How a Shropshire village's secret beauty was blown open to visitors from the city

Then the word became flesh. Pink, disobedient flesh spilling and wobbling over long football shorts.

“Oy, mate!” the bald headed individual again bellowed. “Where’s the waterfall?”

I met the visitor’s stare, I gazed briefly at the bulldog tattoo on his leg, the amateurish, inked Chinese lettering on his forearm that spelt hepatitis in any language, then smiled at his partner, her piercings glinting in the spring sunlight.

It was 11 on a glorious Sunday morning and this was the fourth “where’s the waterfall, mate?” enquiry I’d fielded.

Such is the clamour to experience Badger, a quintessential chocolate box parish, with thatched cottages, mysterious caves, village green…and waterfall. That damn waterfall.

Straddling the borders of Shropshire and Staffordshire, the rural community is a delightful dollop of jam and Jerusalem located midway between the city roar of Wolverhampton and Bridgnorth’s bustle.

It is a tetchy testimony to the power of press and social media, a reluctant, new-found tourist trap.

Just five years ago, the community was little known, a quaint name that raised a smile when mentioned. Traffic problems on the ribbon of narrow country lanes that lead to Badger began and ended with slow moving agricultural vehicles, some spilling their heaped load of root vegetables.

Then, in 2020, the Daily Mail discovered the idyll and aired its secrets, under the intoxicating headline “Revealed: The stunning beauty spots in the heart of England”, in gushing prose that deserved an Elgar soundtrack.

They were all there, with particular emphasis placed on the Dingle, a lush wilderness studded with architectural follies, wonderful walks – and a waterfall.

A host of social media sites soon added their own adulation. This is a gem, they posted. This is a treasure. This is a paradise.

Bikers, bull-terrier owners, barbecue kit carriers and bloggers – all recently unleashed from lockdown – created a tsunami of tourism, an endless line of parked cars clogged the narrow tarmac veins that bled into the village.

Locals – a 2011 census counted less than 130 of them – endured a steady crocodile of neck-craners. They seethed over the trail of crisp packets, chocolate wrappers and, on one occasion, condoms.

They burned with anger over campers who lit fires. They shook fists at the drum and bass music blaring from the Dingle’s bowels.

This was a treasure being trampled on, they protested. This was a paradise in danger of being lost.

An angry letter was sent to the Daily Mail’s editor, who possibly pointed out his publication had merely reviewed new book Wild Guide Central England, a chronicle of unknown, hidden locations compiled by authors Nikki Squires, Richard Clifford and John Webster. “Discovering the secluded beauty of Badger Dingle in South Staffordshire was another high,” they told the paper.

The sweet smell of marijuana that hung in secluded parish pockets suggested some were indulging in a more illicit high, snapped residents.

Pull-ins along the country lanes bristled with warnings of parking restrictions.

The parish council leader slated those with “no standards and no social conscience” and, with feelings running high, urged residents to remain calm.

It was a wise call for restraint.

Badger has recent history when it comes to village vigilantism. In 2019, it became headline news following a feud between some locals and the steady stream of weekend cyclists who pass through the parish.

In its newsletter, the parish council decried those who set boobytraps of tacks and pins on the lone street. Perpetrators, however, were praised by Daily Mail readers, one commenting online: “Shame it wasn’t landmines and machine gun nests.”

I understood the ill-will but would never knowingly puncture a bicycle tyre in anger. During one heated exchange with a pedalling pensioner, the cyclist accused me of “making myself look bloody stupid”.

The man, in his 70s, was squeezed into lipstick-pink Lycra leggings.

Last weekend’s deluge of unwanted guests to the picturesque postcode had its roots, says the community forum, in a BBC article, published weeks before.

“Shropshire: 10 reasons to visit the rural gem”, states: “There are many beautiful villages in Shropshire, like Badger, six miles from Bridgnorth. Five minutes from the village pond is a woodland area where a beautiful waterfall is a magnet for local photographers.”

A photograph of a thatched, black and white cottage, perfectly reflected in the village pond, is included to prove the point.

Again, the forum twitched with trepidation. With temperatures rising, they know the stream of “invaders” will become a flood.

The man with a bulldog tattoo, drawn to Badger’s “magnet for photographers”, did not have a camera. He had a roll-up cigarette, clutched in a hand heavy with large rings.

I assured him our waterfall was no Niagara Falls, but his desire would not be doused. “She loves them,” he said, pointing at his pierced partner.

“Lovely here,” he growled as a farewell. “Bit like that series, Midsomer Murders.”

And like Midsomer Murders, dark thoughts drift like dandelion seeds through the walled garden, pastures and rolling meadows.

As I walked home, one villager beckoned me to his door and mouthed: “Dunno what’s happening to this place. It can only be a matter of time before we get a burger van parked up here.”

I was gripped by a lightbulb moment, a means of making money in retirement.

