Footdee (pronounced "Fittie") is a small fishing village near Aberdeen harbour. From the beach it’s easy to miss but turn a corner and you're in a delightful square full of dinky little houses gathered round a communal green. Round the outside of the square the buildings are regular - neat rows of granite cottages and townhouses but round the inside they're anything but with shacks, sheds and outhouses jumbled with washing lines, plants, flowers and even a church.

The wonderful thing about Footdee is the randomness of these buildings. They're pretty puzzling. It's hard to tell if they're outhouses, or holiday homes or perhaps mansions for a race of tiny seafaring people. No two are the same and the styles range from miniatures houses with well-kept gardens to ramshackle structures made of found materials that look like only luck is holding them up. The only place I've seen anything similar is at Dungeness. In the details there are lots of seafaring accoutrements - model boats, ships-in-bottles and glass fishing weights. Hanging on one shack, a lifebelt from the Thermopylae, the world’s fastest sailing boat built in 1868 by the Aberdeen White Star Line, is a nod to local nautical heritage.

There are three squares altogether. North and South Squares were designed in the early 19th century by Aberdeen City architect John Smith who also designed Balmoral Castle. Pilot Square, built to a better standard for pilots of the harbour boats was added later. Looking closely, there are some clever design features - the houses are low and face inward to shelter from the sea, the pitched roofs keep the rain off and even the chimney pots are specially designed to keep seagulls away. As the cottages were so small, they were sold with space for an outhouse opposite, which explains the more idiosyncratic architectural elements. For fisherfolk this would be somewhere to keep your nets and other necessary equipment.

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Posted by Anne on February 23, 2008 | Permalink | Comments (2)

When you tell people that you were brought up on the South Coast, people tend to think this involves ice cream, shale and all the windy, stopped-clock delights of the British seaside. Alas, in the case of Southampton they would be wrong. However the city does have one tiny little stretch of beach, and one so strange that it deserves a whole new category of terminal beaches all to itself.

Weston Shore, on the Southwestern edge of the city, before you come to the eerie village of Netley (more of which later) is a mix of Tarkovsky’s Zone, a 1930s beach utopia and a ‘60s brutalist dystopia, lining up in front of Southampton Water’s silty expanse. The first thing you notice is a line of identical towers, aligned one after the other in Alton Estate style, with one even taller one right at the end. Geometric and standardised, these council flats have at their entrances paths what can only be described as a meadow, an area of lushly overgrown vegetation leading to a thin road and a stony beach.

The road is dotted with a series of little 1930s concrete pavilions, as elegantly Modernist as anything built in that decade. A recent regeneration has cleaned them up, but in the process made them even more peculiar: each one now decorated with abstractions connected with the likes of World War Two, the Victorians, and (bizarrely) prehistoric archaeology, which frame the views of the towers and the beach itself.

Which is nothing to write home about: 2km of stones and general waste, but with pockets of undergrowth and further on, woodland. On the beach can be found some Stalker-esque inexplicable industrial waste: a pile of what seems like the fluff left by some moulting animal was lying there when I last visited. From the beach you get a view of port traffic and the occasional yacht going up and down the desolate waters, and a distant view of the vast Fawley oil refinery, its many slender towers complementing the bulkier ones on the beach side. Industry, the remnants of Social Democracy and disused leisure all make it a spot which can feel like an idyllic vision of the end of the world.

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Posted by Owen on October 21, 2007 | Permalink | Comments (2)

Millport is the only town on the island of Great Cumbrae, which sits one and a half miles off the coast of north Ayrshire. Alongside other towns like its island neighbour Rothesay it used to be a popular destination for holidaymakers coming "doon the watter" on paddle steamers from Glasgow. Today, its popularity has waned but its charm has not and it's still a great place for a day out. At first glance there isn't a lot to do but on closer inspection there are lots of things to make a visit memorable. One of the advantages of its location means there's been less pressure to change. What's there may be old-fashioned but it's the sort of holiday fun that has worked for generations.

