So an entire coastal gastronomic tradition, it could be argued, stems from that once widespread English trait, unadventurous eating.
George Orwell once wrote that it was usually in the most blissful circumstances – Sunday afternoons on the sofa, a belly full of roast dinner with a pipe of shag on the go – that the desire to read about murder took hold.
De La Warr was convinced that Bexhill not only needed a new pavilion, it needed a pavilion that was newness exemplified.
A queue for the Ghost Train jumped. A jostled elbow at a seafront bar. An ill-timed suggestion of a nightcap in a nearby hotel to somebody else’s wife. The wrong colour shirt. It doesn’t take much to flip the English from restrained to needing to be restrained by several officers of the law.
My review of Wish You Were Here: England on Sea
And here a few pictures of modernist hotels build on the British seaside: