From budgie-smugglers to nothing at all: our writers on what they wear to the beach | Fashion
‘The vending machine trunks only got one outing’ Jonathan Freedland
Perhaps the very last time I gave even the most fleeting thought to beachwear was exactly 10 years ago, during a family summer holiday to France. We weren’t on the beach but in a municipal pool, for an afternoon of splashing around with my two kids, then aged six and three.
We’d not been there long when I could hear my wife, Sarah, remonstrating with a lifeguard in Spanish. Which was odd â€" because we were in France â€" but not wholly unexpected. In moments of stress or confrontation involving non-English speakers, when only complete fluency will do, Sarah tends to revert to her excellent Spanish rather than her slightly less accomplished French. That the lifeguard did not speak a word of Spanish was scarcely relevant.
The issue, it turned out, was with my son’s swimming trunks. They were too long. The rule of the pool was that they be short, Speedo-style budgie-smugglers rather than knee-length shorts. I approached, but that only escalated matters. The guard pointed at my billowing shorts and said I had to leave the pool too. I can’t be sure, but I think he may have blown his whistle.
The two of us were directed to a vending machine that, incredibly, sold trunks-in-a-box. Two pairs cost me a fair few euros but also some dignity, once the two of us emerged in the mandated briefs. My son looked fine, but I was a pointed reminder of why Daniel Craig caused a global sensation in that scene from Casino Royale: it’s a look mere mortals, whose stomachs are less washboard than laundry bag, struggle to pull off. The vending machine trunks only ever got that one outing.
‘Painted toenails are mandatory’ Arwa Mahdawi
I used to think “beach fashion†was an oxymoron. Who looks stylish at the beach? You can look hot, sure â€" literally and figuratively â€" but you can’t look cool. As I grew older and sartorially wiser, however, I learned that beauty and the beach are, indeed, compatible, and have developed a signature seaside style.
One of my favourite things to wear at the beach is sand. Or, as I like to call it, “nature’s glitterâ€. I’ve found that sunscreen, liberally and lazily applied, makes a great base for sand. And the overall result lends texture and an exfoliating edge to every outfit.
Another of my tried-and-tested beachwear trends is fun tan-tattoos. If you cycle through a variety of different strappy tops you can achieve an interesting amalgamation of tan lines. It’s sort of like body art, via the medium of melanin.
I also enjoy wearing jean shorts to the beach. The great thing about jeans shorts is that they’re basically like jeans but shorter. Importantly, they allow your legs to breathe. Most of the year my legs are stuck in skinny jeans so this is the rare moment they’re able to get out in the world and I find it very freeing.
I tend to flip-flop about the right footwear but painted toenails are mandatory. If you go to the beach and don’t Instagram your ocean-facing feet then did you really go to the beach?
In general, my beachwear mantra is not-hot-not-bothered. The only thing worse than people who look like they’ve made too much of an effort for the seaside are people who turn up to the airport in evening wear because they think that will get them an upgrade.
‘I go to the gym, but at 60, my body isn’t what it was’ John Crace
It’s either a matter of acceptance or denial. I’m not quite sure which. Time was I would rip off my T-shirt the moment I got to the beach. Anything to feel the warmth of the sun on my body. These days I’m rather more circumspect. Or rather, self-conscious. At the age of 60 my body isn’t what it was. Despite still going to the gym four times a week, I have a bit of a gut. At work, I can forget about it. On the beach it isn’t so easy. The ageing process is a rebuke to my narcissism.
And then there are my tattoos. Some, like the one of my dog â€" who wouldn’t want a tattoo of the only living thing that’s always pleased to see me? â€" I still really like. But there are a couple that almost certainly weren’t even a good idea at the time and certainly aren’t on a man in late middle-age. And then there’s the one that almost cost me my leg. Only a brilliant surgeon and six weeks of IV antibiotics got rid of the infection to my knee that a dopey tattoo artist had given me. That tattoo is a constant reminder of my own stupidity.
