the majority ending up in restaurants in France and Spain, saddens me greatly. Even though it seems futile, things don’t have to be this way. The next time you are in this part of the country, take a trip to the coast and try it; you won’t be disappointed. You will also be supporting a vital local economy that is slowly being undermined by a potent combination of activist ideology and environmental authoritarianism.
Alas, I fear for the Cromer crab’s existence with a heavy heart. Some skills will always be lost, just like in any industry that relies heavily on manual labour. I need only ask readers if they know how to dress a crab. It is an exceptionally difficult thing to get right. When I was a child, I used to watch my father methodically take apart a crab by carefully dissecting it. I can do it within a few minutes. However, years of practice were required. Something I think we’re going to lose.
