Fly-By to Brighton

A quick dash to Brighton to swap Christmas presents today, and more importantly, see my lovely girl. Well, the visit went quickly; the drive - six and a half hours of it - maybe not so much.

Not that the outward journey wasn't memorable, and for the right reasons. The snow that had prevented me driving there on Sunday, as originally planned, was still in evidence most of the way from Bristol to the Sussex coast, and where it had melted, there was frost; it just wasn't all over the motorways, which was a beautiful and useful state of affairs. 

And I saw ten red kites (as well as a few buzzards) which surprised me given the weather. (I'd imagined them fossicking in the bins behind Waitrose in Berkhamstead, rather than scanning the M4 for deep-frozen road-kill.)

Once arrived, I made for the beach, which was lovely to behold, though rather bracing.

A photo for the Northerner to tell him I'd arrived safely

Then there was time for the gift-swap and a cup of tea before we went for lunch at Brighton Marina.

And then, alack, it was time to leave, with an hour's daylight to spare to get me as far as the M25 before night-fall. 

Back home, a photo of my shadow, who follows me everywhere (literally) whenever I get home, to let my girl know I'd arrived back safely. 

 'I understand you has been to Brighton and back today. You must never do that again.'

Visiting Beacon Mill

On every trip to Sussex Beacon Mill stands dark on the skyline, and there've been several times I've tried to get up there to take a closer look but have been thwarted. The last visit, though, was the time everything came together to make it possible, and it's formally ticked off my list, but like so many of these interesting places, I left feeling like there was much more to explore.

The mill isn't often open to visitors, but was during our sojourn, so we got the chance to go inside as well as admire its brooding exterior. 

The mill - a grade II listed smock-mill - was constructed in 1802 and in continuous use until 1881. It then fell in disrepair and was allegedly used by smugglers for signalling purposes before undergoing several restorations, the most recent being in the 1990s.

The Friend who was on duty at the entrance was keen to test our knowledge to make sure we'd read all the boards properly, but Never mind the weight of a bag of corn, tell us about the skeleton! I cried and so he did.

When the foundations were first dug, two workmen unearthed a skeleton complete with a sword. (Of course they did, all exhumed bodies have to be tribal chiefs with an impressive weapon, the story demands it.) (Although this isn't entirely implausible, since there are believed to be at least two Anglo-Saxon long barrows on the site.)  The men claimed they went into town for something to eat at lunchtime and when they came back, it was gone. More likely, said the Friend, that they found someone they knew who might buy it, and that's where it went. We Shall Likely Never Know.

I wanted to go for a prowl over the hill so the Offspring sat on a bench for a bit and then sheltered from the spotting rain in the cafe. 

It's been so dry and hot this summer, most of the wind-stunted flowers were a  frazzled brown, and I made a note to return earlier in the season another year. There were still a few butterflies about and lots of bumbles ... 

... white-taileds mostly, I think, but also a Common Carder bumble bee with a very high whine on milkwort (also common). 

Sadly there wasn't enough time for much more than a quick gathering of impressions.

Looking west over Rottingdean village and the Church of St Margaret, where the ashes of Edward and Georgie Burne-Jones are buried

Looking east towards Brighton

Back down on the beach - because there always has to be a sit-down on the beach with an ice cream - I gathered the day's quota of treasure:

a jackdaw wing feather from the hill

a lump of chalk also from the hill, a hagstone, and a pebble that looks quite a bit like a toffee and is pleasing to hold

Looking towards Saltdean

Mind the Gap

The year ended with one last trip to Brighton to drop my post-Covid daughter back home following our Yule festivities. It was another murky day. 

We watched a cormorant dive and surface and then dive again in the Marina, and pottered about on the westernmost end of Ovingdean Beach for a bit. 

I picked up a few tiny bits of sea glass, a couple of the topshells my mother liked, a hagstone and what looks to me like it might be a fossil echinoid of some description, but I'm just guessing really. 

Most of my trips this last year - when I've been able to make them - have been for family reasons, and not always happy ones. I'm hoping there might be jollier visits to Sussex, and that it will be possible to enjoy a few walking and poetry jaunts over the coming twelve months as well.  We'll see. 

It's beginning to look a lot like Brexit ...

I nearly missed the junction for Brighton today, and the reason I did was because I thought I hadn't been on the M25 for anywhere near long enough. In fact, I even wondered if I'd entered a dissociative state or magically fallen asleep for a time without crashing the car, because one moment we were fresh off the M3 and the next the sat nav was urging me to get into the second lane from the left and keep right at the fork. Then I realised I'd actually been driving at 60 and 70mph, that I'd hardly noticed those horrible rumble strips, and in fact there weren't that many cars on the route that's normally akin to the eighth circle of hell. A bright side to the it's-not-a-petrol-shortage shortage, after all ... as long as you have some. 

We were off to the south coast to celebrate my daughter's birthday - a meal and a fossick on the beach for interesting pebbles and sea glass. Except that almost as soon as we were on the M23, it began to tip with rain. 'Never mind,' I announced to my sons, 'we'll still go to the beach, if only for five minutes. Can't drive all this way and not see the sea.' 

We had a cup of tea at my daughter's partner's flat and drove to the Marina. It was still raining. In fact, it was bucketing. We chose our preferred eaterie out of the 2o-odd lining the quay and skittered towards it through the wet, only to be greeted by the news that there was a shortage of food. 

Bypassing Wetherspoons - obviously - we tried another restaurant. And another. And another. By now we were drenched and very hungry. Somebody mentioned Bethlehem and no room at the inn. At the fifth attempt we struck lucky and munched our way through pizza and olives, but we were damp and cold and the shine had been taken off the occasion a little. 

Returning to the car park we saw wind-whipped waves breaking over the Marina wall, and decided against a walk on the beach after all. 

Back at the ranch, I dropped the offspring off at the entrance to the flats, went to find somewhere to park, and squelched my way back, dreaming of a nice cup of tea, only to find them huddled in the entrance. Turned out my daughter's key was with her partner who'd headed to the station to pick up her friend (also Jenny) who was coming down to celebrate the aforementioned birthday. 

Eventually there was just time for tea before we had to head for home, a truly horrible journey characterised by continual rain of sufficient heaviness to require the fastest windscreen wiper setting all the way from the coast to Swindon. And whilst I know I can't blame that on Brexit, there's no chance of moving somewhere warmer and sunnier now our freedom of movement has been removed. 

On the plus side there was petrol at our local Sainsburys. It could always be worse. But not much. 

Blow the wind southerly

A few photos from my quick dash to the south coast, blown by the wind and the rain.

Rottingdean beach

Looking towards Brighton Marina

Looking towards Saltdean

Mermaids' purses