STAYCATION
According to The Guardian’s Travel section, the credit crunch is forcing a notable percentage of British holidaymakers to look within their own shores—or “staycationing”, cue weary sighs—for an affordable summer getaway. Inevitably, despite the consistently high-rubbishness of the British summer, a fair few of these islanders will end up heading to the 11,072 miles of British coastline. (I don’t think that’s right either, but if it is, why is fish so bloody expensive?)
Last weekend, my girlfriend and I tootled off to the seaside, yearning for the romanticism of Poole’s old-school charm. On the South Coast of Dorset, happily the UK’s most undiscovered county, it’s where every single, heartfelt, precious memory of my love for the beach began – at my grandmother’s beach hut in Canford Cliffs. It had water and electricity and she kept it for us for nearly thirty years, before the rent went higher making each visit the equivalent cost of a BA flight to Majorca. The nightmare of finding the nearest parking spot, the creative lunches rustled up on a one-ring cooker, the one-ice-cream-a-day allowance, the tide going out for miles in late summer, and then, following the very particular and fairly eccentric techniques of the packing down and putting away of sun chairs and various beach hut miscellany, the weary trudge back up the hill after a long but golden day. Tanned hippy friends dropped in because they knew we would be there. I know this all sounds more than a little Wonder Years, a bit “jumpers for goalposts”, but alongside Christmas, they were the most family-orientated days I have ever enjoyed. Indulge me just this, dear reader—seventies nostalgia: not what it used to be, huh.
Style “guru” and Red or Dead founder Wayne Hemmingway recently stepped in and surprisingly tastefully scrubbed up some tired old beach huts in Boscombe (a couple miles along the promenade from Poole) with the make-over coinciding with the imminent completion of a new artificial reef. Boscombe will never be Bondi, but it’s doing it’s best to encourage the surf community and all the good things that come on the periphery of that scene to engage with it’s new look waterfront—something neighbouring Bournemouth has been a tad reluctant to grasp for fear of scaring off its legendary grey and very safe pound.
Development and improvements are of course a great thing, but consistency is a quality I truly admire and back in nearby Poole, specifically Branksome Dene Chine, not much has changed. There are no “lifestyle experiences”, no branding or promo. That makes me feel good. Dads are listening to The Ashes on little radios, mums are snoozing on loungers or drinking tea. No one bellows into mobile phones or can be arsed to tweet about the beach. People are getting wide. Dogs are being walked. It’s pure escapism. The ice creams are a tad more multi-coloured but the appeal is the same. You can escape the wind, get changed without doing the embarrassing towel dance, enjoy sandless sandwiches, drink tea in shelter whilst taking in all the fresh air your city lungs can handle—in a beach hut. They’re refreshingly affordable too, with a decent one costing £400 for the month of August, which is odd when you consider Sandbanks (fourth highest land value in the world) is one mile from where I currently doze. I suggest putting your head round the door now before they realise that beach huts are the sweetest piece of seaside heritage we have. But let’s just keep it to ourselves. Cool?