To get there, take the ferry from Largs. The crossing only takes 10 minutes. Once you arrive, the traditional way to see Millport is by bike. It's only 11 miles round and the road is flat so it's a great place to cycle. The road from the slip to the harbour passes two of Millport's famous novelty rocks. The first, Lion Rock really does look like a crouching lion so it's pretty easy to spot. The Millport website explains:

Houllan Keipel Dyke or lion rock as it is now known was supposedly made by the bad elves. According to a traditional rhyme the good elves were making a bridge to the mainland at Deil’s dyke and so the bad elves decided to copy them. When they eventually realised that they couldn’t manage, in frustration they kicked the holes now seen in the bottom of the rock making the shape we now know as lion rock. The shape of the lion is apparently frightening to elves and this is why to this day you never see elves on the East of the island, only on the Fintry bay side.

Queen Victoria Rock further along on the same side is harder to spot the first time but once you catch it from the right angle you can't miss her.

With that excitement over it's time for some refreshment and the best place to go is The Ritz Cafe - a 1960s dayglo formica heaven, run by the Giorgetti family since 1908. Here you can enjoy toasties, burgers and hot peas with a Knickerbocker Glory chaser. The ice cream is home made and the specials come topped with a little Italian flag. At time of writing, it's for sale so who knows what's in store. Hopefully some new owners who will appreciate this little gem.

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Posted by Anne on September 09, 2007 | Permalink | Comments (3)

Of all the seaside towns in all the world, the biggest rock shop has to be in one of them, and it’s Great Yarmouth. It’s only fitting that a resort so unashamed of its dedication to traditional leisure and pleasure throws healthy eating to the wind and gets down to the serious business of getting rock right.

It’s not completely clear what kind of competition Docwras Rock Factory has for the “Biggest rock shop” title, although a couple of other establishments in Regent Road look like they’re thinking of having a go. Although the shopfront is relatively modest they’re not exactly hiding their light under a bushel with the enormous neon sign saying “The World’s Largest Rock Shop” running right down one side of the interior.

And indeed, it’s big. One side is taken up with lots and lots of rock. All shapes. All sizes. All flavours. There’s everything – banana, raspberry, coffee, strawberries and cream, aniseed, different types of mint, and they come with almost anything stamped through the middle. Towards the back, beside the novelty shapes like baby’s dummies and fried breakfasts made of rock there’s even a “naughty section” with some genuinely eye watering things to put in your mouth.

Docwras is a family run business that has been making rock and other sweets for over 100 years. They’re quite happy to share the expertise of their “rock and rollers”. At the other side of the shop, beside a huge pipe painted rock pink another huge sign says “See Yarmouth Rock Made Here” with a sign showing the time of the next demo. Sadly, I missed it. Seeing as they make 80,000 sticks of rock every week it shouldn’t be long before another one comes along.

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Posted by Anne on July 16, 2007 | Permalink

Barely hanging on to the most easterly tip of England, Great Yarmouth is the seaside town that time forgot. Within minutes of our arrival we discover this temporal isolation permeates the town's whole being.

At the core of Great Yarmouth’s time warp sits Louis Tussauds House of Wax. Its terrible likenesses have been widely mocked via viral emails and national radio.

It was the last day of our visit when we stumbled upon the grand old house, painted bright blue and white, with a small ticket booth out front and faded lettering spelling out 'House of Wax'. Disclaimers and warnings proclaim 'These waxworks are best enjoyed as snapshots in time’ and 'No Photography' - evidence its owners were stung by the email mocking their museum.

Buying tickets and stepping inside we immediately realise the wax works are just as bad as the stories had led us to believe, however it's the whole atmosphere, the entirety of the museum that makes it so fascinating.

