As the second of three pigeons landed on my hotel room bed, having already desecrated the admittedly lovely room with poo and feathers, it began to dawn on me that maybe, when it came to seaside locations , I might genuinely be cursed. What sins had I committed in a past life that meant every time I ventured in pursuit of that classic British tradition of sea, sand, ice cream, chips and funfairs, a combination of ill-fortune and crazed birds seemed to follow me? But before I delve into my Hitchcockian history with the seaside, some context: I was a few days into a midsummer visit to Great Yarmouth, an occasionally overlooked jewel in the crown of English seaside locations, sometimes neglected due to the glamour of bigger names like Brighton or Bournemouth . I’ll admit in advance I was sceptical.
After all, just this year, Which? named Great Yarmouth one of the worst seaside towns to visit , being rated poorly by visitors, along with the likes of Blackpool and Skegness, and receiving an overall destination score of just 51%. I also don’t have a great history with coastal trips – despite being from a seaside town myself. Well, sort of.
I was brought in Gourock on the banks of the River Clyde in Scotland . But despite having a highly-rated outdoor pool , it was never thought of as the seaside destination. In Glasgow and the surrounding areas – that title goes to Largs, down the road – and it was a fateful visit there that I first developed a borderline phobia of trips .
