What happens when a place loses its newspaper?

That question popped up in a story in the Economist, loaded to my iPhone with an app that delivers print content to mobiles. All while I waited for my Taco King takeout.

On the way home, I read parts of the story to my husband as he drove.

As it declined, the Echo withdrew from its office in the middle of town and trimmed its coverage of local affairs. By the end it was hardly an effective watchdog. “We used to nearly write the stories for the journalists,” says Richard Chattaway, a county councillor. Not surprisingly, the newspaper’s circulation more than halved between 2001 and 2008.

Something is nonetheless being lost with its departure. The Echo carried reports of school plays, notices of future meetings of the Korean war veterans’ association, local sports results and other humble fare. It also reinforced a sense of community.

In its final days (it closed July 10), only 15 percent of 15-24 year olds were reading it, while 31 percent of 45-54 year olds were still paying attention.

Interestingly, despite the bleakness, alternatives have surfaced, but they aren't of the electronic variety. The town council has organized citizen groups to discuss issues and advertises the meetings with flyers placed in mailboxes. A number of local churches have launched pamphlets.

A newspaper chain is starting to set up web sites combining professional reporting with user-generated content.

Notes the Economist:

At the moment hyper-local sites tend to be filled with discussions of town fetes and the next music night at the village pub. It may be, says Roland Bryan of Associated, that this is the equivalent of small talk at a cocktail party, and that people will eventually get down to local politics. Or they may not. As local newspapers fail, we may learn that their real value was less as a check on politicians than simply as a forum for casual conversation—a place where a town can talk to itself.