Originating from a small Midlands town and subsequently moving down south and now to the south coast in Brighton, there is a natural allure for me for the traditional British seaside town.
I actually remember going to Weymouth from the Midlands with the family when I was a wee lad.
There's a version of England that still exists in places like our seaside towns. Not the version that gets argued about online, or invoked on political platforms, or turned into a slogan. The quieter version. The one that just gets on with it.
I drove down to Weymouth yesterday morning, with the Leica M10 and no real agenda beyond walking and seeing what the town had to say, as Spring 2026 has opened its eyes. Weymouth is a proper south coast seaside town — the kind with a working harbour, Georgian terraces starting to show their age, a pink cake shop that takes cash only, and Union Jacks outside the pub.
"This blog post isn't a political statement, it's an observation. The flags are just there — unremarkable to the people who live under them, which is precisely what makes them worth photographing."
I've been thinking about this project for a while. There's something I keep noticing in the English seaside towns I shoot — a particular kind of texture that's hard to name but immediately recognisable. Old shopfronts that haven't been rebranded. Red postboxes with knitted toppers. Phone boxes repurposed into book exchanges. Ghost signs on brick walls advertising things that no longer exist. All of it quietly persisting, not out of defiance, just out of habit.
Weymouth has it in abundance.
I started on the high street. The first image that stopped me was almost too on-the-nose: a red figure hunched on a bench beside a red postbox and a red phone box — now a book exchange — with Betfred blazing blue in the background. Three reds and a betting shop. England in a single frame.
A few streets away I found the postbox with the knitted Union Jack draped over its top — someone had crocheted a topper decorated with poppies and the flag, placed it there quietly, and moved on. It was the most tender thing I photographed all day. There's a whole tradition of this in small British towns — anonymous acts of civic affection that never make the news and probably shouldn't.
The cobbled lane down toward the harbour was one of those streets that photographs itself. Late morning light, deep shadows on one side, a Union Jack snapping at the far end where the sea opens up, a woman sitting alone outside the pub with a coffee. I stood at the top of it for a while before I pressed the shutter, waiting for it to settle into itself.
"There's a whole tradition of anonymous acts of civic affection in small British towns that never make the news and probably shouldn't."
The pink cake shop — I later found out it's called The Pink — was doing serious business. Cash only, Lardy Cakes, Chelsea Buns, Flapjack, Pies and Pasties. The window was covered in handwritten labels. Outside, a small crowd had gathered. Dogs, prams, people craning to see the shelves. Beside it, a teal gift shop. The high street as pure, unapologetic colour.
But for all the bunting and bakeries, Weymouth isn't performing anything. It's just getting on with being itself — which includes the parts that aren't picturesque.
On a back street I found a junction box with FREE sprayed on it in white paint, set against a crumbling stone wall. Two streets over, a black utility box covered in peeling stickers, one of them a torn Union Jack with the words "of British" still legible. Whatever the full message was, only those two words remained. I stared at it for a long time.
Surplus International next to Subway. A "Loading Only" bay that cars were parked in. Charity Site painted in white letters on the seafront tarmac, a Ferris wheel beyond it. The ordinary machinery of a British seaside town, indifferent to whether anyone's photographing it.
The B&B with "Sorry — No Vacancies" in the window stopped me partly for the message and partly because I could see my own reflection in the glass above the sign. That felt right. The photographer making himself part of the scene he's trying to document.
The human moments were the ones I kept coming back to when I reviewed the day's shoot.
A group of retirees on a bench by the waterfront sharing a box of chips in the sun, the coloured townhouses of the old harbour stacked behind them. A cluster of people in hats at an outdoor café, coffee cups and conversation, nobody looking at a phone. Two people eating 99 ice creams down a pedestrian lane, the King of Hearts gift shop sign above them, a pushchair between them.
And then the closer. Walking back along the seafront toward the car, I saw a younger man and an older woman — son and mother, I think, though I don't know — walking arm in arm toward the beach. She had her hand through his elbow. He was carrying the bag. The Ferris wheel turned slowly in the distance. I raised the camera, got one frame, and kept walking.
"This is what Little England actually looks like when you put down the argument and just walk around with a camera."
I'm not sure whether places like Weymouth represent something to mourn or something to hold onto. Probably both — which is usually the honest answer. What I do know is that they're worth photographing carefully, without an agenda, while they still look like this.
The Leica M10 rendered the light beautifully all day — that particular quality of south coast light in early spring, where the sun is bright but thin, the shadows hard-edged, the colour palette running from Georgian cream to pub red to sea-blue. I shot everything at f/8, kept the ISO low, and let the camera do what it does.
More from this series to follow. I'll be returning to Weymouth, and to towns like it, throughout the year.