Due to a lack of investment or more likely a lack of will, Louis Tussauds is a time capsule of the 1970s and early 80s. Jim Davidson stands proudly at the front of a display of television personalities featuring amongst others Dirty Den and Angie, Sam Fox and the cast of Dynasty. There's a whole gallery of military figures with Churchill and Hitler headlining. Modern day is represented by a lost looking Victoria and David Beckham, but they are probably just the old Morecombe and Wise figures melted down and given new hairstyles.

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Posted by Ben C on July 08, 2007 | Permalink | Comments (3)

I’ve heard there are families that don’t stop at every crazy golf course they see when driving around the country. I’ve heard about them but I’m not sure they exist. How would they fill their seaside days if they’re not knocking golf balls through windmills, houses and into top hats? I just can’t imagine. Anyway. Suffice to say that we are quite the crazy golf connoisseurs and you should believe us when we assert that this crazy golf course in Mablethorpe is as close to perfection as you’ll ever find. Well worth traversing the barren nothingness of Lincolnshire to get there.

As you’ll know from your extensive experience of crazy golf courses, there’s an increasing tendency for course owners to get some off-the-shelf, plastic holes from a warehouse somewhere, blot them to a bit of concrete and call it a top-flight course. We’re always disappointed by this approach. We’ll always play on them but there’s nothing as exciting as a truly individual home-made course like this one. It’s not just amusements, it’s folk art. The colours, the ideas and the friendliness make it a lovely place to spend half an hour.

Our favourite hole is probably the enormous Humber Bridge, a vast hole which provides a challenge for even the most skilled minigolfer. But you can’t fault the house with boots and a moustache, the fat boy or the cannon. And the coup de gras is of course the final hole which will squirt water at you when you get your ball in. Genius. Andy Miller in his marvelous book Tilting At Windmills, chronicles his time attempting to get good at crazy golf. He visits a lot of courses. And he shares our enthusiasm declaring Mablethorpe Crazy Golf to be ‘the best in the country’.

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Posted by Russell on April 19, 2007 | Permalink | Comments (1)

When I accidentally dropped my gerbil on the kitchen floor and killed it, my Mum’s response was “Let’s go to Blackgang Chine!”. If there was ever a place on Earth where you could forget about the premature demise of your favourite rodent, Blackgang Chine was it. That was twenty five years ago and the place made such an impression on us that my Mum took the family there to celebrate her sixtieth birthday in 2003.

Hanging precariously onto the Southerly cliffs of the Isle of Wight, Blackgang Chine is one of a dying breed of family-run Theme Parks. It was set up in 1842 by Alexander Dabell who saw money-making potential in this spot of outstanding natural beauty. Having landscaped some gardens at the top of the Chine, he then put the area firmly on the tourist trail by acquiring a stranded whale at auction. He sold off the blubber and installed the bleached skeleton in a hut. Blackgang Chine was now officially open for business and people came from all over Britain to see the whale and walk in the beautiful gardens.

To this day, descendants of Alexander Dabell still run the park which now covers an impressive 40 acres of land. There have been a few concessions to modern expectations, such as the recent “Cliff Hanger” rollercoaster but these make little impact when compared to the folk-art qualities of the fibreglass attractions that have remained intact since the Seventies. Walking through the giant pirate’s legs at the entrance, the memories came flooding back. Imagine my joy as I re-entered “Frontier-Land” cowboy town and sat astride the same steed of yesteryear, turning a corner only to find that “The Crooked House” had not fallen prey to the terrible landslides of the Nineties. “Nursery Land” still contained the giant hallucinogenic mushrooms of my childhood and the bizarre ape-men continued to lurk in the trees en route to “Dinosaur Land”.

