Lyme Regis is another good spot for old fossils, but there’s plenty here for younger people, too. The main attraction in this bustling resort is the Cobb, the seawall I believe was built by John Fowles for Meryl Streep. Come rain or shine, this evocative harbour wall is crowded with ladies looking wistfully seawards for their French lieutenant as their husbands hover nearby, gazing wistfully pub-wards for their English pint.

Such is the draw of the Cobb that the splendid sandy beach, backed by a bustling prom of bucket-and-spade outlets, is rarely mentioned - though, as reader Heloise D’ Souza notes, it’s “fantastic for small kids”.

From here, past the towering yellow cliffs at West Bay, the B3157 offers another of Britain’s great coastal drives, with magnificent views of Chesil Beach, a geological wonder that, says reader John Kettanayeh, is like Table Mountain: “better admired from afar than experienced close up”.

The sun has broken through as the Mystery Machine rolls into Weymouth, where Annabella has a date with a donkey and Benedict a contract to recreate Windsor in the resort’s famous sands (see beach of the week, right). From there, we motor to the twin geological art installations of Durdle Door and Lulworth Cove.

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• Camper van man Week 2 gallery: Skegness to John O'Groats

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• Camper van man Week 1 gallery: Southend to Skegness

Beach of the week

Chris selects his favourite beaches from his camper van man tour of the British coast

Catch of the day

Chris selects his best food and drink tips from his camper van man tour of the British coast

Rooms with sea views

Chris selects his favourite places to stay on his camper van man tour of the British Coast

• Beach of the week

Camper van man week 2: Skegness to John O'Groats

On his round-Britain coastal adventure, Chris Haslam takes in England’s windswept northeast flank, then heads for Scotland

• Camper van man week 1: Southend to Skegness

• Camper van man's tour of the British coast

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• Camper van man: my British coast highlights

The former, an instantly recognisable limestone arch, is spectacular, but the latter is a disappointing tourist trap with all the mystery and charm of a seaside retail park. Frederick, smarter than his dad, takes one look at the crowds and announces he’s not leaving the van. “Too many shops,” he says.

There are no shops at Tyneham, a deserted village half a mile from Worbarrow Bay. Evacuated in 1943 following the expansion of the Lulworth artillery range, it is open to the public when the guns are silent. Wandering down grassy streets between the church, the rectory and the once thatched cottages displaying ghostly photographs of the former inhabitants, my children - and my wife - are mesmerised.

Swanage is crowded and unfriendly, so, after lunch at Studland’s wooded Middle Beach, where the usually secretive Special Boat Service entertains diners with a display of low-level parachute drops into the sea, we walk off the calories at gorgeous Studland Bay.

Serpentine paths snake through sandy heathland to reach the dunes on this three-mile stretch of sandy paradise, said by readers Jane Dunmore, Gary Lyle and assorted nudists to be Britain’s best beach. It’s certainly the best the Haslams are going to see for a long stretch - taking the ferry across Poole Harbour is like crossing an aesthetic watershed.

First stop is Sandbanks, often touted as Britain’s most desirable real estate, but in reality the most pretentious, vacuous and unappealing housing estate outside of Chester. I start hyperventilating almost as soon as we drive off the ferry after spotting an overpriced semi called The Winners. “Calm down, dear,” Mrs H says. “It’s only a house.”

Seen from Branksome Chine - a splendid local beach with a Mediterranean ambience - Bournemouth, to the east, looks full of promise, but on closer inspection, it fails to fulfil it.

The beach, I concede, is superb, but what lies behind it is decidedly downmarket, and charging entry to walk on the pier is unforgivable. Further east, the long-awaited artificial reef at Boscombe Bay is still under construction, but local tourism chiefs vow it will revolutionise the resort. In the meantime, my advice is to drive on.

So we roll into Bognor Regis, a tired town that is propped up by a booming Butlins complex. Experiments in bringing the Redcoat brand upmarket have failed - the sushi chef at the holiday camp’s art-deco-inspired Shoreline Hotel has been quietly laid off - so you can be as sniffy as you like about Butlins, but tell your children you’ve checked in for one night for research purposes and see what happens.

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