Every summer, Which? magazine publishes a list of resorts – 126 this year – ranked according to hotel quality and prices, food and drink, attractions, shopping, scenery. The top slots are inevitably occupied by smaller, smarter places visited by the better-off, probably before or after a trip to France or Crete. The bottom, though, is far more interesting. After all, what are we to make of places built for consumption if there’s nothing worth buying besides fish and chips? What about the timeless qualities of the shore – the horizon, the tides, the big skies? Is the point of the seaside its ahistorical oddness – or can history rescue resorts that seem stranded, sinking or sad?
The following were all ranked in the bottom 10, or excluded altogether.
Fleetwood
The tram from Blackpool to Fleetwood is one of the most instructive journeys to be had on the English coast. The symbolism is huge, as you leave behind the neon, the rides, the three piers clutching at the sea and the tower and sail into an entirely different built environment – and a different idea.
The name of Fleetwood carries weight in these parts. It can be traced back to the 14th century, acquiring, through marriage, a connection to Swedish nobility in the 17th century. Local marriages linked the family to the Bolds, Aughtons and Heskeths. If the names mean nothing to you, consider that one little chap was christened Bold Fleetwood Hesketh in 1762 – in Lancashire, that’s like being called Windsor Tudor Stuart-Coutts-Mogg.
Predeceased by an older brother, Peter Hesketh inherited the family estate at Rossall Hall in 1824. He changed his name in 1831 by Royal Licence to Hesketh-Fleetwood, incorporating the better-known family name of his ancestors – and was later created Baronet Fleetwood.
As a student, young Peter holidayed on the south coast; at St Leonards-on-Sea, he befriended the architect Decimus Burton – who had built the East Sussex resort as well as some of London’s grandest terraces. Rossall in Lancashire was a desolate tract, overrun by rabbits and seabirds and, on occasion, the sea. Hesketh-Fleetwood deemed it a propitious time to cash in on two booms – day tripping and the railways – and develop a fashionable holiday resort. As there was no London-to-Scotland railway, the town’s port could be an embarkation point for steamers to the Clyde, Ireland and the Isle of Man. Several names were considered, including “New Liverpool” and “Wyreton” – after the river – but in the end he couldn’t resist naming it after his recently acquired surname.
Building Fleetwood was costly. Hesketh-Fleetwood sold off his lands in Blackpool and Southport – allowing those towns to develop in their own distinctive manners. Burton chose the sandy tump of Top Hill – renamed The Mount – as the focal point of the town, with streets radiating out from it. Period houses still stand on Mount Street and Warren Street. He designed a Customs House with Tuscan columns, later becoming the town hall (now a museum), as well as two lighthouses – the upper or Pharos lighthouse (named after the Pharos of Alexandria) and lower or Beach lighthouse – Queen’s Terrace and St Peter’s Church. One of the most important buildings was the North Euston Hotel, the name reminding locals and prospective guests of the high-speed links to the capital.
But Fleetwood faltered. Hesketh-Fleetwood was a busy man, serving as Sheriff of Lancashire and as an MP from 1832-47. He was an active member of the new Athenaeum club in London, built by Burton. He campaigned against slavery and the death penalty, translating Victor Hugo’s The Last Day of a Condemned Man. Meanwhile, he amassed huge debts and allowed his agent Frederick Kemp to take control and, probably, swindle him. He likely hoped the new railway – which he part-funded – would pinch potential visitors from Blackpool. But the co-owners realised they could make extra income by running third-class carriages to the more established resort. Unintentionally, Peter’s folly helped Blackpool boom.
By the 1840s, when direct trains began operating between London and Scotland, Fleetwood was bypassed and Peter felt beaten and depressed. He moved to London, then Spain, dying at home in Piccadilly in 1866.
I went on a “Blackpool and Fleetwood” coach holiday in the early 1980s with my dad. By then the fishing port was the latter’s main attraction – a vaguely cultural experience to contrast with the former’s hedonism. If only I’d known the town was home to the headquarters of Fisherman’s Friend. Initially, it was a liquid “for internal and external use” containing liquorice, eucalyptus and menthol for fishermen suffering with coughs and respiratory problems. The firm spins a salty yarn that James Lofthouse, the pharmacist who created the potion and, later, the lozenges, invented the tincture because he struggled to make sense of the sailors’ stories due to their croaky voices.
