Once lumped in with Grimsby as one of the crap towns in the UK, I was under the impression that Grimsby goes with Cleethorpes like butter goes with bread. Doing my research beforehand when The Aged P's suggested it as a meeting point, I was somewhat concerned that we had slim chance of rustling up a Burberry baseball cap between us and worried we would stick out like a sore non-chav thumb. It was actually a lovely day and we didn't have any run ins with the locals apart from a bitterly miserable woman at the beach front kiosk grumbling at how the wind had 'ruined' the bank holiday for business. Ignoring that, we had a faultless day. Possibly with the slight exception of:
1) Me ending up looking like a scarecrow after forgetting a hair band to keep the mane under control, and
2) Matt the Husband getting Mother's wheelchair stuck in the sand dunes in his comical attempt to be a superhero
Nevertheless, Grace had a great time and did ever so well eating al fresco while having her cobwebs blown asunder with the gale of a sea breeze.