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Saturday, the weekend. After a leisurely morning at home base in Clapham, I joined many native Londoners and headed for the Seaside.
Brighton: gulls, the pier, and divesting of city sresses. Journeys started with my ever vigilant native guide looking out for our outbound train, on Platform 13 of Englands busiest station: Clapham Junction.
The inter-city trains are fast and clean. Although the weather was a bit inclement there were still lovely views to be had of the countryside south of London, once we cleared Gatwick airport and the greenbelt. Farmhouses and half-timbered high-streets swept past (a bit too fast for photography).
In just over an hour the train pulled up in the Brighton Railway station, a 5 minute cab ride away from the shore. Its actually Brighton-Hove, two cities to make one; Hove the more inland of the two.
Digs for the trip are the amazing Brighton Grand Hotel.
The hotel was the scene of the IRA bomb attack on the then Prime Minister. On arrival it was just the elements attacking the lofty visage.
I had a lovely little room, just up the hall from Ted's. Its a warm and rich interior - welcome refuge from the rain.
After freshening up, I walked down through the impressive stairwell (we'd caught the lift up) feeling like a character from an Agatha Christie novel.
On the first floor, just above the reception hall is the entry to the Presidential Suite. I felt quite embassadorial myself, an Australian emissary.
Although I hadnt bought a dog with me: for £10 pounds you can, at the Hotel Grand De Vere, Brighton. It seems a moneyed, but alternative lot visit the Grand. Rolls Royces, Jaguars and Rovers vie for room outside. Inside you can see Salvador Dali moustaches, and rainbow-coloured felted jumpers.
The weather was still vile, but we had a seaside to visit. Down the steps, past the Arches: cafes, bars and concessions built under the seawall/roadway.
Then, the cruel sea. British beachgoers, dont really have broad sand between their toes. Its more of a shingle-slide, sloping quickly down to the sea.
Up on the pier itself - stoutly reconstructed after the original pier a few hundred yards away was destroyed - we pressed forward through the elements.
The neon and tack begin to cast a gypsy spell to insulate those on the pier from the gales and spray.
There's a gypsy wagon with "Ivor Fortune Teller" (who didnt appear to be home), and numerous stalls selling Brighton Rock, stick candy of all sizes. The pier leads up to the main pavilion where bold signs saying "This way to the end of the pier" guide you past soft toy claw machines, and "Tokyo police" shooting games.
At the end of the pier are a small roller coaster (closed due to weather), dodgems and other attractions.
After a tour of the pier, we repaired back to the Hotel. Back in the warmth and privacy of my room a fluffy white Grand Hotel robe, a hot shower warmed me through.
Plans next were to head out for a grand dinner, but the Londoners had filled up the dinner venues by their dozens and it was some walking before we found somewhere, a nice Italian. I rounded out a prawn salad with a desert called the Godfather.
After dinner it was the salon of the Brighton Grand for post-dinner drinks. Spiffing, what!
Next day was a full one, so back to my room by 11am.
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