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Posted by Jasia on January 20, 2007 | Permalink | Comments (3)

Morecambe, it’s fair to say, could almost be the resort Morrissey had in mind when he wrote ‘Every Day Is Like Sunday’. It really does have the feel of a place they forgot to close down. The town’s heyday is long past. Looking at the flyblown bargain stores and low rent accommodation that line the seafront, it’s difficult to believe that Morecambe was once considered a more ‘select’ destination than Blackpool further down the coast. Even so, the place does have a certain appeal. There are gems like Brucciani’s unchanged 1930s tea room. There’s a special quality to the light which has attracted artists for decades. Large areas of the promenade have been given a sensitive makeover. The magnificent art deco Midland Grand Hotel is under restoration, and the Stone Jetty behind it is a great example of regeneration with a human touch. The bollards lining the Jetty are topped with witty sculptures of seabirds (incidentally, the patterns for casting them were made by my dad).

Between the Grand and the Jetty is a wind-blasted open square of concrete flagstones – the Arena Funfair. All that remains of this small fairground are two buildings glowering at each other like a couple of punch-drunk boxers. On one side there is the former fairground café, a squat bunker-like building with JUG OF TEA £1.50 carefully hand written on the front. Opposite the café is what was once an open stage. The only performances these days are by vandals and pigeons. Next to the stage is an empty shallow pool, coated in flaking cobalt blue. Painted by the same hand as 'JUG OF TEA £1.50' is a sign announcing REMOTE CONTROL BOATS. The stunning sunsets that Morecambe Bay is famous for only enhance the melancholic appeal.

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Posted by Gareth on January 07, 2007 | Permalink | Comments (2)

The East Anglian fishing village of Sizewell has had its image swallowed whole by the two nuclear power stations. Sizewell A was opened in 1966 and has just recently begun decommissioning. Its large nondescript square concrete bulk sitting in drab contrast to Sizewell B's metal domed roof. Sizewell B opened in 1995 and is due to close in about 30 years.

Sizewell A and B dominate the village's beach and public image. They dominate the coast, sitting side by side beach, staring blankly out to sea.

Like middle class oap's nuclear plants like living near the sea. Drawing in cold water for cooling and steam generation, often pumping out heated water back out to sea (just like a pensioner). Sizewell's inlets and outlets are marked by what look like two marooned seaside piers, which at night reassemble two skeletal fairground relics, details picked out once every two seconds by the blinking red light.

We visited at midnight. It would have been noisy trudging across the stones if it weren't for the loud evil growling sound coming from Sizewell A (which had yet to close). It sounded as though every single character from the Trap Door wanted to escape.

Standing on the beach between the power stations and the outlets is an eerie sensation. Beaches are supposed to be about fun and novelty. Sizewell beach is anything but, two grim concrete structures sat next to a shingle beach with two isolated piers and no ferris wheel. Even sand castles are unlikely as there's not much sand on the shore (although there's some attempt at sand dunes near the car park). Even if there was enough sand you wouldn't want to dig too deep when making the moats for your sand castles.

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Posted by Ben C on October 31, 2006 | Permalink | Comments (3)

A dingy campsite in a forlorn corner of south-west Scotland isn't the sort of place you'd expect to find immortalised in film, but then, The Wicker Man is no ordinary movie. The bizarre tale of pagan rites in a backward Scottish island hit the screens in 1973 and was promptly forgotten, but now its sinister bent, great cast and a groovy soundtrack put it right up there as one of the great cult movies. So much so that it has spawned a Hollywod remake, although the less said about that the better.

The original is set in Summerisle, a fictional island in the north of Scotland, but a tight shooting schedule meant the weather up north would have been too severe in October. Dumfries and Galloway had to make do. Not that it was exactly warm - the cast had to suck ice cubes to stop their breath showing in the supposed "summer" scenes. It's certainly not the place to be wandering around in your nightshirt, even beside a roaring fire.

Past the caravans of Burrowhead Holiday Village near Isle of Whithorn on the edge of the Irish Sea, the Wicker Man took shape. At the time, the Galloway Gazette reported that its construction was shrouded in secrecy lest “provoked by crowds of sightseers, the monster might break free of the scaffolding which imprisons him, devastating the surrounding countryside and terrifying the locals”¹. Two men were built - a larger one for the main shots, and a smaller one 500 yards away for the close-ups of Howie (Edward Woodward) and the final dramatic shot of the head tumbling into the sunset. [I'm not going into any more detail here in case you haven't seen the film]. The remains of the main man, as it were, have been destroyed by over-zealous visitors over the years but the stumps of the smaller one remain cemented into the cliff-top with the initials “WM” and the date 1972 carved into the base.

