Summer has a way of pulling us toward the coast. As holidays begin and the weather continues to smile, beaches become places of return — whether close to home, along an underexplored stretch of shoreline, or in a different country, climate, and culture. Exploring by water is one of the simplest ways to cool off, reset, and reconnect, provided we approach it safely and sustainably.
The word lido traces back to the Latin litus — shore — and gained its modern association from Lido di Venezia, the barrier island that became Europe’s first modern beach resort. From this origin, the lido evolved into a symbol of leisure, escape, and architectural experimentation.
Georgian and early Victorian bathers sought cures for ailments in cold, bracing tidal pools and bathing machines. By the 1930s, coastal sea lidos across Europe had transformed into grand public monuments — ocean‑liner‑inspired structures adorned with Art Deco motifs. They represented modern leisure, tourism, and the glamorous aesthetic of ocean travel, offering a controlled way to experience the sea’s energy.
Recently, we visited Bude Sea Pool, a semi‑natural tidal lagoon carved into the edges of the Atlantic. Concrete forms a distinct threshold between sea, sand, and cliff — a simple but meaningful piece of infrastructure that provides safe access to open water. You swim with your eyes fixed on the horizon, held between the wildness of the ocean and the reassurance of the pool’s protective edge.
This relationship between built form and natural force is beautifully captured in Álvaro Siza’s reflection on his Piscina de Marés in Leça da Palmeira:
“The sea was already there. My role was only to listen to it.”
Constructed between 1960 and 1973, the Piscina de Marés is a masterclass in contextual, site‑first architecture. The pool is carved into the rocky coastline, filled and refreshed by the tide, and shaped entirely by the rhythms of the Atlantic. You can see it, hear it, smell it — the water captured only to be released again. It is infrastructure that collaborates with the landscape rather than competing with it.
These features — tidal pools, lagoons, coastal lidos — are not just leisure amenities. They are connectors. They allow us to meet the sea safely, to understand its power, and to experience the coastline in a way that feels both intimate and respectful. They are essential pieces of public infrastructure, offering water access to communities who might otherwise feel excluded from open‑water swimming.
The sea was already there. My role was only to listen to it.
There is also something deeper happening when we swim in these places.
The Blue Mind Theory suggests that humans are evolutionarily and neurologically wired to feel calm, safe, and connected near water. Cold water, shifting tides, and the rhythmic sound of waves engage the entire sensory system — temperature, balance, breath, touch — pulling the brain into mindful presence. Coastal swimming becomes a form of embodied attention.
A recent article in The Guardian explored how “blue space therapy” is helping people manage trauma, anxiety, and addiction, highlighting the profound psychological benefits of being near or in water.
For us, a mid‑week coastal swim is often a moment of recalibration. You place yourself between two planes of blueness — sky above, ocean below — and your own body becomes the third element in the composition. Everything feels neutral, calm, suspended, until a wave arrives and reminds you of the sea’s unpredictability. It is grounding, humbling, and deeply restorative.
Tidal lidos and lagoons help make these experiences accessible. They offer a safe threshold between land and sea, a place where people of all ages and abilities can feel the water’s presence without being overwhelmed by it. They are democratic spaces — open, public, and shaped by the landscape itself.
In the end, these structures remind us that coastal swimming is not just recreation. It is connection.
Connection to water. Connection to landscape. Connection to ourselves.