Multiple-choice reading

Last winter, when my phone announced that my weekly screen time had risen again, I did what many people do: I sighed, promised myself I would “cut back”, and then carried on exactly as before. It wasn’t that I loved staring at a glowing rectangle. It was more that the phone had quietly become the place where my work, friendships, entertainment and even my sense of direction all lived. Putting it down felt less like making a healthy choice and more like stepping out of modern life.

A few weeks later, I was sent to write a feature about a small coastal town that had become unexpectedly popular with remote workers. The town’s tourism office was marketing it as a “digital escape”: reliable train connections, long walks on windy cliffs, and cafés that, according to the brochure, “encourage conversation rather than scrolling”. I was curious, but also suspicious. The idea that a place could rescue you from your own habits sounded like a clever slogan, not a realistic plan.

On my first morning there, I went looking for breakfast and found a café with a hand-written sign: NO WI-FI, PLEASE TALK TO EACH OTHER. It was the sort of message that can feel charming or annoying, depending on how urgently you need to send an email. Inside, people were reading newspapers, chatting, and watching the rain slide down the windows. A couple of younger customers did glance at their phones now and then, but with the quick, guilty movements of someone checking the time in a museum.

I ordered coffee and sat near the door, determined to observe rather than participate. Within minutes, the owner, a woman in her sixties, asked if I was “one of the laptop crowd”. I told her I was there for a week to work and write. She nodded as if she had heard the same story a hundred times. “It’s not the laptops,” she said, wiping the counter. “It’s the panic. People come here thinking they’ll finally become calm, organised humans. Then they discover the internet is still in their pocket.”

Her comment stayed with me because it was both sympathetic and slightly amused. It suggested that the problem wasn’t technology itself, but the hope we attach to changing our surroundings. We expect a new place to fix what we haven’t fixed in ourselves. Yet, as I walked along the harbour later that day, I began to understand why the town appealed to remote workers anyway. The streets were compact, the sea was always visible, and everything moved at a pace that made rushing look ridiculous. Even the gulls seemed unhurried.

I spoke to several people who had come for a “short break” and stayed for months. A graphic designer from Manchester told me she was more productive here, not because she worked longer hours, but because she stopped trying to do three things at once. “At home I’d be answering messages while eating and listening to a podcast,” she said. “Here I just eat. It sounds silly, but it changes the day.” Another man, who managed online customer support for a large company, admitted he still worked the same job, with the same stress. The difference, he said, was what happened after he closed his laptop. “In the city, I’d finish work and keep scrolling because there’s nowhere else to go that doesn’t cost money,” he explained. “Here, a walk is free, and it actually feels like an activity, not just a way to kill time.”

Not everyone was delighted with the town’s new reputation. A local shopkeeper told me that rents had risen sharply, and that some young residents were being pushed out. She didn’t blame individuals for choosing a better life, but she resented the way the town was being treated like a product. “People arrive with their reusable water bottles and talk about sustainability,” she said. “Then they rent a flat for six months and leave. We’re the ones who have to live with the changes.” Her frustration was not loud, but it was firm, and it made me rethink the cheerful “digital escape” story I had been planning to write.

By midweek, I noticed my own habits shifting in small ways. I still checked my email too often, but I no longer felt the urge to fill every quiet moment with content. In the evenings, I left my phone on the table and listened to the weather. That sounds romantic, and perhaps it is, but it was also practical: there wasn’t much signal in my rented room, and the effort of finding it felt unnecessary. I realised that convenience works both ways. When the easiest option is to scroll, we scroll. When the easiest option is to step outside and watch the tide, we do that instead.

On my last day, I returned to the no-wi-fi café. The sign was still there, slightly faded at the edges. I watched a group of visitors take photos of it, as if it were an attraction in itself, and I understood the owner’s earlier point about panic. We want simple rules to solve complicated feelings: anxiety, loneliness, the fear of wasting time. But the town hadn’t cured me of anything. It had merely reminded me that attention is a choice, and that my phone is persuasive but not all-powerful.

I left with a notebook full of quotes and a mind that felt oddly lighter. Yet I also left with questions about who benefits when a town becomes a lifestyle trend, and who pays the price. Perhaps that’s the most honest conclusion: a change of scenery can help, but it can also hide problems—both personal and social—under a fresh coat of sea air.