distant cliffs on their first appearance. There
is just about time for a swim — no need to
bother with trunks, as there are only seals to
watch you. But you must then either hoof it
on — or commit yourself to staying in the
dunes for another 12 hours, only 120 miles
from London but very likely the sole inhab-
itant of this little paradise.
Peter Hitchens
West Wittering, West Sussex
The best seaside holidays have to be in the
past because we couldn’t cope with them
now. Ice cream apparently made of whale
blubber, freezing seas, the astonishing force
of an ocean-liner’s bow wave if it hit you
unawares from behind (a major hazard on
the shores of the Solent) all abide in the
mind as pleasures, though I wouldn’t like
them now. I never liked sunburn.
It all ended for me when Mick Jagger
and Keith Richards were arrested in West
Wittering, the Sussex village where I had
spent so many childhood summers. Mick Jag-
ger? West Wittering? The grown-up world
had come striding into that vague, somnolent
paradise of sea-glitter and idleness, and I’ve
never had much time for the seaside since.
Mark Mason
Aldeburgh, Suffolk
Aldeburgh is perfect if you hate sand. The
bloody stuff gets everywhere (clothes, food,
places I won’t mention). Shingle is much bet-
ter, as this wonderful Suffolk town proves.
The Boxing Day swim will take your breath
away (literally: the cold water makes you
hyperventilate — great fun). Kids will love
Maggi Hambling’s ‘Scallop’ (a huge metal
shell honouring local boy Benjamin Britten),
and Seahorse Cottage, from CBBC’s Grand-
pa in My Pocket. You can stay there, or, if
you prefer hotels, it has to be the Brudenell,
once owned by James Brudenell, 7th Earl of
Cardigan, after whom the cardigan is named.
Toby Young
Godrevy, Cornwall
Cornwall has become extremely fashionable
in the past decade or so, thanks in part to
the patronage of David Cameron and his
family, and is likely to become even more
so if a carbon tax is imposed on air travel.
That means the beaches can get very crowd-
ed during the summer months, particularly
on the Lizard. The solution is to head to the
north coast. It’s less popular, in part because
it takes a bit longer to get to if you’re coming
from London, in part because the sea is a lit-
tle bit colder, being the Atlantic rather than
the English Channel. But that means less
crowded beaches and much bigger waves.
And Godrevy beach, which is owned by the
National Trust, is just about the prettiest
location on the north coast. It has everything
you could want from a Cornish holiday: a
surf school for the kids, access to the South-
West coast path for the grown-ups and
Godrevy Café, a well-above-average restau-
rant, for all the family. Be advised, however:
dogs are not welcome on the beach in the
summer between 8 a.m. and 7 p.m.Martin Vander Weyer
Bridlington, Yorkshire
‘Bright, Breezy and Bracing’ said the pre-
war posters, back when Bridlington was a
fashionable resort. Now it’s faded verging
on melancholy, eclipsed by Scarborough —
‘Queen of the Yorkshire Coast’ — and by
Whitby’s Goths and tall ships. ‘Brid’ still
has its odiferous harbour and its big sky
over the grey North Sea, plus the house
where David Hockney used to paint and
the Old Town, where that terrible remake
of Dad’s Army was filmed. Not much per-
haps, but both my parents were brought up
here and every visit is a pilgrimage of family
memories; the fish and chips are good too.Richard Madeley
Talland Bay, Cornwall
Beautiful, tiny Talland Bay in Cornwall is
one of the smallest beaches I know. But it
has everything. Sand. Rockpools. Shingle.And history. Talland is Cornish for ‘Holy
Place on the Hill’ and a 13th-century church
tower gazes calmly down on the beach. Its
altar is on the exact spot where 5th- century
Celtic Christians once worshipped. Stare
south out to sea and you’re looking at the
horizon where the Spanish Armada passed
by in August 1588, to the abject terror of
gathered locals. Turn around and there’s
Talland Bay’s beach café nestling under the
sandy bluffs. Prepare to have your senses
shocked by the deafening, low sub-sonic
pass of an RAF fighter-bomber. And there’s
great fishing off the rocks at low tide.Charles Moore
The Antrim Coast, N. Ireland
During the Troubles, the Antrim coast was
beautifully peaceful for the visitor. Since the
peace process, it has been more troubled (by
tourists); but it remains, in feeling, a sweet
mixture of Ireland and Scotland. You can see
the latter from the former. For me, it centres
on Glenarm, whose romantic castle is the
seat of (full disclosure) my kinsman Randal
Dunluce, with its famed tea-rooms and gar-
dens. Up the road are the ruins of Dunluce
Castle, where his family, the Macdonnells,
used to drop their guests to their deaths into
the sea below, after dinner. You can stay
in Clough Williams-Ellis’s Cushendun, or
the Londonderry Arms at Carnlough; go
round to the loveliest, largest, White Park
Bay, and on beyond Castlerock, where the
sea chews ever closer to the classical Mus-
senden temple. My grandparents spent their
honeymoon at Glenarm in 1921, and noticed
that the local carts still had solid wheels
with no spokes. There has been progress since
then, sadly, including the National Trust’s
prissification of the Giant’s Causeway.
Offshore is Rathlin Island, home of thou-
sands of puffins and great Kate Hoey.>