You may have noticed that the modern seaside has become rather casual.
There is nothing inherently wrong with that, of course. Fish and chips in paper, sandy car parks, and the cheerful chaos of a windy promenade all have their place. But sometimes that is not what you are longing for. Sometimes you do not want a hurried break by the sea. You want something with poise. A place that understands the art of arrival. A place where the shoreline still feels as though it ought to be approached in good shoes.
This, dear traveller, is the difference between a seaside stop and a seaside escape.
At Eldridge & Clements, we have a particular fondness for coastal places that have kept hold of their sense of ceremony. Not stuffiness, and certainly not snobbery, but ceremony in the best sense: the feeling that your time away should feel elevated from the ordinary. A longer lunch. A better view. A hotel lounge that invites you to sit for a moment before dinner and consider whether another drink would be entirely sensible.
You may think such places have vanished, packed up with the steamers and the leather trunks, but they have not. They are still here, if you know how to recognise them.
You will usually find them in the details. A sweeping terrace. A row of white-fronted hotels standing with admirable confidence along the seafront. A promenade that encourages you not to march, but to stroll. A tea room with proper proportions. A dining room that suggests supper should be an event rather than an administrative necessity.
Eastbourne, for instance, still understands the value of a well-kept façade. When you arrive there, you are met not with chaos, but with order. The seafront has breadth, the architecture has dignity, and the whole place seems to remember that a holiday should feel composed. If you are the sort of person who likes the sea with a side of structure, Eastbourne may suit you very well indeed.
Then there is Torquay, which possesses that rare quality of being both relaxed and faintly glamorous. You can see at once why people once arrived expecting to be improved by the experience. The palms, the marina, the bright air, the old hotels looking out as though they have seen several generations come to promenade before dinner — it all lends the place a Riviera confidence. You do not merely go there to stay. You go there to inhabit, for a little while, a more polished version of yourself.
Scarborough offers something different again. Here, grandeur comes with a touch more drama. The cliffs, the buildings, the long relationship between town and sea — all of it has weight. You can feel, as you walk, that this is a place that has hosted people who expected something of their holidays. And perhaps that is what appeals. You are not simply looking at the sea. You are stepping into a tradition of seeing the seaside as an occasion.
If your tastes run quieter, Sidmouth has a particularly refined charm. It does not need to perform for your attention. It simply waits for you to notice it properly. The red cliffs, the neat gardens, the calm seafront, the gentle sense that everything has been arranged with restraint rather than fuss — this is grandeur in a lower voice. And often, that is the most convincing kind.
What you are really looking for in such places is not perfection, but atmosphere. You are looking for somewhere that allows you to slow your own pace without feeling as though you have stepped backwards. Somewhere that makes a pot of tea, a sea view, and an hour with nowhere to be feel like the highest form of luxury.
That is the old seaside gift, and the best coastal towns still know how to offer it.
They understand that you do not always travel for excitement. Sometimes you travel because you want to remember what elegance feels like. Not extravagance. Not excess. Just elegance. A certain order. A little grace. The sense that your surroundings have been considered, and that in response, you might become a little more considered too.
And perhaps that is why these places matter now more than ever. The world has become very efficient at moving you along. Book now. Check in. Queue here. Leave by ten. But an escape with true regality asks something gentler of you. It asks you to arrive fully. To look out at the water. To dress for dinner if you wish. To let the day unfold without constantly proving that you have made the most of it.
So when you choose your next seaside escape, do not simply ask where the sea is blue or the rooms are available. Ask where you might feel most yourself, or perhaps even slightly improved. Ask where the promenade still carries a trace of theatre. Ask where the hotel bar might understand a martini. Ask where the sea air arrives with just a hint of grandeur.
Those are the places worth your time.
Those are the places that still know how to receive you properly.
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