What the Highlands and Islands can learn from English seaside towns

The National

06-07-2025

It was the early 2000s, I was a fresh-faced Gaelic kids TV presenter, and it was the height of summer. I was filming for a segment which saw me attempt the most ridiculous things we could think of within the parameters of our tiny budget.
That filming trip had included a day at the World Worm Charming ­Championships where I had ­attempted to charm as many worms as I could out of a one-square-metre patch of ground ­within the allotted time frame using a ­variety of methods, including smacking the ground with a Gaelic dictionary and reciting ­poetry. Unsurprisingly, the worms remained resolutely underground.
We had moved on to the World Bog ­Snorkelling Championships, where, clad in wet suit and snorkel, I 'swam' along a brackish ditch dug from an impressive bog. Your head had to be under at all times. There were eels. I heroically clinched last place.
Much of that period of my life has merged into one ridiculous mental ­photo album, from which I can always pull something absolutely random in order to entertain at dinner parties. Jumping from a plane at 10,000 feet? Check. ­Scuba ­diving with sharks. Yup. Stroking an ­Orca's nose? Old hat, frankly. Whether it's entertaining or insufferable, I don't much care. It was a truly bonkers few years that were in no way lucrative and in reality, a heck of a lot less fun than my witty headlines suggest, so I'll take the ­social mileage.
In Bognor Regis, surrounded by ­candyfloss and sandy children, I took a deep breath and flapped frantically as my feet left the pier. The goal was to be the person who 'flew' the furthest.
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I can't remember where I placed, but I can't imagine that I managed more than a metre. I do recall swimming back to the shore, a soggy, wet, feathered ­chicken ­costume hanging from me, my beak askew, wondering whether my career might not be all it was cracked up to be.
I hadn't thought about Bognor for years, until I read last week that Which? Magazine had crowned Bognor the worst seaside town in England.
As our summer season in Tiree kicks off in earnest next week, it made me think.
I live in a tourist economy too – on the face of it, a very different kind of ­destination – but scratch the surface and the parallels are there.
Our economy is one shaped by the weather, and by whatever the ­latest ­Instagram trend tells visitors they ought to value. It's easy to believe that ­popularity lasts forever. That people will always come. That holiday traditions don't change.
But they do. And the English seaside resort proves it.
The rise of places like Blackpool, ­Margate and Bognor was rooted in health fads and rail timetables. In the 18th ­century, doctors began prescribing sea air and salt water for everything from gout to melancholy. Resorts sprang up to meet the demand, offering genteel promenades and medicinal bathing machines.
But it was the arrival of the railways in the 19th century that transformed the ­seaside into a mass-market destination­. Blackpool became a byword for leisure and light shows. Margate filled with ­Londoners. Bognor got a visit from George V, giving the town its regal suffix.
By the early 20th century, factory ­shutdowns and paid holidays meant ­millions of working families poured into coastal resorts. Fish and chips, donkey rides and piers weren't just entertainment – they were part of an annual ritual, as familiar as Christmas.
Then it started to slip.
The rise of international travel in the 1960s offered something new – sunshine you could count on. Seaside resorts across England began to decline. Visitor ­numbers dropped, overnight stays shrank, and local economies grew reliant on day trippers. The grand hotels were converted to flats or fell into disrepair. Places that once buzzed with summer excitement were suddenly described with words like 'tired' and 'forgotten'.
Blackpool, famously, kept trying. It ­never lost its spirit entirely. And while it still has its social challenges – it ­regularly appears in the top rankings for ­deprivation – the visitor numbers ­remain extraordinary. In 2022, the town ­welcomed over 20 million people. That's not decline. That's persistence.
It's also adaptation. Blackpool is in the middle of a £2 billion transformation. There's a new museum, a regenerated tram system, investment in housing, and a genuine attempt to make the town more than a nostalgia act.
Margate has leaned fully into reinvention. The Turner Contemporary gallery opened in 2011, and the town has repositioned itself as a hub for arts and culture. The old Dreamland amusement park has been restored with public money, and the High Street is now full of independent cafes, record shops and studios. You can still get a stick of rock, but you're just as likely to get an oat milk cortado with it.
Bognor hasn't had the same press, but it's not standing still. Butlin's ­remains a huge draw, with over 300,000 a­nnual ­visitors. The town centre is ­getting ­attention, too – new theatres, hotel ­upgrades, and public realm improvements are all on the table. It may not be fashionable yet, but it's refusing to fade quietly.
So no – the English seaside hasn't been abandoned. It's shifting. It's shedding the cliches that no longer serve it and holding tight to the ones that still bring people joy. Nostalgia might lure you in, but regeneration is what's keeping the lights on. Which brings me back to Scotland.
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Here in the islands, we're not dealing with the ghosts of seaside glamour. But we are tied to a tourism economy that is vulnerable to outside forces.
A cancelled ferry, a bad summer, a cost of living crisis – these things hit hard. This year, some are already reporting a slowdown. And if that's the start of a ­wider trend, we need to think carefully about what comes next.
We should be watching what places like Bognor, Blackpool and Margate are ­doing. Not copying the neon or the noise – but understanding that ­successful places are rooted in community, not just charm. The regeneration that seems to be ­working is the kind that ­prioritises ­housing, ­education, arts and health ­­alongside ­visitor numbers. It isn't about pretty ­bunting and well-filtered ­photographs. It's about identity, resilience and long-term thinking.
When I took part in worm charming, bog snorkelling and flying competitions, it was purely for entertainment. 20 years later, I've realised something else. Those events might not have been glamorous nor profitable, but they mattered to the places that held them, and to the people who turned up.
Someone had decided their patch of ground, however soggy, was worth celebrating. That their ditch was worth swimming. That their pier was worth leaping from.
The west coast of Scotland doesn't need reinvention – but it does need realism. The weather will always be what it is. The sea will always be cold. But our strength lies in the depth of what's beneath the ­surface. The heart, not the costume.