Fleetwood came ninth from bottom in the Which? hit parade. Yet it’s a stately, serene, family-friendly town with great views over Morecambe Bay from The Mount and Euston Gardens – where, since 2018, a statue of Sir Peter Hesketh Fleetwood has stood. A BFI film made in 1940 captures a brief golden age, when a pier, floral gardens, pool and boating lake were considered “an infinite variety of pleasures”. There is space and quiet to reimagine such times, still.
As the new government embarks on a major housing plan, ministers and developers should visit Decimus Burton’s proto-New Town. They will have to use the tram. Fleetwood lost its passenger railways and station in 1970. The axing of the Restoring Your Railway Fund, which envisaged a new Fleetwood Line, feels like Beeching all over again.
Things to see and do: Fleetwood Market; Pisces Fish and Chips; Fleetwood Beach Wheelchairs
Rhyl
On childhood holidays, I had no idea where we were going. Photo albums attest to visits to Abergele, Rhos-on-Sea, Llanddullas, Colwyn Bay, Llandudno, Prestatyn, Towyn and Rhyl – a 20-mile riviera that, coming after Runcorn Bridge, the grey Mersey, Stanlow and Widnes’ industrial plants, and the jammed A55 of single lanes and non-stop stops, was heaven. My parents had grown up with “Sunny Rhyl” railway posters showing happy, ideal families. Now we were making it reality – twice, as they were divorced. No more swirling, perilous estuarial mudflats; here were golden beaches and the big blue sea. To cap it all, from some angles you could see mountains, silver rock faces escaping from the green below.
Thus was born a Wales of the imagination – a land of pleasure and the picturesque. The tradition is deep. English tourists visited Wales from around 1770 in search of the sublime – mountain scenery and waterfalls – and romantic sites such as St Winefride’s Well and ruinous Norman castles. Later the gaze shifted to the coast. An 1837 guide reports Rhyl, an “enclosed common” a few years ago, is “rapidly rising”. Abel Heywood, in his Tourists’ Guide to North Wales (1877), sees a “fashionable watering place”. Between those dates, the Chester and Holyhead Railway line (extant) and Vale of Clwyd Railway (extinct) were opened. Coasting ships brought slow-tourists from the Mersey; on East Parade is a stone lookout tower, built as a semaphore signalling station for paddle steamers. Traffic went both ways. At least 20,000 Welsh migrants arrived into Liverpool each decade between 1851 and 1911.
Rhyl had fine baths, libraries, reading rooms and elegant hotels lining the seafront. A long pier and miniature railway were added. Lancashire was the most densely populated county, which translated into huge demand. Rhyl was elegant, beautiful, dramatic. Commentators gaped in wonder at views of Snowdonia, but the built environment was a frame for the simple, natural beauty of the beach – as in David Cox’s oil painting Rhyl Sands (1853-5).
Cerys Matthews sang, cryptically, of the “true paradise” of Rhyl on Catatonia’s International Velvet. Where is it? Lost under layers of regeneration? Fittingly, the oldest building in town is now a bed and breakfast. Dating from the end of the 17th century, Ty’n Rhyl – said to be built with remnants of Rhuddlan Castle – would have been the only sizeable property once, among fishermen’s cottages and flood-prone farms. Between 1841 and 1866, It was the home of Angharad Llwyd, a prominent antiquary, geologist and historian; she added fixtures inspired by earlier periods but the owners claim to own a section of the bedstead of Catherine of Aragon – ideal for thinking about Acts of Union (and divorce), though no one can sleep in it as it’s part of the fireplace.
Things to see and do: Rhyl Town Trail; Britain’s oldest miniature railway; Marsh Tracks cycling centre; Pro Kite Surfing; Great Orme Head
Skegness
The nickname “Blackpool of the East” catches Skegness’s historical importance to working-class residents who live far inland – but elides the remoteness and smallness of the resort, and the absence of headline attractions such as a Winter Gardens (though they were once mooted) or a Tower Ballroom. The only political party ever to host a conference here was Ukip. Come by road or rail and you will have spent some time looking out on to drained plains and vast skies, perhaps sighting a cathedral or water tower. Then, suddenly, fun and games, rides and rollercoasters – and families.
