Bournemouth Beach in Winter: Finding Solitude by the Sea

It starts as a few drops. A gentle pitter-patter on the roof with little need to engage the wipers as we sit parked. Our spot doesn’t allow direct views, but we know less than 100 yards ahead of us the English Channel is violently crashing onto the beach. 

The rain intensifies, and it is at this point we begin to question our sanity. It’s a cold, wet and windy January day. We have driven almost an hour for what we hope will be a relaxing walk and the solitude of the winter beach.

Hats and coats on, I find myself looking over the top of the entrance to the pier. Opened in 1889, the pier is certainly showing its age. But that is part of its charm. The accidental framing of the two people in the gap in both photo adds something to each that I like.

Bournemouth Beach in winter offers a very different experience to the summer crowds. As we walk along the seafront, months of winter weather have made the path alongside the beach unrecognisable.

What the sand isn’t covering, the spume and seaweed does. We move on, taking care as we go. It is hard to believe the beach should be so much lower than it is. 

The Lonely Beach

The steps down to the beach are buried in the sweeping sand. It’s as if they surrendered to mother nature years ago, and not over the course of the one winter.

Bar the odd dog walker, the beach stands deserted. I take the opportunity for a moment of solitude. I stand alone with wind and rain on my face, the crescendo of waves and the cry of a lone seagull filling my ears.

The concessions huts are as lonely as the seagulls. Presumably hives of activity in the warmer months, today they stand isolated. One looks as dreary and miserable as the weather. Another though, a polar opposite. Bright and vivid, giving us a rare splash of colour beneath the heavy grey skies.

A mural spanning the cliff shouts: “Meet me where the sun touches the sea”. If these are the rules, there will be no meetings today.

Soon though, the self-imposed solitude ends.

The End of the Solitude

We find ourselves at the busiest part of this stretch of the beach. Nearer the city, some places remain open. We risk the arcades and in doing so, we step into another world. Outside the monotonous hum of the waves, and the grey, drab surroundings fade away. 

Inside though, bells, music and flashing lights demand your attention, and your money.

Despite the cacophony of noise, I hear change machines rattle as notes turn to coins. 

Noise and lights consume thirty minutes of our time, and £10 of our money. About as much as we are willing to spend on either. The sound of grumbling stomachs now takes precedence.

Hot Rocks is a beachside restaurant opposite the pier. Originally opened in 1997 as a diner over a surf-shop, it suffered tragedy in 2021 when a neon sign caught fire which resulted in the building being rebuilt from the inside out. The bland exterior looks similar, but inside it is now all restaurant.

While the surf boards have gone, the beach theme remains. Hawaiian-style garlands hang from the walls and ceiling. 

Neon signs still glow. A Palm Tree, a Pelican and the word Miami. I guess Bournemouth didn’t fit, but it adds to their “Endless Summer” theme. 

Behind the bar hangs a painting of a buxom lady in a revealing beach dress, a nod to the playful, beachside vibe.

We sit at a table in the window and within seconds we are browsing the bright, garish menus in keeping with the decor. 

True to their website’s promise: “Hot Rocks offers a varied eclectic selection of dishes from around the world”.

Our choices would confirm it. We order Italian Pizza, Indonesian Style Noodles, and German Hot Dog.

The Journey Back

It is almost time to return to the grey solitude the walk back promises. I look out and the sodden window blurs the outside. Not enough to prevent us seeing the tropical style plants bend almost double as the wind whips in from the sea. Not only the plants: a 12 foot high closed and covered parasol leans with the wind.

Coats on, hoods up, we push through the door leaving behind the refuge of the warm, inviting Endless Summer and stepping into the long, solitary grey walk ahead.

Wind whips in from the sea, gusting rain into our faces. The beach is likely just as deserted. My chin spends much of the time tucked into my chest. Hands in pockets we are soon back at Boscombe Pier.

I take shelter at the entrance. Not only does it give me a break from the rain, but it also offers my favourite photo of the day.

I step onto the pier, and glance to my right, back the way we have walked. The beach remains empty, other than for the crashing, white frothy waves. 

I smile. The solitude of the beach is maybe one of my favourite places.