It was at Nardini in Largs, a little seaside town on the Firth of Clyde not far from Glasgow, that I first encountered squirty cream. What a revelation. Proust may have had his madeleines, but for me it was dense, fudgey chocolate cake, rammed into my wee eight-year-old face so the cream billowed like cumulus all around it. I think it was at that moment that I fell in love with the classic seaside cafe – or ice-cream parlour, or milk bar – intense pleasure being for ever associated with Lloyd Loom chairs, atomic light fittings, knickerbocker glories and a view over a steel-coloured, choppy northern sea. Nardini has lost some of its original fittings now, but the exterior is as perfect a slice of art deco seaside-iana as you will ever find, the neon sign a beacon along the coastal road, and its tablet ice-cream – made from the notoriously sugary and granular Scottish confection – a work of terrible genius.

When the Italians came over, they brought the flavours and colours of another, hotter, more vibrant part of the world to our black-and-white shores. It is in my blood, of course: my mother's family, the Cimas, ran a cafe called The Gem on Glasgow's Great Western Road. But it was visits to our relatives' Beach Cafe in Troon that really thrilled me to the marrow: not only was I dazzled by Mum's second or third cousins twice removed, Rita and Ada, with their matching beehives, one blonde, one black as the Earl of Hell's waistcoat, but this was the only time I was allowed a double nougat. What obscene luxury: two wafers covered in chocolate sandwiching a thick layer of marshmallow, which in turn sandwiched what I would later come to learn was Italian fior di latte gelato (a light "flower of milk" ice, that doesn't contain heavy cream). Rita has sadly gone from her station behind the till, but Ada is still there, beehive intact.

Nardini, Largs. Photograph: Alamy

More recently, I have spent hours happily lost online at Classiccafes.co.uk, now sadly inactive (the book is also out of print: publishers – reprint, please!), but lovingly curated by avid cafe fan Adrian Maddox. Even without its updates, the site stops me in my tracks every now and then with a stab of real sadness at the letters RIP stamped over yet another beautiful temple to Formica and bakelite. His section on seaside cafes has a special, almost eerie poignancy all of its own.

But the parlours do still exist. Perhaps it is not entirely coincidental that I now live in a small seaside town that boasts not just one but two fine vendors of the pokey hat (allegedly from the Italian ecco un pocco: "here's a little"). When I first moved to Broadstairs in Kent, not knowing a solitary soul, I coped with the isolation by sitting in Morelli's, looking out to sea like some kind of marginally less tragic French Lieutenant's woman furnished with a milky coffee and hot buttered toast. Then there's Chiappini's, with its unrivalled position above the beach, one of the few surviving original 50s examples of the genre. Both sell homemade gelato, a riot of flavours, and both boast frequently surly and offhand service (although Chiappini's has the edge here; in the six months I have spent in Morelli's, I don't think they said hello to me once); it is as if they are thinking: "Well, it's a holiday resort, plenty more where you came from." I forgive them both, though, for having not knocked down the amazing pink ceiling relief in Morelli's or the gaudy mural of Venice in Chiappini's.

Ramsgate, the next town along, had its own pistachio green piece of retro gorgeousness, Pelosi's, the walls lined with certificates saying things such as: "Silver award: raspberry ripple category." I was devastated to find out that it had closed its doors, waving goodbye for ever to generations of fans. But – hallelujah – it has been taken over by Rachel Baker and Nick Webster, formerly in arts management and festival events, a couple determined to continue in the great tradition. They are taking lessons in gelato-making from the Pelosi family, and promise everything from boozy ice-cream cocktails and ice-cream taster flights to a genuine Spanish churros machine, a riff on that other seaside classic, the freshly fried doughnut. The sherbetty colour scheme is to stay, reflected in the new name Sorbetto. To my joy, the seaside cafe lives on to fight another day.

