A Love Letter to the Great British Seaside
on greyness: a guest post
Kate and I are sitting by the fire as I type. She’s here for her annual visit to Pittsburgh. I feel stupid lucky to have friends that don’t just visit me once, but over and over and over again. I asked her if she wanted to do a collaboration for LR this week, and she came up with the topic of walking. Writing by Katherine Lamb, photography by Kelsey Swintek. Thanks for reading.
I’ve always been fond of sand dunes, and salty air. And as an adult, I’ve added seafood to that list too. The UK coast therefore fits as an enduring part of my life, and the wintry coastlines, in all their grey (and sometimes tacky) glory should be celebrated. Arcades on unstable piers, bandstands, promenades with candy-coloured beach huts. All quaint and shabby chic in the summer, suddenly depressing and slightly creepy amidst a winter fog.
A couple of years ago, I googled the most well known coastal hikes around the UK, compared a few published lists, and picked the top six to ramble along. With my best mate in tow, I took some early trains out of London, heading to whatever small coastal town where the selected trail began. It became a bit of a ritual. Get off the train, mutually wonder why we had ended up here so early on a weekend, find the best coffee offering we could (huge variation of the interpretation of a ‘flat white’ it seems…), muse on how affordable the houses were while passing a local estate agent, and march off in the direction of the sea to begin the walk. With all the possibility of the Great British coast ahead of us, and the healthy motivation that we have to finish the walk before sunset, find fish and chips at the end, risk missing the last train home.
Over my lifetime I'd like to walk every mile of the perimeter of the UK. This seemed like a great starting point for that jigsaw.
Going to the arcade, scampi, oysters, salty chips in buttered white bread as a ‘sarnie’, pints in coastal pubs, stubbornly not using our phones as a map, and instead fighting mid-walk about what ‘turn left at the buttress’ could possibly mean in a logistical sense. The same walk when we happened to be the first people off the train from London, and then the whole departing carriage of twenty-something day trippers followed us onto the trail as if we knew where we were going. The pressure.
The seaside hotels, with their expansive ballrooms, slightly crumbling in a twilight life of endless repairs, but standing defiantly. Gripping tight to all the stories that used to happen within. A time when driving three hours with the kids and dog bundled into the back to the coast was the big summer holiday of the year. Giant, slightly gauche, structures rose up all round the UK coast with the coming of railways, and declined when everyone started hopping on Ryanair flights for some actual sun for cheap.
Flaunting grand lobbies and staircases, designed to flatter guests with a sense of exclusivity, and daunt intruders in equal measure. Art deco celebrations of these sand dunes, sunshine and salty air, all fresh paint and horizontal bands of balconies. Costa del Brighton. I think most became auxiliary hospitals, barracks, or nursing stations, during the war. They have become some of our most problematic heritage assets, stubbornly stuck in the wrong era. I think I read that Debussy completed La Mer at such a place too.
Now, when staring up, usually with a 99 Flake in hand, it isn’t hard to imagine Agatha Christie drinking a martini in one of their ballrooms, or to picture Winston Churchill, who often stayed in such a seaside hotel suite, lighting up a cigar at the bar. Wallis Simpson also chose to visit one of these classic seaside hotels to escape the abdication crisis. When another one such seaside hotel was built, The Grand, once the swankiest hotel in the UK, they chose the spot where Anne Brontë died (she visited the coast to recover from tuberculosis). We sometimes seek solace in unexpected places. I decided to follow suit, and we mooched along the Dover to Folkestone path on one of the last of the summer days, for me to convalesce from ‘suspected’ TB. As you might tell by reading this, my convalescence was more successful than Anne’s.
These left-behind seaside towns often rank in lists of the most depressing places to live in the UK. The government had a whole policy initiative to level up “Opportunity Areas” (OAs), many of which were coastal towns, and bring their rates of literacy, syphilis and general joy, closer to the national average. Nostalgia, deprivation, revival. There’s a resurgence, leading the charge is Margate, “Shoreditch-on-Sea.” Tracy Emin recently started an art school there. Shipping containers turned into micro breweries, with axe throwing, a few miles down the coast from 1950 cinemas turning into rave venues. The Beatles played these venues in the sixties.
My grandparents would take us to the coast every summer to give my parents some respite. It’s some of my first clearest memories. Crabbing by day, visiting donkey sanctuaries, and dressing up every evening for dinner. Taking a picture on a disposable camera on our last night on the grand staircase with our favourite waiter, feeling very giddy. I thought this would be my summer routine with my children or grandchildren, too. (It seems, now it's Thanksgivings in Pittsburgh ).
For all the inclement weather, there have been some unexpected delights too. Best oysters I’ve ever eaten in Whitstable, served by some grannies in the back room of their seafood bar, founded in the 1850s. Getting the last brioche lobster roll of the day after a late summer sea swim just as the seafood shack was pulling down the shutters, for a couple of quid. This has now become a comparison for all else. “Very good, but nothing on that lobster roll.” Perfectly balanced flavours from ice cream in cones from a little seafront hut with a jet-lagged Kelsey, after driving straight from Gatwick to Seaford.
For every stoney beach covered in cigarette butts and beer cans, with persistent drizzle, and UKIP voters, there are perfect fish & chips, locals who tell you the best place to take a dip, seafront seafood vendors sustaining us with their catch of the day, more than happy to mock us “from the big smoke.”
Some absolutely terrible weather along the way, to be sure. But also the odd perfectly crisp, blue sky stretching for miles along the path ahead. Either way, coming home on the train after sunset, a little battered, sun-kissed (or wind chilled) cheeks, and an enduring sense of nostalgia. My mate will often use the word “charm” on these day trips, and I’d nod in agreement, understanding exactly what he means.
call for submissions! 6 words to describe your 2024
it’s that time of year again! send me 6 words to describe your year. it could be a sentence, a fragment, a list, an inside joke. you can send me one entry, you can send me a dozen. ask your family. ask your friends. ask your barista. email me, text me, leave a comment, write me a postcard. the collection will be published on December 31, 2024.
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