“Jennings,” she replied. “First name?” “Mrs,” she growled.

One block back from the beach, the charming High Street has all the usual seaside outlets: a Vietnamese gift shop, a tattoo parlour and that Essex essential, the samurai-sword outlet. I ate meaty jellied eel and mash in Whites (95 High Street) for £2.80 before crossing the Stour and entering Suffolk.

I’d have missed Felixstowe had it not been for the demands of a reader, Annie X, that I sample the delicious homemade ice cream at the Little Ice Cream Co. The town is tasty, too: clean, invigorating and friendly.

There’s a hint of the Costa Brava here – especially where the Spa Gardens tumble in a fragrant avalanche down the low cliffs to the shingle beach. Once again, the town is demarcated by its defunct pier: to the south, it’s all neon and chips, while to the north, gourmet ice cream, stylish pubs and the Spa Pavilion offer a more refined experience. A beach hut here could cost you £15,000 – surely a sign that Felixstowe is going places.

Camper van man's tour of the British coast

Camper van man Chris Haslam is coming to the coast near you on a six week summer tour - and he needs your help

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• Camper van man's tour of the British coast

That night, I parked the Mystery Machine – as my kids have named the Volkswagen camper – across the River Deben at the seaside hamlet of Shingle Street, a remote row of eerie houses on the fringe of a stony beach that is as gothic as Dungeness is twee.

Alone – the family have yet to join me – I dined beneath a waxing moon on Mersea oysters and ale before falling asleep to the sound of the sea.

At 5:15 the next morning, a duck landed on the roof of the Mystery Machine, jumped up and down and quacked. The sunrise finished the job so I brewed coffee, then followed narrow lanes north through leafy, sun-dappled tunnels to Aldeburgh, where a bearded fisherman had dragged his boat up the steep shingle to his stall. He ignored the orchestra practising on the beach and pretended not to notice the loitering artists recording his day.

Fresh fish aren’t the only goodies on sale in this pretty Georgian town – they unload culture here by the boatload, too. The 61st Aldeburgh Festival has just finished, but August heralds the start of the month-long Snape Proms (01728 687110, www. aldeburgh.co.uk), featuring the Budapest Gypsy Orchestra, the Gothenburg Symphony and the Britten-Pears Orchestra. There’s live theatre at the Jubilee Hall (01728 453007/454022), fine art and fine wines on sale in the High Street – and not a slot machine in sight.

Walberswick comes as a delightful surprise, a charming time warp that liked the 1950s so much it never moved on. You could take the foot ferry to Southwold, sunbathe on the long, sandy beach or simply sit on the village green dreaming about downsizing to a place where rose-tinted glasses aren’t necessary as they paint their houses pink.

But enough whimsy: Walberswick is all about the crabbing. On August 10, the banks of the River Blyth will be lined with hundreds of families competing in the 28th British Open Crabbing Championship (www.explorewalberswick.co.uk). Use your £50 winnings for a round in the 600-year-old Bell Inn, but leave early: the devil dog they call Black Shuck is said to prowl the marshes.

Southwold is Aldeburgh’s little sister, but where Aldeburgh seduces with her intellect, Southwold gets by on looks. And she’s a stunner, combining Austenesque charm with a blonde fringe of beach. For all her coquettish air, though, she’s surprisingly cagey about letting you stay the night.

“We’re very short of accommodation here,” sighed the barman in the Lord Nelson (if you know of a better seaside pub, please let me know at campervanman@sunday-times.co.uk), “but I can ring round for you, if you like.” Thanks, pal, but I’ve got the Mystery Machine.

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