After a few minutes’ indecision, common sense usually prevails. The old pair of shorts I have worn on holiday for the past five years still fit so I can’t be much larger than the last time I put them on and, besides, no one but me really gives a toss either way what I look like. Once the T-shirt is off, I head straight for the sun lounger and soon all these self-indulgent reflections are forgotten. Because within a matter of minutes I’m invariably fast asleep.
‘I’m a beach scruff, but what I have in mind is a very different beach scene’ Hugh Muir
I’m a beach scruff. When you spend working days looking smart enough to deal with dignitaries, you lose the will to be smart during downtime. Designer beachwear â€" oh please!
So out come the raddled old green and black camouflage shorts and the ancient Hush Puppies sandals. The beige and brown baseball cap is now so old the body has largely abandoned the peak. The deep blue T-shirt emblazoned with Gil Scott Heron’s youthful likeness. There we are - beach ready.
But what I often have in mind as I look out to a deep blue sea is another very different approach and a very different beach scene. It comes from an old picture. It shows my father and a friend, both relatively new to this country from Jamaica some 50 years ago, at the seaside â€" Southend, Great Yarmouth or Walton-on-the-Naze is my guess, for they were the family favourites. They are both wearing suits: thick, cloth-hungry, baggy ones. They look as though they have just stepped off the Empire Windrush.
Backs to camera, hands in pockets, seemingly lost in thought and incongruous as others more suitably attired amble around them, they peer out to a horizon filled with sea. I imagine them, pin sharp and wistful, thinking: “Wow, this is a long way from home.†And it was. When I do the same, I feel more than a bit grateful.
‘Skinny dipping is my favourite thing in the whole world’ Anne Perkins
I love swimming. My natural habitat is in or on the sea. I learned in the cold, sandblasted waves of a Norfolk beach, and most summer days as a child we swam in a mill pool. I swim in lakes and rivers whenever I can. Most of all I love the moment of diving in, naked, and the water is like dark silk and you feel weightless and seamless and quite, quite free.
I hate swimsuits.
Once, myopically, I dived off a boat and headed for a beach and only as I landed did I realise no one on shore was wearing any clothes. Call me a prude but I don’t care for the sight of other people with no clothes on, and I don’t suppose for a moment that anyone would care to see me with no clothes on. I turned and fled.
My skinny-dipping takes place either in very remote places, or after dark, which is my favourite thing in the whole world. (Although I confess that the news the Ukip bankroller Arron Banks also regards a moonlit beach as an opportunity to strip to the buff did take the edge off my pleasure for a week or two).
I also like sunbathing, though, so I do have a few swimsuits I am prepared to wear, although only in as unpublic a place as I can find, constructing a mental Victorian bathing hut around myself that in my mind deflects the accidental gaze of any passerby.
No one can possibly enjoy shopping for swimsuits. Happily Toast makes 50s-style swimsuits that suit my androgynous figure as well as can be expected. I buy one every year or two.
Swimsuits are for curvy people, which I am not. My ironing board physique, however, generally looks better with clothes on, so that’s what I do, until the moment when it is possible to shrug off the cover-up and sprint for the shoreline, or better, step to the edge of the jetty or quay and dive deep into the dark water.
‘A pox on the fashion industry and all its works’ George Monbiot
I abominate the fashion industry. I see it as a cause of both psychological insecurity and environmental destruction. By constructing desire, it creates a gap in our lives, that we try to fill with an endless succession of clothes we scarcely wear. This compulsion consumes not only the wonders of nature â€" as the impact of the clothing industry is huge â€" but also our peace of mind, as the fashion cycle ensures the gap can never be plugged. A pox on it and all its works. I seek three things from the few clothes I buy: to keep the weather out, to avoid looking like an idiot and â€" when I’m on holiday â€" to allow me to spend as much time as possible in or on the water.