Like everywhere else, Skegness has lots of barber’s shops. But none appear to have cashed in on the town’s beardy heritage. The name derives from Skeggi, Old Norse for “bearded one”; the Gísla Saga recounts how Duelling Skeggi, despite wielding a sword called Warflame, had first his leg and then his head chopped off. As for Skegness, well it has kept its Skeg but lost its ness – the headland, which may have resembled a beard, and was once protected by offshore barrier islands. It’s thought that as early as the 13th century a great storm gave Skegness a thorough shave. Later storms wiped out the church and by 1540 the entire town. John Leland noted that the “great haven toune” that had drawn iron age and Roman settlers had become “a pore new thing”. He alludes to a drowned castle lying four or five miles out to sea. Water has long been the most troublesome visitor to this coast. Climate-crisis “leading consensus” forecasts show a possible future when the tides may flow in as deep as Alford, Manby and even Lincoln – 40 miles inland – via the River Witham.
Did the precariousness of the setting give rise to the local zeal for joy and madness? Popular past rides in Skegness have had names like Absolutely Insane, Amazing Confusion and Topsey Turvy. The town’s symbol is the “Jolly Fisherman”, a character created by celebrated illustrator John Halsall in 1908 to advertise day trips on the Great Northern Railway from King’s Cross. He smoked a pipe, wore a hat and scarf – as “Skegness is SO bracing” – and danced his way across puddles in wellington boots. Bill Bryson used the character for the cover of his book The Road to Little Dribbling. The poster also shows a starfish on the beach that looks about to be flattened by one of JF’s wellies. In 2015 Peta, which campaigns for the ethical treatment of animals, proposed a flatfish as a new town mascot, with the motto “A happy plaice”.
Butlin’s was born at Skegness. The train and the charabanc changed people’s leisure habits. Instead of staying at home and waiting for seasonal country fairs, they journeyed to the coast to make their own entertainment. South African-born entrepreneur Billy Butlin noted the town was “on the drier side of Britain” and had excellent rail links. He had also seen how British landladies would kick out their guests during the day, no matter the weather. One day, passing through Ingoldmells he asked his chauffeur to stop. Where others saw turnip fields, he saw the lulling Lincolnshire coastline and the rolling Lincolnshire wolds – and infinite potential. Holidays came with three meals a day and free entertainment. A week’s full board cost anything from 35 shillings to three pounds a week according to the time of year.
During the second world war, the camp was repurposed as the naval training base HMS Royal Arthur. Many of the bright colours that defined the camp were painted over, but film critic and jazz musician George Melly, stationed there, noted “a certain architectural frivolity inappropriate to a Royal Navy Shore Establishment.”
According to Which? readers, Skegness was no better than fifth from bottom. Neighbouring Mablethorpe was second from bottom (“a floundering plaice?”) and posh Cleethorpes just to the north was only just outside the bottom 10. If nothing else, you’re unlikely to meet any consumer champions on your next Lincolnshire holiday. Anyway, don’t hard stats beat surveys? Between 2017 and 2019, Skegness was the 8th most visited place for a holiday in the UK, above Torbay, Brighton, Bath and Newquay.
Things to see and do: Gibraltar Point Nature Reserve, Jolly Fisherman statue, Skegness Pier
Bognor Regis
It’s not easy being Bognor. West Wittering, Littlehampton, Brighton and even Worthing crowd the south coast, stealing the limelight with an SSSI, a flash caff, a vintage cinema and a famous gay scene. Inland, always less uncouth and more middle-class, are charming Chichester, august Arundel and the South Downs national park. The Regis – bestowed by George V for services to crown convalescence – gets forgotten; the Bog sounds harsh, the Nor negative. Fifty-five miles from London, this is also commuterland, the kind climate – Bognor (I’ve already forgotten the Regis) has topped the national sunniness ranking – is used to flog houses to Londoners fed up with the Smoke.
The resort was developed by Sir Richard Hotham in the late 18th century on a raw sand and gravel shoreline. It’s claimed Hotham and Bognor feature in Jane Austen’s unfinished novel Sanditon: “But Sanditon itself – everybody has heard of Sanditon. The favourite for a young and rising bathing-place, certainly the favourite spot of all that are to be found along the coast of Sussex – the most favoured by nature, and promising to be the most chosen by man.”
In the second world war, Canadian and Norwegian soldiers were based in the town; Kings Beach Hotel in Pagham became known as “Little Norway”. Fifty Mulberry harbours – as used in the D-day landings – were assembled between Pagham beach and Selsey. The wreck of one that failed to be raised can still be seen at low tide and is a scheduled monument.
The town missed out on a cosmic moment in 1975 when Nasa calculated that a handshake between the mission commanders of the docked Soyuz and Apollo spacecraft would take place over Bognor. During the buildup, council leaders went on the radio to promote their town, but “couldn’t get a word in edgeways as the journalists were more intent on making cheap music hall jokes about the resort”. Unfortunately, due to a technical delay, the encounter took place above Metz in northern France.
