It is an idyllic day at the British seaside – albeit with slight anarchic undertones. We’re on Viking Bay beach in Broadstairs, Kent: a satisfying crescent of dirty blond sand sandwiched between steep chalk cliffs and a horseshoe of water. It’s a Wednesday morning in early August and the temperature is already in the early 20s with just a soft breath of wind. On the sand, for a bargainous £1 per child, kids giggle as Mr Punch chases after the crocodile with a stick. Older folk sit outside pastel-hued beach huts (maybe a little smugly?) sipping tea. Groups of teenage boys studiously ignore groups of teenage girls, and vice versa. A faint aroma of deep-fried sea creatures and not-enough SPF30 fills the air.
And people dig holes: big, deep, ambitious trenches in the sand. Not all, but most are the proud work of fathers and their sons, and at any point there may be half a dozen major construction projects around Viking Bay, like a treasure map has been drawn with an overabundance of X-marks-the-spots, or there’s been a rash of lost car keys. The tools, typically, are the beach staples of the bucket and spade, but the real pros bring a garden shovel from home. One of these, Matt from Chingford in east London, has by 10am excavated down to a metre, just under the height of his 10-year-old son. Why’s he doing it? “My boy likes sitting in the hole,” he says, “he finds it calming.” Matt’s so engrossed with the task he doesn’t notice a gull has made off with half his breakfast scone.