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Posted by Anne on August 27, 2006 | Permalink | Comments (3)

You could say that Lower Largo is famous for one thing, but famous is hardly the word. However if you do take that turn-off on the A915 Kirkcaldy-St Andrews road and land up there it will soon be obvious what it is. Because Lower Largo was the birthplace of Alexander Selkirk, immortalised as Daniel Defoe's Robinson Crusoe. He was born here in 1676 and ran away to sea less than 20 years later to work as a buccaneer. On one voyage in the South Pacific he grew concerned about the state of his ship (good call; it later sank) so stayed ashore on the Juan Fernandez Islands, little knowing there would be four years of solitude before he was rescued.

It's a story that captures everyone's imagination, but considering the romance and drama of Selkirk's life, his legacy in Lower Largo is pretty low key. The first sight to hit you is the Crusoe Hotel, which has an enviable spot beside the harbour. There's no mistaking that it's that Crusoe with a sign made out of driftwood and a signpost saying "Juan Fernandez Island 7500 miles". Round the corner at 101 Main Street there is an Alexander Selkirk statue, on the house that now stands on the site of his birthplace. No doubt if he had been born anywhere else there would be Robinson Crusoe-themed boat trips that take you out to a rock and leave you there for the day, but here it's refreshing to find such a simple tribute to a remarkable man.

This fits in with Lower Largo as a whole - despite its hugely picturesque setting it's a sleepy wee place. Traditional Fife fisherman's houses sit higgledy-piggledy under a viaduct which was built in the 1800s to carry the railway line through. The trains have long gone thanks to Dr Beeching, and the harbour which used to hold 36 herring boats is almost empty but the place hasn't lost any of its character. Like many of the villages in the East Neuk of Fife it is a conservation area, and great care has been taken to keep it just the way it is.

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Posted by Anne on July 09, 2006 | Permalink

For years Rothesay was a prime holiday destination for hordes of Glaswegians who would take a trip "doon the watter" for some sea air. Thanks to its beautiful setting on the Isle of Bute, and well-preserved Victorian seaside architecture it is still popular (but not as much as it should be), and is easy to reach by public transport making it an ideal place if you suddenly decide you want to get away from it all.

The pleasure starts as soon as you get on the ferry at Wemyss (pronounced "Weems") Bay (or before if you've got the train into its glorious Victorian station). The sailing only take 35 minutes and it's a beautiful trip across the Firth of Clyde. You might associate Scottish island life with crofts and sleepy villages but even from the boat Rothesay's solid Victorian villas and sandstone tenements give a hint of its bustling past.

When you get off the ferry take a right and the Grade 'A' listed Winter Gardens, now the Isle of Bute Discovery Centre will help you find your bearings. The gardens outside are beautifully kept - immaculately clipped and colourful. You can have a game of putting or make a wish in the Wishing Fountain, gifted to the town in 1961. And if you walk along the prom you can enjoy the view over to the Cowal Peninsula. One thing that's so special about Rothesay, and indeed the whole of Bute, is that here a sea view doesn't mean just sea, it means layers and layers of hills and mountains from neighbouring islands and mainland. I'm not always sure what I'm looking at but I know I like it.

Continue past the Winter Gardens to Rothesay Pavilion, one of the finest examples of Art Deco architecture in Scotland described at the time of its opening as 'uncompromisingly Moderne and stylish, [it] captures something of the boldness of Mendlesohn and Chermayeff’s only just completed Bexhill Pavilion’. Now used for concerts and discos the Pavilion also has a cafe which is open during the summer.

