The Beach at Southwold

The wind howls. The North Sea breaks onto the shore, spraying. The cold is penetrating. In fairness, the sun is out and the air is mild, but the wind is brutal. My turtleneck sweater and denim jacket are just warm enough.

There are sunbathers, unbelievably, although only one person is in the water – an older man bobbing around in the gray waves who must be frozen. He is not wearing a wetsuit, and his pale skin reflects the feeble sun. The sunbathers are picnicking inside windbreaker screens, in their swimsuits. Signs on a nearby kiosk advertise “rental windbreaks, beach chairs, towels and beach huts (£13)”. It is unclear whether the price will get you all the items on the list, or only the beach hut.

Wayne and I are in Southwold on the Suffolk Heritage Coast with our friends Gavin and Rosanne Kilbourn and their children Alex, who is also my godson, and Evie the Princess. Alex is 9 and Evie is 6. We are staying with the Kilbourns for a few days at their home in nearby Stowmarket before traveling on to Scotland. They are showing us the sights in their corner of England. Alex and Evie run on the beach, chasing birds and each other. Evie’s yellow pigtails fly in the wind. Gavin throws a rubber ball to them and they both chase it, laughing and screaming as it bounces toward the water. I look out over the frothing North Sea, imagining the land of my ancestors on the unseen other shore. I wonder if Norwegians sunbathe on a cold and windy North Sea beach.

Southwold is famous for its colorful beach huts. The pretty little boxes, some with porches, march along the walk above the beach on both sides of Southwold Pier, a tourist spot with a few shops and restaurants and a still-functioning 19th century Water Clock. Each of the brightly painted huts is tiny inside, consisting entirely of one room measuring 6’ x 8’ that opens on the beach side. These are not the rental huts, which appear to be the same size but don’t have porches and are all painted blue and white. The famous huts must be purchased, and they are hard to come by. They are not cheap, at £55,000 ($110,000 at this writing). You are allowed to use them from April to November, and you are not allowed to sleep in them. They are for day use only.

There are plenty of photos and paintings of the beach huts in the shops on the Pier. I take several photographs with my camera as an alternative to buying one.

“Why are these huts so hard to get?” I ask Rosanne. “They’re cute, but they’re so small. And is it ever really warm here?”
“Lucky you to have warm beaches! This is all we’ve got!” she replies with a laugh. “These beach huts are handed down from generation to generation, that’s why they’re so dear. It’s the old supply and demand – everyone wants one and no one ever gives them up.”

To be honest, our beaches aren’t all that warm in northern California, I admit to myself. But we certainly wouldn’t spend that kind of money for a 6’x 8’ box you can’t even sleep in on a frigid blowing-sand beach, would we?

This summer it has rained constantly in East Anglia, clearing only these last three weeks. It is mid-September, and there are lots of people on the beach and on the Pier, even though this is not beach weather to a Californian. It proves that beach weather is relative, and that people will seek out a beach experience whenever the weather is better than usual, as it is today.

Leaving the beach, we all walk through the little town, stopping to admire the architecture and the occasional thatched home. The children and Wayne climb on the bronze cannon in a corner park. We browse in shops, and lunch on very fresh fish and chips with local beer.

We return to the seashore, though, because it is most interesting. As I reflect on bronze California beach bodies leaping for volleyballs in the hot sun, a frigid shard of wet kelp blows across my leg and laughter comes from a nearby beach hut.