We decided to get out somewhere nice on Sunday and enjoy the brief appearance of that lesser-spotted heavenly body who was out to play and had his hat on (hip-hip-hip, hooray), and we chose Hastings as our destination. Other than my playing a gig in Hasting years ago in some grotty little pub on the front, neither of us had been to the town proper before so it was a bit of an unknown quantity.

What greeted us was a typical sleepy seaside town which was still semi-stuck in that strange time-warp which seems to capture every British coastal town; I say ‘semi’ stuck as there is now at least a modern shopping precinct in the town centre and the obligatory supermarket and DIY superstore sprawling on the outskirts, but the sea front itself and the odd little residential back streets just behind it may as well still be in the 1950’s. It has the obligatory ancient pier permanently wading in the surf, looking drab and neglected but still attracting the occasional punter with its fairground rides and candy floss stalls. It has the standard row of changing room chalets along the beach which cocoon their occupants against the elements. The back streets are dotted with the odd antiques and/or bric-a-brac shop which must somehow make a living even though their wares are not exactly collector’s items. There’s even the stock example of a provincial seaside theatre where C-list celebs valiantly play out their summer seasons.

I began to wonder what exactly it is that affects our seaside towns in such a way – what is it that they have (or don’t have) which leaves them standing still when everywhere else has moved with the times? I suppose the obvious answer is the weather; as flights became cheaper and more frequent with the birth of the jet age in the 1950’s and 60’s, people no longer had to suffer the great British summers in Somewhere-on-Sea which had long been a seasonal institution in this country. Now they could escape to warmer climates for not much more money, but in doing so our seaside resorts lost their lucrative tourist trade and could not afford to keep up with the fashions and contemporary improvements demanded by the public these days. Instead, our coastal towns became retirement destinations or an occasional weekend retreat for the over 60’s in a bed & breakfast or caravan park.

These sleepy windswept places have a curious air about them; they’re like ghost towns with tumbleweeds blowing through them but with the population still in residence. I can’t be certain that all our seaside towns are like this because I’ve not visited that many, but from what I’ve seen of the likes of Bournemouth, Clacton, Bexhill, Seaton and Bude, they all share that instantly recognisable ambience of patched up neglect, like an ageing film star well beyond their prime but who’s determined to soldier on regardless. Even Blackpool, which some of you are about to experience for the first time, has that faded aura of a town that time forgot, even with its coloured lights gallantly trying to add some sparkle to the underlying black and white kiss-me-quick skeleton which lurks beneath. The only example I can think of which has achieved any sort of success in dragging itself into the 21^st century is Brighton. Whilst it is and will always be a traditional British seaside resort, it has at least built up a continental-style trendiness about it which regularly attracts visitors of all ages and in all weathers.

A few years back I played at a jazz festival in Clacton. I’ve only been to Clacton twice in my entire life (excluding any trips there as a child which I would have long forgotten about); once for the jazz festival and once to visit a cousin of mine who lives a few minutes from the sea front, but on neither occasion did I spot any real evidence of a town which has moved on with any significance during the past 50 years or so, and in this respect it’s even more your archetypal coastal resort than Hastings. The average age of the residents of Clacton must surely be around 120, though the sea air must be good for them as they still stroll about the sea front in their hoards with the exuberance of a gang of teenagers, and I suppose that Clacton is therefore the perfect choice for a jazz festival, as 90% of the audiences at these events tend to be from the Blue Rinse Brigade. (I’m fully aware that a certain board member of Planet Skaro Ltd. hails from Clacton and so I’m anticipating a more accurate reflection of the true nature of the town as a result of this post.) Though I’ve never visited, I understand that the Number One time-warped seaside town is Eastbourne, which is the equivalent of a coastal resort museum complete with an abundance of blue-haired and wrinkly exhibits.

For all their anachronistic qualities, British seaside resorts still have an overwhelming charm about them; they’re an escape from the real world into a parallel universe where pensioners suffer the wind and rain in true stoical fashion as only we Brits could. I could quite happily buy a sea front flat in one of these towns in which to spend long weekends away from London and be quite content. The very nature of these towns means that you can still pick up a one bedroom flat for £60K or even a 3-bed house for double the price, but whether you’d ever get a good return on your investment either as a letting opportunity or to sell in the long term, I’m not sure.

As we struggled against the wind along the pebbled beach at St Leonard's on Sunday, I could almost see K9 trundling along next to Romana, even though we were 40 miles away from Brighton, but it reminded me of the enduring appeal of the great British seaside resort and that it still attracts a small but determined audience from all walks of life.