So what this not-very-smart, not-very-young man is wearing this summer is a wetsuit. As soon as I put one on, I feel at ease: I know I’m going to have a great day. I have a 5mm full-length suit for swimming in the winter (and in Scotland), a 3mm suit for snorkelling in the summer and a sleeveless one for kayaking and canoeing. I’ve had so many wonderful times when I’m in a wetsuit that I only have to smell one to get an inkling of the thrill I feel when I’m kayaking with dolphins or diving for spider crabs.
I admit it: I’m a neoprene fetishist. I would wear it around the house, but the neighbours would get the wrong idea.
‘When you are a certain age you are in denial about your body’ Simon Hattenstone
In the early 1980s, I spent my holiday at my first and last nudist beach. Me and my friends didn’t have much money that year, we’d just finished uni and the four of us (two sets of partners) decided to go abroad to Greece. We had to go budget â€" ultimate budget. We chose the nudist beach because it was one of very few you were allowed to sleep on. Not many people did. And it soon became obvious why â€" it got well cold at night. There were even occasions when we had to put clothes on to keep warm.
Unfortunately it wasn’t the kind of beach that embraced all-comers. No infinite variety here â€" if you wanted short, spotty, blubbery, normal, you were in the wrong place. It was the ultimate cattle market. The girls were gorgeous uber women, the boys strapping German hunks. If you weren’t the most confident boy on the planet it wasn’t the best of holidays.
So the nudist beaches had to go, but I was never overly fond of dressing up for hols. In fact I’ve never been overly fond of clothes. They make you itch, sweat and chafe. When I get home from work the first thing I do is slip into something casual â€" boxers and a vest.
There’s a photo on our mantelpiece. It’s about 20 years old. We’re on the beach in Spain â€" me, my lady friend, our two tiny girls, and we’re burying stuff in sand, and I look so young it makes me want to weep. Classic beach wear. Shorts and a tan.
When you get to a certain age you go into denial about your body. You pass shop windows, stare at your reflection, and consider marching in to complain about the distorting glass that makes you look such a porker.
Despite the evidence that I should cover up more (for safety as well as decency â€" I burn these days) I don’t really. I suppose the shorts have got a little looser and longer. And if I’m feeling super sensible, or self-conscious, I’ll hide under a parasol.
‘My holiday style is kitschy but modest Esther Williams’ Hadley Freeman
My main rule regarding beachwear is anything goes as long as my stomach remains as hidden from view as an Egyptian tomb. My stomach has been unseen by anyone, save for essential medical professionals and my partner, for, by my estimation, about 20 years now, and the world and I have been perfectly happy with this arrangement. It’s not that I think I’m unacceptably fat, or anything unhappy or deluded like that. It’s just that when there are perfectly other decent offerings at the buffet, why showcase your slightly failed blancmange?
And more to the point, bikinis just don’t suit my holiday style, which can be summed up as “kitschy but modest Esther Williamsâ€. This means one-piece bathing suits cut so low around the hips they’re almost mini-dresses, chunky halter necks and lots of playsuits. I’d love to say this was all a canny tactic on my part to find what works best with my curvy figure, but the truth is this is just what I enjoy wearing.
It’s fun. And when I’m on the beach I want to have fun, not worry about inadvertently flashing the public.
‘Dressing in a kaftan is a joyous experience’ Jess Cartner-Morley
My name is Jess and I am a recovering tanorexic. As is the way with addicts, I have replaced one addiction with another. I may no longer play fast and loose with the single-figure SPFs, but I now dabble in the dangerous world of the three-figure price tag kaftan.
Unlike bikinis, shopping for which is a bracing cocktail of one part physical discomfort to two parts psychological torture, the kaftan is fun to purchase. Too much fun, in my case. The one in this photo is my all-time favourite, bought last summer, from Maje. It joined a collection which ranges from a poncho-shaped version with a fringe (very useful, front and centre on every family holiday) to a completely insane red-roses number with bell sleeves and a ribbon laced front which I bought from Agent Provocateur and have only ever worn once, on a very glamorous hen weekend in Marrakech. I bought my most recent one, a Missoni-ish zigzag silk kimono, from a stall next to a beach bar in Ibiza a week ago.
