It is June 1954 and I am 11 years old. I am standing on the sandy beach at Pevensey Bay.

Although it is high summer, I am wearing a raincoat over my swimming trunks to protect myself from the gale force wind and scudding rain. The papers are speculating as to whether this is the worst summer of the century. From my limited experience I think it is.

After constructing a few forlorn sand castles, I shall retreat with my mother and three brothers into a new and particularly spartan seaside bungalow, which we have rented for two long weeks. A radio is the sole amenity. There is nothing to do but go to the beach and when we tried to visit the castle, it was closed because of floods.

Now it is August 1956. My mother, having learned never to visit the barren wastes of Pevensey Bay again, has settled on Bognor for a fortnight by the sea.

We have booked into the Hanover House Hotel. As is customary, we are barred from entering the hotel during the day although Henry, the kindly waiter, occasionally turns a blind eye as we shelter from the storms.

I am again on the beach wearing the obligatory raincoat now the rain has eased to a persistent downpour.

The papers are speculating as to whether this is the worst summer of the century. From my fairly limited experience, I can say it is even worse than that of 1954.

There is entertainment laid on in the evenings but it is dire. Top of the bill on the pier is a tenor who even I realise should not have been allowed to inflict himself upon the paying public. In a tent on the seafront lawns is the bizarre sound of Isidore Kaye, the Whistling Violinist.

Over at the new Esplanade Theatre, there is a variety show with four different versions. We attend all four. Star of the show is a comedian called Syd Marx who plays a musical saw. Thirty years later I see Syd in the Dome in Brighton and he is doing the same act.

Highlight of the two weeks is a day trip to Littlehampton, where I ride on the Wild Mouse roller coaster. Lowlight is when I succumb to the elements and fall ill.

Most older people's memories of their childhood involve golden summer days and having fun at English seaside towns. Mine centre on rain, rough seas and resorts doing their best to put off visitors.

Brighton I recall as being decaying, dirty and smelling of chips and candy floss. Hastings, then one of the top five resorts in England, was decrepit beyond belief. Bexhill thought it was genteel but was shabby and dull. Only Eastbourne, then as now, seemed to have some respect for its visitors and cater properly for them.

Today's youngsters will truly be able to look back on golden summers because, fortunately for Sussex, the weather has improved immeasurably. Summers are warmer, drier and sunnier - as statistics show, even though we may not think so.

Many people thought the last two summers were poor but weatherman Philip Eden says they were better than any occurring between 1959 and 1975. In the Fifties, only 1955 and 1959 were worthy of the title "summer", while there was not one fine summer in the Sixties.

Many resorts are also far better than they were; even Bognor and Hastings, which are hardly in their prime. Brighton, for all its faults, has a sparkle which was missing half a century ago. Littlehampton is benefiting from regeneration without spoiling its family-based fun.

There is much more to see and more places to go. Today's trippers are as likely to be in the Marina, the Sea Life Centre or the shops as they are on the pebbles.

Now, I'd jump at the chance of taking a few days somewhere on the Sussex coast. But my memory of those old-fashioned seaside fortnights only serve to show why package holidays were invented.