Freshfield is a beautiful, desolate beach that backs onto woods just north of Liverpool city centre.
When I visited, there were no dog-walkers or children. It was a misanthrope’s paradise, a haven from society.
In winter, you can see why no one visits it. The fierce wind from the shore whips up a furious sandstorm in the dunes and attempting to scale the dunes results in being practically blinded. Once you have crossed the wall of sand, the beach stretches out flat for miles towards the stormy grey sea. The sun glitters in the sea puddles. The few lonely signposts stand like relics of a former civilisation that has been buried in sand.