Oh, I do like to be beside the seaside...

Whether anorak, overcoat or jacket, nothing can keep this tempest at bay. Under such pressure, all forms of attire are destined to inevitably capitulate and allow admission to this gatecrasher the gale.

Not a single nook or cranny is left untouched by the blast, born 2,000 miles away across the ocean. For it has been gaining acceleration since leaving the American coast and now, with blustery violence, this sou'wester hits our West Country beach with unrestrained fury.

The British seaside resort out-of-season is an acquired taste.

No more crowds on the promenade, laughing and shouting.

Gone are the gaudy shirts that shriek of the South Seas, their owners oblivious to the incongruity of a garment that screams of Oahu while being worn in Bognor.

The candy floss no longer strains at the stick, appearing as if it must take off and add a touch of pink to the summer clouds scudding across the hills where the posh hotels recline like a row of Barbara Cartland's poodles.

The beaches have regained their flatness, the view cleared of interruptions by fortifications made from sand.

Gone are the efforts of child and father, washed away with the last waves of summer, the vast plains of lower beach now the domain of the hunter bass as they eat their fill of sand eels every high tide.

The sea is angry today. Perhaps it's the fault of that group of small boys.

For the last 20 minutes, they have been pelting the water with stones. Yes, that would annoy me, too. As it is, the breakers are sending more and more spray up over the seawall, sending children into fits of ecstasy as they goad the ocean to do its worst.

It does seem to be a disproportionate response from the briny. And as each mountain of foam becomes progressively bigger, the louder the yells of fake terror.

Our guest house is a pleasing establishment and well-appointed. Yet I have this feeling that the proprietors have been badly stung at some stage in the past.

After all, this business must be very much of an unknown quantity. You never know who is going to knock on the door requesting food and shelter. They could be anyone from your maiden aunt to the next big serial killer.

However, we are merely cereal killers, and have no intention of doing anything other than displaying an orderly and civilised mode of behaviour. Nevertheless, the sheer profusion of rules here has started to make me feel a trifle edgy.

For the regulations are pinned everywhere on carefully-cut sheets of paper, stuck to the wall and on any smooth surface...

House rules. This is a non-smoking house. We prefer to die from natural causes. Anyone found smoking will be asked to leave.

Close all doors quietly. Use handle, do not slam, think of other people.

Switch off all lights when leaving room. Do not move the net curtains (!).

After 10pm, keep TV volume down.

There's more. Vacate premises by 10am on day of departure. Those who fail to comply will be charged going rate for the next night.

After 9am, only cereal and toast will be served. Do not leave television on all night (what is it with this TV?). After showering, wipe door down with cloth provided.

And more... we don't wish to offend, but all guests must pay in advance on arrival.

Wipe your feet every time you enter, do not paddle mud up the stairs. On leaving lounge, switch off light. Thank you. Enjoy your stay.

I'm all in favour of people being reminded of their obligations to others, yet the sheer profusion of orders appears somewhat draconian.

I wonder if I'm infringing a bylaw as I shave. Is there anything about loose whiskers in the sink I haven't noticed?

I can only imagine that this couple's worst nightmares once came true.

He'd retired from the Royal Navy, having completed his time, the highlight of which had probably been a tour of service during the Falklands War. His wife is a polite, but aloof person. They probably met in the services.

How do you know this, I hear you ask. Well, despite exchanging no more than a few words during the entire stay, the evidence is all around the house. Right down to the patio that has been made to represent the promenade deck of a cruise liner.

Then there is the picture of the SS Canberra's return from war, framed and bearing the signatures of Sir Rex Hunt and Margaret Thatcher. You don't exactly have to be Sherlock Holmes.

Settling down to life after so much time at sea must have caused some problems of adjustment. So it's not surprising the owner of this guesthouse injected a modicum of military precision into his new enterprise.

Either that, or they once entertained the guests from hell and the trauma of the whole affair brought about a drastic reappraisal of the rules. A tight ship and all that.

Yet, I must admit that the discovery of yet another piece of paper complete with edict is beginning to get on my nerves.

I'm tempted to say that I won't be hosting any parties in the room.

Anyway, Keith Richards is not in town. Neither will I be tuning into a satellite channel at four in the morning with the volume set at maximum, leaving lights on all over the place and the stairs covered in mud.

And yes, I will settle the bill. But there is only one display of rebellion in all this for I'll be blowed if I pay up front.

No, Mr and Mrs Guesthouse Owners, you can wait and either put your faith in God or me or perhaps to be on the safe side, in both of us. Yes. On reflection, belt and braces is undoubtedly the best policy.

There are three eating places here. We choose the restaurant rather than the pub for once and are greeted by an elderly lady who looks as if she should have retired at least 10 years ago.

The initial formal greetings of "sir and "madam" are soon replaced with me darlin's once she realises we're a couple of proles from the Midlands.

Not to worry though, for she fills the pint right to the top will wonders never cease and the house white isn't Leibfraumuck, another breath of fresh air...

We walk out into the night air. It is raining, the street lights reflecting on the puddles now forming along the beach road. The waves are still pounding the promenade, clouds of spray white set against the black night.

The wind has increased and the ranks of wavelines now number five or six deep. The small boys have long gone, perhaps resting after a day's successful stone-throwing.

So, it's back to Sea Breezes, Ocean View, Rorke's Drift or whatever it's called.

We will have to conform to the conditions of occupancy but it doesn't really matter. For this is the British seaside resort out-of-season.

And I'd be less than honest if I didn't confess to loving every regulated, rain-soaked and gale-lashed minute of it.