‘There were donkey rides along the sands and free knickerbocker glories’

Your memories, beautifully expressed, reveal a love of the British seaside that’s also reflected in this week’s cover story

Last month, alone on a first trip to the Kent coast after my oldest friend tested Covid-positive, I arrived by train in glorious sunshine at Margate’s Victorian station. Near my accommodation, Sam Mendes had returned the iconic seafront cinema to its former glory with a glass ticket booth and backlit black titles over the entrance – sadly just a film set, but still joyous.

Next day, Ken’s bike-hire shop ensured I was soon rolling along the cycle path to Whitstable for oysters and a glass of crisp white wine. Having snapped the sunset from the Turner Gallery, I shared my photo with my disappointed friend as the burnt orange sun sank into a rose-tinged sea. Julie Williams, Somerset

ONE SMALL STEP

In 1969 we spent our first holiday in a caravan on Kelling Heath in North Norfolk. It was very basic and, in the middle of a heatwave, very hot. But we were young and just happy to be there and to spend long lazy days at Holkham, Blakeney and Cromer – though our favourite was Sheringham.

The site owner rigged up a TV outside so we could watch the Moon landing. On a warm summer night, under the stars and that same Moon, it was an experience I will never forget.

When we retired we moved to Sheringham, which retains its charm as the countless visitors can confirm. When we visit places we enjoyed all those years ago, it brings happy memories. Heather Cherrie, Norfolk

EVERY CLOUD…

Our first British seaside trip in 20 years started as they always had: bundled with old family friends into multiple cars, debating who would arrive first, praying the forecast was wrong. Concerns disappeared on viewing the sunlit sign: “Welcome to Bournemouth”.

Day one was a blur of golden sand, pizzas on the beach, seaside walks and cosy hotel beds. Then it was on to Studland for day two, with lunch at Shell Bay – where the seafood restaurant serves the best fish and chips ever.

At Shell Bay beach I splashed in the ocean for the first time in two years. Then the sky turned grey; the Great British weather signalled home time. I guess something had to make us leave. Catherine McColgan, London

YORKSHIRE BEST

After 64 years of visiting Scarborough – first as a student hotel worker, then as a wife and mother of three – a wellhoned routine has evolved. The things to do include: the two-mile walk from the Spa, around North Marine Drive and the harbour, to the Corner complex (which includes a paddle); fish and chips at Wackers; an ice cream at the iconic, unchanging Harbour Bar; a sail along the coast on the Regal Lady (the boat, captained by Tom, from which my husband and I saw the QE2 sail past the bay in 2007); a visit to the Stephen Joseph theatre; and a day at the cricket – a county match at the North Marine Road ground to see Yorkshire trounce the visitors. After a sizzling bacon barm and a hot mug of tea, I’m all set for the day. Enid Hanavan, Lancashire

PEACE AT LAST

The first family holiday we took was in the late 1940s, staying in an 8ft x 8ft caravan in Scarborough. I was four years old and my brother was two. The van was cramped and Mum took a few minutes to figure out where the “facilities” were. We were only yards from the sea but it was dull and overcast. Sullen and disappointed, we went for a walk.

Next day it was sunny, however, and off we went to the beach with buckets and spades in our hands. Gradually, the place came alive. Sandcastles were dug, we paddled, splashed, picnicked and laughed. Huge crowds appeared and there were beach games and much frivolity. We fell in love with the van and had our first ever picnic of egg sandwiches and a banana. It was a week of bliss after years of war and austerity.

Today, I only have to smell the sea and I am back on that beach.

Dan Boylan, Hampshire

GULLS AND BUOYS

Shuffling along Weymouth harbour in the snaking queue for good old fish and chips, it occurs to me that there is simply nothing more British. Holidaymakers spill out with their treasured boxes of battered fish and chips, liberally sprinkled with salt, and the air is filled with the acid fragrance of vinegar.

Eagle-eyed seagulls, as big as dogs, watch with one beady eye on the prize, waiting to swoop and pick up stray chips. Some are more strident than others and think nothing of diving in and pinching a chip direct from the box, much to the surprise and indignation of the often sun-burnt day-trippers.

An alarm sounds. People stop in their tracks and Town Bridge majestically parts and opens, allowing glistening white yachts into the inner harbour against a backdrop of rough-and-ready fishing boats tied up along Quayside. Maxine Spencer, London