Last week, I ventured to Southend-on-Sea with my partner. Rather than spending a rare day off together sitting in front of Netflix, we decided it would be much more enjoyable to see a bit of the British coastline, in all of its grey, tacky glory. It will be fun, we told each other. It will be nice to see the sea.
And yet, setting out from London in the car, against one of those endless grey skies that forecast a cool, penetrating drizzle, I had a slight feeling of dread. The last time I had visited Southend was as a child; I remember being blown away by the scale of the rollicking rollercoasters, too scared to go on them but enamoured of the environment: the sticky twirls of ice-cream, the noise, the fun. Would returning in the depths of winter kill a dear memory? Earlier this month, another British seaside spot, Falmouth, was crowned the UK’s most depressing place to live, while Southend was shortlisted.