A chocolata and a knickerbocker glory at The Harbour Bar, Scarborough. Photograph: Gary Calton

The exterior is jaunty enough, but gives little hint as to the glittering treasure of a milk bar within. The yellowness is overwhelming – walls, waitresses' uniforms, neon ices – as if the place is compensating for overcast Yorkshire skies by shrieking "sunny". There are handpainted signs and slogans all around, exhorting you to: "Eat Ice-Cream Every Day." Since it was opened by Giulian Alonzi in 1945, the Harbour Bar has brought sunshine to Scarborough, along with its legendary knickerbocker glories and peach melbas. Even its website looks like it was knocked up about50 years ago (particular love for the section titled "Regrets" that says simply: "I regret buying Cattabriga ice-cream machines in 2012, but we all make mistakes.") I adore the Harbour Bar, could sit happily drinking in its buttercup atmosphere for hours, but if I'm totally honest, I prefer the ice-cream – especially the sorbet-blobbed lemon top cones – at the equally glorious Pacitto's along the road.

1-3 Sandside, Scarborough, North Yorkshire YO11 1PE, theharbourbar.co.uk

Morelli's, Broadstairs. Photograph: Greg Balfour Evans/Alamy

A magnificent example of the fifties ice-cream parlour, testament to the fact that not only are they relevant in this day and age, but can be a thriving business. This is a Classiccafe fan's wet dream of neon, sugared-almond colours and a hissing, belching espresso machine. The milky coffees come in tall glasses with metal holder-handle arrangements. There are sausage rolls. Gelato flavours change daily: I'm devoted to its hazelnut, amarena cherry and the fine stem ginger that puts in the odd rogue appearance. Even in the depths of winter, their cream Lloyd Loom chairs and candyfloss-coloured banquettes are always bustling with family daytrippers, teenagers and tightly permed pensioners. The ceiling alone is worth the trip; Classic Cafes' Adrian Maddox describes it as "Portmeirion in pink Formica".

14 Victoria Parade, Broadstairs, Kent CT10 1QS morellisgelato.com

Notarianni, Blackpool. Photograph: PR

The Notarianni family immigrated first to Paisley in Scotland, and then, in 1928, to where so many went "fur the Ferr" (for the Glasgow Fair holiday): Blackpool. They've been there ever since. They will do any flavour of ice-cream you like, as long as it is vanilla. Why? Because it is made daily, always fresh, as light and creamy as only an Italian milk gelato can be. It's the sort of stuff that whisks you back to summers long ago with the first slurp. Sure, they will knock it into a split or a sundae, laden with strawberries and kiwi fruit to replicate the Italian flag, but vanilla it remains. Notarianni's exterior may have brashed up over the years but inside there's a beautiful original art deco counter and signage promising cones and 99s , wafer shells with marshmallow pearls, and a taste of your childhood. They're bizarrely fond of hundreds and thousands. And yes, they do a nougat wafer, too.

9/11 Waterloo Road, South Shore, Blackpoo, FY4 1AF Notarianniicecreamblackpool.co.uk

The Ritz, Millport. Photograph: Alamy

The Ritz, Millport

There was panic amongFormica-fetishists when the Ritz was put up for sale, but fortunately the new owners have left this absolute pearl – with its red and yellow crosshatched booths and dazzling, geometric walls – untouched. The iconic price-list talks of many treasures: wafer shells and marshmallow pearls, top hats (cone with a snowball) and hot peas with vinegar. This is one of the last remaining places on the planet where you can request a limeade ice-cream float.

26 Stuart St, Millport, Isle of Cumbrae

A milkshake. Photograph: Philip Dickson/Alamy

Brucciani, Morecambe

Born in 1939 in "the Naples of the north", and originally a milk bar, this is a lyrical example of functional art deco (a blessing that it's Grade II listed). The white Formica-topped tables, linoleum and wood panelling deliver an almost exquisite melancholy, immediately punctured by maybe the purchase of an ice-cream shake and a toasted teacake. A proper parlour, Brucciani's is almost painfully lovely.

217 Marine Rd, Morecambe