Why seaside towns become unfashionable is the stuff of PhDs, town council meetings, news reports and economic fora. Bognor, at least, has a cinematic essay. The Punch and Judy Man (1963), starring Tony Hancock, was filmed in Bognor; a blue plaque on the Royal Norfolk Hotel celebrates Hancock’s visit. The film catches the resort, renamed “Piltdown”, at a crossroads, becoming shabbily genteel, popular only with old and middle-aged oddballs, and about as much fun as being whacked by Punch. Then again, it had already been quietly buggered by a royal.
Things to see and do: Selsey Bill, Bognor Heritage Trails, Hotham Park
Jaywick Sands
My walk along Clacton Beach is surveilled by Martello Towers – six survive of an original 11 – which stand out for their squatness and bulk. I had never seen one before and, like many people, was familiar with the structures thanks to the opening scene in James Joyce’s Ulysses. Clacton’s tower is a cafe. The second, at the edge of the golf course, has not been commandeered. The towers were named after a fortification at Cape Mortella in Corsica, which British forces had struggled to capture in the early stages of the French revolutionary wars. The spelling got lost in the skirmishes.
On my left in Jaywick, endless beach and a narrow fringe of saltmarsh. To my right, small, minimally detached houses, almost all single storey or one and a half, with a room in the roof. People say hello and are neighbourly. They look, to me, definitively Essexian – tanned, taut, knowing. They speak coastal cockney, unsoftened by decades living away from Barking, Mile End, Hackney. I try not to gawp. I’ve seen “most deprived” headlines spewed up time and again. I recall a benefits-themed reality show. I don’t know if a “poverty safari” is a thing; I scrutinise places irrespective of their socioeconomic status. But kindness isn’t so hard. How bad can a place be? More interestingly, what good is there, what surprises, what subverts the stereotyping?
Jaywick’s genesis was distinctive. Property developer Frank “Foff” Stedman, after clocking Clacton’s popularity as a resort, bought 24 acres of flood-prone fields to sell as small plots to Londoners – 20 feet by 50 feet for as little as £25, ideal to self-build a holiday home. The Plotlands model – also seen at Peacehaven in Sussex and Humberston in Lincolnshire – can be linked to the utopianism of William Morris, who had argued for the virtues of self-sufficient communities away from large cities. But it’s also a consequence of the unprofitability of agriculture due to cheap imports and the peculiarly English fixation with owning a patch of land.
The buyers at Jaywick were traders and professionals from London’s East End who could reach their beach retreats in just over an hour. Shops, cafes and entertainment venues sprung up. One of the original estates, Brooklands, is arranged in the shape of a car radiator grille, the roads named after various vehicle manufacturers: Hillman, Napier, Wolseley Avenues. Behind it is the smaller Grasslands and to the right, farther inland, is the Village.
After the Blitz, owners took up permanent residence in their seaside properties. Eighty years later, materials and decor and fixtures have changed but they are still chalet-sized and vulnerable to floods, time and tight budgets.
The third local Martello Tower houses an Essex Council-funded arts and community organisation. Director Charlotte Paxman says she wants to help locals learn to express themselves. “Wellness is part of it. But also, arts are seen as middle-class. How do we make them accessible to everyone?”
On the first floor, poems penned by locals are hung on washing lines, part of a writing project run by Essex University PhD student Lelia Ferro. The theme of the uncontrollable sea impinging on the land comes up again and again, tidally even, as do feminism, identity and prejudice. Anna Mae, in Driving on the A133, raps her way to pathos: “Sirens blazing, blue lights flashing, drunkards fighting, eau de weed pervading, boom boxes blaring, foxes screaming way into the night … new land dredged from marshes keeps on sinking, sea will continue claiming what is hers.”
“How to live in Essex, but not be Essex,” considers Viv Dawson in Duolinguist. “That was the question which plagued my childhood/The roots which kept me safe in its rich and fertile soil/comprehensively tripped me up in concrete classrooms. I straddled the county from its eastern shores/to the RP world beyond, purposely dropping, scattering and blatantly discarding/treacherous Ts, ’aitches, and glottal stops.”
Jaywick makes me question things. Its supposed otherness. On a sunny afternoon, it feels like a ghost town. Not quite real, as if its location and history of floods blurs its edges and undermines its solidity. But they’re building new coastal defences – and perhaps I’m the ghost.
Things to see and do: The Sunspot cafe, Clacton Pier, Colne Point Nature Reserve.