Once you make the mental shift from beachwear being about wearing as little as possible to beachwear being about being as cool and comfortable and fabulous as possible, dressing for a holiday becomes a more joyous experience.
The kaftan is both the most glamorous and the most practical garment to wear outdoors in hot weather. It is basically a ballgown, except you don’t have to wear uncomfortable high heels or Spanx, and you get to read your book rather than make small talk. Because it is virtually impossible to look bad in one, it is hard not to feel good in one. Pure fun, zero angst. No suntan was ever as flattering. PS: on Net-a-Porter, the Pucci ones are in the sale. Just saying.
‘My Ray-Bans signify happiness and freedom’ Stephen Moss
In theory, holiday wear is about freedom â€" the escape from the drudgery of your office gear â€" but in reality the clothes I wear when I head for the beaches of Spain or Italy in late August (my annual ritual) are as rigid as those I wear the rest of the year. They are an alternative uniform, now honed to perfection (in the sense of knowing exactly what I will wear, rather than visual perfection). When I’m dressed in my resort wear I feel like a cross between Marcello Mastroianni and George Clooney, but then I see the bulging stomach on the holiday snaps and the dream subsides.
My holiday outfit has emerged over the past 20 years. I must have a hat, usually some sort of straw hat. I bought one in the Spanish resort of Nerja about 10 years ago that I liked very much; very hippyish. I wore it when I visited the Greek island of Hydra, where Leonard Cohen lived in the 1960s, and pretended to be him, at peace on that careless, car-less island. Clearly, my summer wardrobe is about delusion. That hat eventually fell apart and my current headgear is a neat straw trilby made by Bailey of Hollywood. I am happy to wear it on the plane out and back, whereas I always felt self-conscious arriving at Gatwick in the rain in my hippy hat.
What I wear on my feet is also important. Generally, I favour sandals â€" I like to feel the sand between my toes and get the tops of my feet brown. I had a pair I was very fond of that I bought in a street market in Trieste and took all the way overland to Cairo, but they, too, disintegrated and now I wear a pair made by Geox and bought in Mallorca. Odd that I can usually remember where my summer wear was obtained; perhaps it matters to me more that ordinary-life wear.
The other crucial accessory is sunglasses: for a long time any old pair, but now (horribly predictably) Ray-Ban Wayfarers bought in Chicago during a tour of the US three years ago. I love them as an object and also because that trip meant a lot to me. If I manage not to lose them (unlikely) they’ll join me in the coffin along with a cricket bat; signifiers of happiness and, yes, freedom.
‘Swimming, tanning and staged photography is what I do best’ Charlie Brinkhurst-Cuff
It’s ridiculous that it’s unacceptable for women to have their boobs out on the beach even though men can proudly strut around, nipples-forward. So in an ideal world, if I could go to the beach liberated and naked, I would. In reality, sadly, I care too much about what others think of my body to bare it all on a nudist retreat. So my bikini, a green-patterned Urban Outfitters classic, generously covers my curves. When getting changed into it I hike up the straps for a bit of cleavage, pull the pants firmly over my bum.
The aim of the game is to swim and tan as much as possible â€" to turn from a milky tea colour to that deep golden brown that white people get jealous of. Sometimes I wear a light slip or an open shirt to hide the hyperpigmentation scars on my back, though in general they don’t bother me as much as they used to when I was younger. Now, the only flaws in my body I really care about are ones that cause me literal pain. Plus, my scars are a lot less visible with a tan.
My friends are a lot better at being “Insta-heauxs†and snapping bikini shots, but yo, it’s part of our generation’s nature to document every beach visit we have, so trust that you’ll see me splashing around in the waves on social media at some point. I’m aware that my beach look has a broader audience than those around me; it might make a nice profile picture, and my choice of bikini â€" brightly coloured, flattering â€" reflects that. At the beach, tanning, swimming and staged photography is what I do best.
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