An Englishman’s hut is his castle
BEYOND the newly painted windows, down on the golden sand at Wells-next-the-Sea, a poodle-cross chases the shadow of a seagull. The dog’s owners—a young couple in Wellington boots—help their crying toddler to untangle his kite. It’s a blustery morning in north Norfolk, one of those days when a walk seems like a fine idea before you set off and feels like an achievement when you’re back, but is teeth-chattering when you’re actually outside, with conversations lost on the wind.
Beach huts, such as the refurbished one in which I’m drinking tea, were born out of 18th-century prudishness and have since become a cherished part of our coastal heritage. Over the past decade, as our nostalgic romance with seaside kitsch has blossomed,sand.
