Coastal light is different. In a cottage within sound of the tide you get a bright, washed-out, silvery light for much of the year, broken by grey drizzle and long, luminous summer evenings. That light is unforgiving to synthetic fabrics and high-gloss finishes: plastic looks plastic, and anything shiny glints exactly where you don't want it to. Natural materials behave better. Linen goes soft and slightly rumpled, wool holds a gentle bloom, timber silvers and settles. They also age in step with the building itself, which in a coastal cottage is usually old, a little uneven, and full of character.
There is a practical argument too. Salt air, damp winters and sandy feet are hard on furnishings. Wool, linen, jute and solid timber cope with all three far better than delicate synthetics, and they can be brushed, aired, washed or re-oiled rather than thrown out. That matters when the nearest decent furniture shop is forty minutes inland.
Linen is the backbone of a coastal scheme. Look for washed or stonewashed linen rather than a crisp, stiff one — it drapes more readily and feels comfortable from the first evening. Use it for loose covers, curtains, cushions and, if you can stretch to it, a generous throw over the end of a bed.
Linen is at its best a little creased. Resist the urge to press everything flat — the texture is part of what makes a room feel relaxed rather than staged.
Sea air is damp air, and damp air feels cold even when the thermometer disagrees. Wool handles this better than almost anything else, because it breathes and wicks rather than trapping moisture against the skin. It also resists dirt and smells, which is worth a great deal in a house full of wet waterproofs.
Keep wool handsome and undyed where you can. A Welsh or Yorkshire blanket in natural cream, grey or charcoal folded over the back of a chair handles the after-swim dash from the beach better than a towel. Wool rugs laid over painted floorboards soften the room underfoot and quieten the echo that hard floors create in small cottages. In bedrooms, a wool rug beside the bed is the single kindest thing you can do for bare feet on a February morning. Stick to herringbone, a quiet check, or a marled weave — patterns in wool read as texture, and texture is what you want.
Timber that has already been knocked about is ideal for a seaside house, because it stops you worrying. Reclaimed floorboards, an old pine table with a few ink stains, a scrubbed kitchen dresser that has seen three generations of Sunday lunches — these pieces settle a room instantly.
Underfoot, think about what will happen on a wet Tuesday in November. Limestone, slate and terracotta all shrug off sand and salt, and they improve as they wear. Seal them with a natural, breathable product rather than a plastic-looking lacquer, and keep a coir mat inside the door and a jute or sisal runner in the hallway.
Stone floors are cold, so warm them with wool or a flatweave rug in the sitting room, and consider underfloor heating if you are renovating. In a holiday cottage, a washable cotton rug you can shake out on the step is often the more sensible choice.
The most common mistake in coastal decorating is trying too hard. Anchors, lobster prints and rope-wrapped lampshades compete with the one thing you paid for: the sea. Restraint is what makes these rooms feel expensive and restful.
Work within two or three tones — chalk white, oatmeal, soft grey, faded blue — and layer texture rather than pattern. Keep furniture low so it does not block the window, hang curtains wide so the glass stays clear, and leave windowsills empty except perhaps for a single jug of honesty or a piece of sea-worn glass. Hang one large mirror opposite a window to bounce light into the darker end of the room. Choose a couple of well-made things over a houseful of small ones, and let the weather do the decorating.
The Dandy Cove shares practical, down-to-earth guidance on british coastal style, grooming and seaside living for readers across the UK.
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