The Cost of Charm: Frome Through a Lens

A street-level photo essay by Emma Sherab

Frome, a small Market town in Somerset, has been called a success story, the poster child for independent high streets, arts-led regeneration, and grassroots politics. It’s true that Frome has become a destination. It’s picturesque. Buzzing with galleries, craft shops, and pop-up sourdough stalls. But like so many towns branded as up and coming, it’s worth asking, up and coming for whom?

This picture essay is about what gets left behind in the rush to rebrand. I’ve documented Frome for years, before the broadsheets took interest, before Londoners arrived with hybrid cars and plans to renovate. What these images show is the residue of that transformation, the fatigue, the loss, the cracks beneath the bunting. Gentrification isn’t always visible in grand gestures. Sometimes it’s found in expressions, in empty shops, in the people that get left behind.

A woman pushing a pram walks past a shop window display, layered in reflections, decorations, and the glare. of daylight. ©emmasherab

This image could be on a tourism flyer. But look closer, and you see tension. It is performance, not ease. The shop window is beautiful, curated, and stylised. But it’s also a barrier. Between old Frome and new. Between the lived-in past and the Instagram present.

Two women lean in for a kiss in the middle of Cheap Street, a romantic moment framed by bunting, signage, and cobblestones. ©emmasherab

This is what the brochures love. Independent, intimate, endlessly photogenic. But for all its charm, I can't help but think about how many locals can no longer afford to live above these shops. Love is still free. The view is not. And every cobbled stone underfoot costs more than it did five years ago.

A queue forms for the Bath-bound bus. Elderly passengers clutch backpacks and shopping bags, wrapped in layers against the cold. ©emmasherab

Frome’s not isolated, but gentrification doesn’t always raise everyone up. Often, it just raises prices. Those who made Frome what it is now often find themselves commuting to afford to stay.

A man walks past the Westway Cinema, where the old signage and brick façade have weathered decades of change. ©emmasherab

This cinema, somehow still open, feels like a time capsule. A holdout. The kind of place that serves popcorn from a single counter and doesn’t do flat whites. Gentrification rarely wipes out everything in one go, it leaves fragments. The question is, how long can they last?

Shoppers weave their way up Catherine Hill. Shops offer curated vintage items, organic skincare, and £5 cards featuring linocut badgers. ©emmasherab

There’s something undeniably lovely about this stretch. But it’s also where Frome begins to feel like it’s performing a version of itself. It’s curated authenticity. Artisan as identity. There’s little room left here for anyone who isn’t selling or buying at boutique prices. Behind every hip storefront is a rent hike that pushed someone out.

A man plays guitar next to a working horse tied to a cart. Boots scuff the pavement. Behind him, the Boots pharmacy glows corporate and clinical. ©emmasherab

This is a collision of timelines. A horse and cart busker outside a Boots. Past meets present. Gentrification tends to erase the in-between. This man isn’t nostalgic or polished. He’s just surviving. His is a version of Frome that isn’t featured in the indie town guides. But it’s still here. Just.

A fading, flaking mural of faces stares out from a wall in disrepair. One eye weeps paint. A name—Billy—is scribbled nearby. ©emmasherab

Street art here isn’t curated. It’s cracked, crumbling, forgotten. Unlike the polished murals elsewhere in Somerset towns, this one hasn’t been preserved or celebrated. But it says more. This is the underbelly of the makeover. Frome’s raw edge.

Frome hasn’t lost its soul, but it is bruised. What once felt organic now feels orchestrated. What was once a community effort is starting to feel like a brand. This series isn’t a rejection of Frome’s beauty. It’s a reminder that beauty on its own isn’t enough.

I’ve photographed the town for over a decade. I’ve seen it grow and flourish. I’ve also seen who it’s left behind. These images don’t offer answers, but they do ask us to look harder. To see not just what’s new and neat, but what’s cracked, tired, or just trying to hang on. Because a real community isn’t something you buy into. It’s something you show up for even when it’s no longer on trend.