Didn't we have a lovely time the day we went to... Anywhere that RyanAir fly to?

A couple of weekends ago, I read an article in the Sunday Times Magazine about the decline of the British seaside resort, specifically highlighting Southend-on-Sea as a town woefully decaying as tourist numbers dwindle. The author painted a wonderfully bleak vision of Southend's signature landmark, its 1.4 mile Victorian pier, occupied on that day by the author alone.

As a child, Southend was where we spent the mandatory two week summer holiday my father was forced to take when the factory he worked for shut down. I feel no embarassment in admitting this at all - at the time, all of my friends' fathers worked as engineers, and our collective summer holidays were spent in either Southend, Weymouth, Poole or Bournemouth. I did have one comparatively affluent friend whose parents were both teachers, and they summered in France, but I don't recall being jealous. We were all pretty happy about spending two weeks at an English coastal resort, and I don't recall any of us or our siblings bemoaning our poor fortune at not being able to go abroad. And yet I have already felt the need to stress that it was not of embarrassment to us, indicating that this is precisely how the English resort is viewed, almost as a 'last resort', the kind of second-class destination someone would choose if, for example, they could not afford to travel abroad.

We settled on Southend because my father used to go there each year with his mother and father. My grandmother was a true Londoner, an Eastender born within the sound of Bow Bells. Even after being evacuated to rural Warwickshire, Southend - along with Margate, where we went once too - was still their favourite holiday destination after the war. In a way I felt proud to be carrying on a Smith family tradition; on the other hand, I didn't really know any different either.

I have some fantastic memories of Southend, of the journey there, of days spent indoors and hours spent in doorways because the weather had turned stormy. If I think back to the fond memories of my childhood, teenage years and early adulthood, it doesn't take too long before I come across one linked to Southend. It's just an embedded part of my history, webbed in and around some of the personally significant events of my life. Strangely, despite its obvious tourist appeal, despite literally dozens of visits to this most beloved Victorian town, I think I've only been along the pier twice. Then again, I lived in Stratford-upon-Avon for 19 years and never visited Shakespeare's Birthplace either.

But fond though I am of my memory of Southend, would I honestly consider this - or Margate, or Clacton - a destination that my newly-extended family should choose for a weeks' holiday? Or even for a long weekend? With the advent of budget airlines and the opening up of far more destinations reachable by plane in about the same time as a drive to the nearest English coastal town, it's hard to justify making the trip. This is before you consider the fact that a location like Southend, with former attractions like the Kursal or the pier bowling alley eroded away either by changing tastes and carelessness, or the decaying grandeur of the Palace Hotel (which was a squatters' paradise the last time I was there) and the boarded-up gift shops - this combination of underinvestment and cultural ruination makes Southend a pretty gloomy place for all but the most optimistic individual, i.e. very small children.

I might consider taking our daughter to coastal Essex simply to let her see what it's like and try and explain how it was when I was younger - like my father did with me - before this slice of Victorian tradition (like industry, imperialism and innovation) disappears into the sea for good. But unless our finances take a turn for the worse, we won't be spending a week there every year.

In fact, right now we are planning our first family holiday. The locations that we're considering include Portugal, Prague or New York - destinations which are recognised as affordable and effortless to reach, much as my parents considered Southend when my sister and I were born or the Victorians intended such a location with mass populace appeal to be. And oddly, on the cusp of turning thirty and taking the opportunity to look back through my memories, one of my strongest memories of Southend is not of fish and chips purchased from a chippy by Chalkwell Park, disorienting visits to the Crooked House in Peter Pan's Playground, walking out to the Crowstone Monument (the point where the Thames meets the sea) or Scampi Fries consumed in a concrete beer garden outside The Crooked Billet pub in Old Leigh - it is none of these things that I recall most fondly. Instead it's the no doubt deceased record shop (Golden Disc) that my friend Barry made me aware of where I picked up a stack of rare records, all of which I treasure as Southend souvenirs to this day.