This seaside town has a reputation for being one of the country’s most expensive but I was forced to second-guess my assumptions
When I arrived at this seaside town, I expected the usual trappings of a millionaire’s coastal enclave: quiet streets, immaculate homes and the faint sense that everything is just a little too polished. After all, this New Forest harbour town is one of the most expensive coastal spots in Britain, with average house prices more than double the national average at £600,000, Express reports.
I was expecting it to be the kind of place where second homes outnumber locals, where the shops sell handmade dog treats, and where residents drive the kind of cars that never seem to gather dust. But as I wandered its cobbled streets and Georgian lanes, it became clear that Lymington in Hampshire doesn’t fit that stereotype.
For all its quiet wealth and picture-perfect charm, the town felt unexpectedly alive. What surprised me most wasn’t the grandeur of the homes or the sparkle of the Solent. It was the sense of community that seemed to ripple through everything. Even in a place where many doors stay closed for much of the year, there’s warmth and connection that you can feel as soon as you arrive.
Taking a stroll down the High Street on market day, the stretch of road transforms into a bustling corridor of colour and conversation. Locals chat across stalls piled high with artisan bread, handmade soaps and the day’s catch from the nearby quay. There’s the smell of roasted coffee from one of the independent cafes and the sound of a busker’s guitar drifting between the Georgian facades.
Down by the quay, children crouch on the old stone walls, dangling lines and bacon rinds into the water in hopes of catching crabs. The chatter of families mixes with the clang of yacht masts in the marina. Behind them, pubs like The Ship Inn and The Mayflower are full with people swapping stories over pints, as they’ve done for generations.
A few streets away, tucked behind the main road, small galleries and bookshops hum with quiet trade. And that’s the contradiction that makes Lymington fascinating. There’s no denying that many homes sit empty for large parts of the year. Walk along Captain’s Row or past the elegant townhouses near Bath Road, and you’ll spot drawn curtains and pristine gardens with not a footprint in sight. Yet somehow, the town refuses to feel hollow. Residents talk about the issue openly.
“It’s frustrating,” admits Adam Stote, 55, who recently downsized to a smaller property near the river. “We all wish more homes were lived in full-time. But the people who are here, we make up for it. There’s a real community and everyone looks out for each other.”
Part of that may come from the setting itself. The Solent glitters on one side, the New Forest rolls in from the other, and in between, Lymington feels cocooned, almost self-contained. It’s a place where the pace slows, where people stop to talk, and where heritage feels more like a habit than a history lesson.
Unlike other luxury coastal enclaves, the flash of Sandbanks, the celebrity polish of Salcombe, Lymington’s wealth whispers rather than shouts. Residents here seem to gladly trade glistening supercars and infinity pools for sea salt-dusted climbing ivy on weathered bricks. This difference adds to the town’s traditional character, from the quirky antique shops to the long-running St Barbe Museum and community theatre. Even the famous seawater baths, dating back to the 19th century, are run by locals who fought to keep them open.
Of course, Lymington isn’t perfect. The housing market prices out young families and parking is an eternal headache. As I walked back toward the train station, the tide was slipping out of the harbour and the sky had turned gold over the masts. It may be one of the most expensive seaside towns in Britain, but it’s also one of the few that still feels like a community first, and a postcard second.
