Chris picks his best...

Rooms with sea views | Food and drink spots | Beaches

Follow Chris in our camper van man travel special

It’s the first day of my six-week search for Britain’s best beaches, and it’s not going well.

Camper van man's tour of the British coast

Camper van man Chris Haslam is coming to the coast near you on a six week summer tour - and he needs your help

• Camper van man week 1: Southend to Skegness

• Beach of the week

• Catch of the day

Related Links

• Focus on — Skegness

• Camper van man's tour of the British coast

Southend-on-Sea, I decided, didn’t count. The reason: it’s not on sea and never has been. It’s Southend-on-Thames, offering not the humbling vista of the earth’s curvature but the dismal view of an oil refinery on the Kent shoreline.

Because of this, the town has turned its back on the beach, hiding it beneath honking, blinking, clattering distractions designed so we hopefully won’t notice that we’re not at the seaside at all.

Then, in Clacton-on-Sea, an old lady walked in front of the van without warning. Shaken, I pulled over, and stepped onto the neglected stretch of coast known as God’s waiting room. Graffiti soils the walls, the grand hotels have become retirement homes, and for most of those loitering in the litter-strewn streets, the only way out of here is in a box.

A brown tide had covered the beach, and families were gravitating, zombie-like, to the pier. I followed, avoiding the plaintive eyes of an underworked fortune-teller – nonagenarians can pretty much guess their future – and took a seat in the Jolly Roger cafe.

“It’s a bit grim here,” I said to the waitress as she brought my tea. She rolled her eyes. “It’s Clacton,” she sighed. Then it started to rain, and suddenly I knew why that old lady had jumped in front of the van.

Yet the sun suddenly came out as I arrived in Walton on the Naze, illuminating an unexpected delight. The pier, admittedly, is a carbuncle, the Victorian skeleton covered in a yellow carapace to keep the slot machines dry, and it divides the resort like an Iron Curtain.

To the north, ragged rows of muddled houses stand like broken teeth above the award-winning Albion beach; to the south, a shantytown of beach huts rises in tiers above the dog-friendly Southcliff beach. Hut No 5, on the exclusive front row, could be yours for £7,800.

“I’ve been coming here for 70 years and I hope I die here,” announced a stout old battle-axe staring seaward from the prom. I asked her name.

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