even after the midges come out, is the place
under the sky most like heaven.
Michael Heath
Torcross, Devon
Well, I’ve been to Goa. That seemed to be
the beach to go to if you want sand, sun,
and the aroma of cannabis. I’ve paddled in
Brighton with Max Miller. Bondi in Aus-
tralia is, as you know, the best beach in the
world. But given the choice I’d go to Bal-
moral, also in Oz. I was sent to Torcross, a
tiny seaside heaven in Devon to stop the
Luftwaffe killing me. Unfortunately they
found me on the beach and tried to kill me
there. My ideal beach would be one with the
Famous Five on it. We’d picnic on ginger pop
and buns and leave no litter.
Katy Balls
North Berwick, East Lothian
Robert Louis Stevenson looked to the
North Berwick coast for literary inspiration.
I head there for less noble pursuits: chips
on the beach (often in the rain), hermit crab
hunting, gannet watching and an annual
New Year’s dip. Back in the 16th century it
was home to witch trials, but these days it’s
a friendlier place. While tourists flock there
in the summer, quiet coves are there to be
discovered if you’re willing to spend the day
exploring the various trails.Dot Wordsworth
Tenby North, Pembrokeshire
Pleasurable expectation always fills me
on the short walk from Tenby station, pastClaim a FREE TICKET when you subscribe to The Spectator for just £1 a week. Go to http://www.spectator.co.uk/DikotterTICKETS
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http://www.spectator.co.uk/Leith | 020 7961 0044Tuesday 3 September
Charlotte Street Hotel, Fitzrovia, London W1T 1RJHow does a cult of personality begin – and how does it sustain itself? How do
tyrants create the illusion of popular support – and what do they fear most?Join Frank Dikötter, author of Mao’s Great Famine, and The Spectator’s
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recorded and released as a special edition of the Spectator Books podcast.Frank Dikötter
An evening with
in conversation with Sam Leith
the black painted quoins of the B&Bs, past
the Poundland opposite the medieval town
walls and suddenly out into the brightness
of the Norton, a street of seaside houses on
one side and the North Beach on the other.
It’s not too far to lug a good hamper of cold
fowl and drink. The town is cheery, the beach
empty early, when it catches the climbing
sun. My husband soon dozes in a deckchair.Jeremy Clarke
Mattiscombe, Devon
And why would anyone blab about a beach
whose splendour lies in its remoteness,
emptiness and unspoiled beauty precisely
because its fame is restricted to a very few
local cognoscenti? Oh, all right then. Start
where else but at Start Point, Devon. Walk
the vertiginous mile around the cliffs and
descend to a rabbit-cropped lawn. Notice
the bloody great seals preening on a rock
just offshore. Close at hand: gorse, foxgloves,
painted ladies, sheep, rabbit droppings. In
the offing nothing but sea, sky and exposed
geology. Mattiscombe beach — crashing
waves, shingle, golden sand, flotsam and
jetsam, sea-wrack, rock pools, and a lively
salt air — is below you. Sorry guys.