The people you should swerve as you stroll along the promenade.

The seaside’s playful light has inspired painters, photographers and poets for generations. The fresh air cleared the minds of great thinkers. Lord Byron wrote: “There is a rapture in the lonely shore.” Well, there would be if it weren’t for all the other people cluttering up the esplanade at this time of year, noisily chomping on hot dogs, Auto-Tuned pop leaking out of their tinny earphones and carried on the breeze.

This meeting of land and sea is a place of reflection, a magical, transitory realm with the power to rouse the human soul and delight the senses. From Cannes’ celebrated Croisette, where the movie industry gathers in spring, to Venice Beach where the scantily clad skate by, on the promenade, people-watching becomes not just a spectator sport, but one you can actively participate in.

MR PORTER introduces you to the people you’ll meet on the seafront this summer.

It’s only early adoption that prevents the latest hoverboards from being impounded – the legal system is yet to catch up with these maniacal mechanised micro scooters and self-propelled, idiot-operated unicycles. The gyroscopic steering nodule makes them hard to control at the best of times, compounded at speed by the user clutching a fidget spinner in one hand and a smartphone in the other. Still, at least the 40mph Gen-Y faceplant into a smirking dolphin-shaped litter bin will make for a memorable Snapchat.

Yes, the young family seemed shocked when this self-appointed law upholder poured a bucket of seawater all over their lunch, but the sign clearly states no barbecues and, well, rules are rules. The girl was already upset after what happened to her bicycle, a gift on this, her 12th birthday. But then children over the age of 12 aren’t allowed to ride on the pavement, even if it was barely 10m. It was only the bike that got crushed under the front wheel of his pick-up truck, not her dreams. And anyway, they’ll be able to collect their dog from the local pound whenever they want – and even be allowed to bring it back to the beach from early September. That a duck-headed inflatable ring could be considered a personal craft is open to interpretation, and he only burst it with the cigarette the uncle shouldn’t have been smoking, he didn’t take it away. He’s not a monster.

The seafront restaurant might have a solid four-star rating on TripAdvisor, but the Grumps have nothing good to say about it – at least, not to each other. Julie from Oslo reported enjoying one of the most memorable meals of her life here and said the calamari was “cooked to perfection”. Mr Grump, meanwhile, distrustfully jabs at it with a fork. Mrs Grump (she treats the prefix “Ms” with the same disdain she reserves for the colour of the passport that was foisted on her by EU bureaucrats and liberals – the same hue as her décolletage at present, by coincidence) is bored of waiting for her husband to top up her wine glass and promptly fills it to the brim. They sit in the resentful silence that has characterised the past decade of their marriage. The last words uttered were when Mr Grump asked the waiter for the menu in English. The outdoor table juts out into one of the world’s most marvelled beachside walkways, with majestic vistas sweeping as far as the eye can see, but the Grumps would prefer it if it weren’t quite so foreign.

Just look at that guy with his half-soaked T-shirt clinging to his sea-damp boardshorts. You can get away with that sort of thing down on the beach, but not by the bandstand. And what’s with that fat, bald guy with a crimson, peeling, sunburnt patch the shape of Antarctica seared into his dome over there? There isn’t much in the way of shade on this seafront, other than this cheerily painted row of huts, and it’s from the open door of one of these our cabin dweller sits in his deckchair, mocking less fortunate members of the public. By now, he’s used to the sound – and diesel fumes – of the generator that’s powering his portable fridge, and he’s on his third ice-cold gin and tonic. Or is it his fourth? And to think this 6ft-x-6ft beach-paraphernalia-stocked shed with no electricity or running water only cost him as much as a well-appointed three-bed semi with a garden within easy commuting distance of the city centre. Worth every penny.

Never has a man been so comfortable in his own skin. He is in the post-dinner-amble stage of his life, and now is the time to digest. The low sun’s rays gently warm his face, glinting off his Persol sunglasses as he saunters parallel to the shoreline at a stately pace. The colours in the sky amplify the pastel shade of his shirt, with several buttons artfully undone, and his white chinos gleaming, while his Tod’s driving shoes – no socks, it goes without saying – carry him forward. He nods his approval to passersby, with no suggestion as to where he has come from other than his direction of travel. Does he even have a destination in mind? He simply walks on for ever into the eternal sunset.

Visit MR PORTER’s Summer Shop