Of course, Badger deserves only the best burger van, a gourmet burger van. Four Michelin tyres.

Badger’s longest living inhabitant, a woman has resided in the parish since 1966, pulled no punches this week. “I just wish they’d park sensibly and drive through the village sensibly. I signal them to slow down.

“I ask them where they come from. When they say Wolverhampton, I ask, ‘would you go to a park in Wolverhampton and pull up the flowers? So why do it here?

“When they ask, ‘where’s the waterfall?’, I say, ‘you mean the sluice overflow’, because that’s what it is.”

With war-drums again beating, council chairwoman Lorraine Wilson has opted for diplomacy, a “voice of reason” approach.

“We are very fortunate to live in a wonderful place,” she said, “and we have to be open to share it appropriately with people from outside the area.” Councillor Wilson urged visitors to also enjoy the vistas appropriately. “It is a question of balance.”

Unlike Bridgnorth and Ironbridge, which welcomes tourists because of the financial benefits to local business, Badger has nowhere for visitors to spend cash, she pointed out.

She was aware of recent concerns, but stressed problems have eased considerably since the madness of summer, 2020.

“No one has come along to a parish council meeting to raise it as a concern or communicated with the parish council in any way, of late,” Councillor Wilson said. “We have a meeting on the 26th of this month and that would be an ideal opportunity for people to raise issues.”

The parish council has listened to concerns over traffic. Unfortunately, the “keep clear” signs that, in recent years, flagged “pull-in” spots along lanes, can no longer be erected. That’s because many of the pull-ins are not recognised pull-ins.

The distribution of official highway warning signs has been hampered by a shortage of official highway warning signs.

Villagers understandably curse their parish’s new found popularity.

One man was caught urinating in the thatched bus shelter. Children have used manicured hedges as toilets.

The lifebuoy that once hung on the fringes of the Dingle’s glass-mirror pool has twice been stolen.

Monuments have been defaced, the evidence of drug-taking discovered.

The Wild Guide’s authors, said the then parish council chairman in 2020, should consider contributing to the cost of repairing The Rotunda, a rebuilt, 19th Century domed shelter with striking columns that was once part of Badger Hall.

Its sandstone columns had been gouged, “Covid-19” sprayed on its wall.

To a community untouched by urban crime, the incidents are viewed with the gravitas usually bestowed on a drive-by shooting.

And they have rolled their sleeves up and taken action. A group of concerned, committed residents, litter-pickers in hand, now walk the country lanes, teasing debris from hedgerows. Their haul has included soiled nappies and sanitary towels.

The siege has spilled onto social media platforms – and mud slung in both directions.

At the height of the Daily Mail driven stampede, one visitor to Facebook site Telford Memories dared to dub the good folk of Badger “unwelcoming”.

The comment was quickly endorsed. “Surprised they don’t put gates at each end,” posted a fellow tourist, “and prevent anyone entering who doesn’t live there.”

“I’d like to throw parties and raves in villagers’ honour,” teased another.

The response was swift, sharp and withering.

One local replied: “You wonder why residents don’t want you here, with graffiti, stolen lifebuoy, dog mess, social distancing impossible in the Dingle, kids weeing in our hedges, walking on grass verges, playing with the defibrillator like it’s a tourist attraction.

“You’re right – keep away. Do it in your own neighbourhood, not ours.”

“It’s not Alton Towers,” another villager told me. “It’s just the volume of people. We’ve had people walking on grass verges and letting their dogs foul the grass verges.

“There were two ladies with three or four kids and they were inside the red phone box and playing with the defibrillator. It’s not a toy.”

“It’s how ignorant they are and how messy they are,” said yet another. “Have you seen the plastic bags in the hedgerows? It’s ignorant.”

In the Dingle last summer, a group of young people cooked by an open fire. They swigged from lager cans and tugged on roll-ups that smelt herbal.

“Nice place,” one said as I approached gingerly, “nice place to call home. Wouldn’t mind getting a place here. Good place to bring up the kids.”

It is a sentence designed to send a ripple of alarm through the thatch of nearby roofs.

Bertie Wooster author P.G Wodehouse once resided in Badger’s neighbouring hamlet. The stand-off is tailor-made for his literary style, the piece no doubt peppered with references to “rotters”, “bounders” and “strange coves”.

Jeeves would have an elaborate plan to thwart the tidal wave of tourists.

Today’s locals use harder words and phrases for the headache.

One watched a caravan of new arrivals – some armed to party hard in paradise – and laughed: “There goes the neighbourhood.”

My own wife took a more intellectual approach. She said: “When Wordsworth wandered lonely as a cloud, he came across a host of golden daffodils.

“The poem doesn’t have the same impact with soiled nappies and lager cans.”

*If you’ve been inspired to visit for yourself, please postpone the trip until the bridleway has been repaired and the route has re-opened.