Westward Ho!

This is the only place in Britain named after a novel, which tells you the Victorians got here, looked at the beach, and decided the marketing came first and the town could catch up later. It never quite did. What you get instead is three miles of surf and pebble ridge, a village that has been converting itself into holiday lets for a century, and a permanent low-grade argument about whether the punctuation in the name is charming or embarrassing. It is both, and after a winter here you stop noticing it, which is roughly how everyone ends up staying.