Ross Clark
Scolt Head Island, Norfolk
The first time I walked the north Norfolk
coast path, I slavishly followed the signs
which take you away from the coast at
Thornham, up through turnip fields and
down through the marshes, and don’t return
you to the sea and sand until Holkham, ten
miles further on. I didn’t realise at the time
that it was possible to take the direct route
— so long as you have one vital piece of
equipment: a tide table. For about half the
time your way is blocked by three creeks —
which are full of dangerous, swirling waters
when the tide is up but become benign at
low tide. The first, at Thornham, you hardly
notice as it brushes your ankles. The next
two, at Brancaster and Burnham Overy
Staithe, are a little more serious, though still
the water is no more than thigh-deep at low
tide. Between those latter two is Scolt Head
Island and the loneliest beach in southern
England: a glorious six-mile stretch of sand
flanked by a crest of dunes which look likeTom Holland
Trevone, Cornwall
Pretty much every summer, my family
and my cousins head for a farm in north
Cornwall, strategically situated for visits to
our favourite beach: Trevone. A beautiful
cove with breakers, cliffs and an unobtru-
sive shop, its chief appeal is the opportunity
it provides for building colossal sandcastles.
Each year, our ambitions grow ever more
Babylonian. This summer we excelled our-
selves. It was my nephew’s 21st birthday,
and to mark his coming of age he want-
ed to build a sandcastle on a truly lunatic
scale. His dream was fulfilled. Armed with
industrial shovels and a wheelbarrow, we
constructed a vast array of fortifications:
a towering central donjon; a wall of which
Hadrian would have been proud; Minas
Tirith-style rings of defences; enigmatic
neolithic monuments. We even had paddy
fields. And then, after eight hours’ solid
work, the tide came in and, like Atlantis,
it all vanished beneath the waves.
Laura Freeman
Margate, Kent
We’ll always have... Thanet. You can keep
your Paris, your Rome, your Casablanca.
There’s no more romantic place on earth
than Margate when it drizzles. The replace-
ment bus service from Ramsgate, the
December rain becoming sleet, the wind,
the trawlers, the derelict mini golf course,
the boyfriend down on one knee in the
bladderwrack. I’m thinking of having a
T-shirt printed: ‘I went to Margate and all
I got was this lousy proposal.’ No Waste
Land Margate now with its hipster Regency,
its ironic rollercoasters, its semi-demi gen-
trification. Turner’s Margate, Tracey’s Mar-
gate. Artists will tell you about the light of
St Ives, but Margate light is like a match
striking magnesium. Margate has my heart.Spectator writers on the
UK’s best beaches