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Posted by Anne on June 23, 2006 | Permalink | Comments (1)

If, as some people argue, the world is actually flat, then I’d like to nominate Dungeness as one of the ends of the earth. It certainly feels remote and strange enough for maps of the area to tell you that in the sea beyond the coast “Here be monsters”.

Dungeness is at the end of a mile and a half shingle promontory, between New Romney, Lydd and Camber on Romney Marsh in Kent. Aside from a collection of seemingly random huts and shacks, it has two nuclear power stations (once upon a time you could visit them, but in these days of tight security, that was thought to be a bad idea), two lighthouses (one defunct), is the terminus of the miniature Romney, Hythe and Dymchurch Railway (of which more soon), some fishing boats moored on the shore, and a collection of flora and fauna unique to its shingle landscape.

The Dungeness Estate is privately owned (hence the gates at its entrance), and whoever originally decided to purchase it was obviously a genius, as it has to be one of the best investments ever: Each year more and more shingle is deposited on the shore, so Dungeness, unlike a great deal of the rest of the coast, is actually getting bigger. To see how much it has grown, look at the distance between the old lighthouse (1902) and the new (1962): Both were once almost on the shoreline.

In the aftermath of the First World War, when housing was at a premium, people began to rent plots at Dungeness and erect their own dwellings, often making use of old railway carriages to do so. Some of these are still there, although adapted and added to over the years. It was also home to filmmaker Derek Jarman (you can see his famous garden at Prospect Cottage).

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Posted by Ben on May 26, 2006 | Permalink

There is, literally, nothing to see at Electric Brae (known locally as Croy Brae). Unsuspecting travellers following the A719 coastal road near Dunure in Ayrshire will see the sign: "Electric Brae: Slow vehicles ahead". Mysteriously there is nothing until you get round the bend and a queue of stationary cars sits in the middle of the road. If it's anything like it used to be when I went there as a kid the cars will be full of beaming children slackjawed with wonderment for Electric Brae is a magical place, a "gravity" or "magnetic hill" where the laws of physics seemingly don't apply and cars roll upwards.

There are similar sites around the world with equally grandiose names - Magnetic Hill in New Brunswick, The Mystery Spot in Santa Cruz, Confusion Hill in Pennsylvania. I wonder if they all have a special place in their nation's hearts in the same way that Electric Brae does. Going here on the way home from the seaside used to be a childhood bank holiday treat. The normal rules of the road go out of the window as on this small stretch of road dawdling is permitted, if not downright encouraged. Indeed at one point Ayrshire Council were getting so many enquiries about the place (probably from Arthur C. Clarke fans) that they produced a leaflet about it. It also proved popular with the Yanks who were stationed at Prestwick during the war, particularly one General Dwight D. Eisenhower who used to bring visitors here when he stayed nearby at Culzean Castle.

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Posted by Anne on May 15, 2006 | Permalink | Comments (5)

This is Saltburn or Saltburn-by-the-Sea to give it its full title - a lovely old Victorian seaside resort on the North Yorkshire coast a bit north of Scarborough. I saw it in a TV play years ago and vowed to visit one day. It looked so great with its cliff lift (they don't call it a funicular), pier and huge sandy beach. It has a real Alan Bennett feel to it, homely but windswept. When we got there we'd just missed The Royal doing some filming and Heartbeat are never out of there as it passes for the 1960s without any fuss. No wonder as it's so unspoilt.

The cliff lift is the oldest remaining waterbalance lift in Britain, working its way up and down the 120ft cliff since 1884. There's something satisfyingly low-tech about all the swishing and clanking that goes on. For 60p you get to travel in the intimate little cars (maximum 15 passengers and that must be a tight squeeze) with their lovely stained glass windows. There were two old men in ours who asked wryly if we were having a good time. They seemed suprised when we said we were. With surroundings as nice as this it's easy to get by without "attractions".

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Posted by Anne on May 08, 2006 | Permalink | Comments (10)