When day trips to Brighton turn bad, and why - if you get there - you shouldn't drink sea water

Seven hours it took us to drive 169 miles from Bristol to Saltdean, the hold-up on the M25 - caused by an accident near Cobham, which happened just before we got there and apparently left two men with serious injuries - being the sort where you turn off your engine (multiple times) and everyone gets out and wanders about on the carriageway because they can, except we couldn't because we had Cwtch with us on her first major car trip, which turned out to be more than twice as long as expected, and we didn't want to risk her being spooked by anything.

Although this wasn't the longest traffic jam I've ever been in: that formed a large part of the 13 hours it took me to drive from Leeds to Bristol back in December 2017, after a man killed his ex-partner and jumped off a motorway bridge over the M1. And I feel I should give an honourable mention to the six hours it once took Son the Elder and me to drive a mere 34 miles from Gloucester. 

On the plus side, we spotted the legendary Stuart 'Psycho' Pearce at Pease Pottage Services 

And so our day's itinerary was necessarily truncated. Instead of a visit to Clayton to see the windmills, we diverted to the Plough in Rottingdean for an extremely late lunch.

Living in Bristol, which doesn't have the most obsequious of citizens, it was a bit of a shock to see all the Union Jack-ery for the coronation in a few days' time. I'm so glad not to be confronted with this sort of thing on a daily basis. It would make me feel quite bilious.

Apart from a bit of community ribboning outside, the Plough was blessedly free of such nonsense. 

Look at me in the pub with all my people!

Then we had a quick trip to the beach at Saltdean, so that Cwtch could stretch her legs. (We went on the part that's dog-friendly all year round.) 

sea anemones

Unfortunately, just like our old collie,Ted, at Traeth Yr Afon, Cwtch decided to try drinking sea water, and as a result - just like Ted - had an attack of the squits. Even more unfortunately, this happened in my daughter's boyfriend's kitchen, while we were singing Happy Birthday to Son the Elder.  

There's nothing like an emergency kitchen floor clean to finish off a simultaneously excellent and very trying day.

Back home - finally - a gloat over hagstones, three of them with the smaller pebble that bored the hole still lodged in place.

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.'

Headstrong in Lewes

It was a Lucky Thirteen Red Kite Day yesterday (plus a buzzard and a kestrel) for my trip, along with Son the Elder, east and south to Sussex to visit my daughter. The fourteenth red kite was dead in the fast lane of the M4 and clearly wasn't lucky, so I didn't count it. (Sometimes you have to be selective when it comes to good omens.)

Our destination, having collected Jenny from her abode, was Lewes, though when I saw the gorgeous turquoise colour of the sea, I thought maybe we were mad to head inland. That said, I was pleasantly surprised from our arrival onwards, because after all, who doesn't like a 15th century bookshop ... 

... and a house with the legend Writer and Revolutionary emblazoned on it?

In fact, Thomas Paine, who lived in Lewes from 1768 to 1774 and was radicalised there as a member of the Headstrong Club, was commemorated pretty much all over the place.

       

The White Hart Inn

The Tom Paine Printing Press and Gallery

The pub 'The Rights of Man' looked particularly inviting - it had my name written all over it - but it was hosting what looked like a wedding, so we didn't get to have lunch there. Which was a double shame, as my paternal grandmother's maiden name was Pain, spelt the way Thomas Paine's name was originally, which meant - surely? - that my claim to a seat and a complimentary pint of Tom Paine from Harvey's brewery was strong.  

After lunch in an Italian restaurant instead, we had a little wander down the High Street. I especially liked the way the narrow side streets - or twittens - drop downhill, giving views of the hills that surround the town. It reminded me of Ludlow a bit in this respect ... 

... and also with regard to its nooks and interesting old buildings ...

... one of which - Stewards Inn - is believed to date from at least 1330.

War memorial

I was beginning to conclude that Lewes isn't quite the picturesque, entrenched Tory town I'd rather lazily imagined it was, and having read up a bit since, it seems that in Paine's time it had a reputation for being a hotbed of radicalism and anti-monarchist sentiment. (A friend has subsequently assured me that the current Tory MP is a blip.)   

The town hall with its rainbow flag, which was previously the site of the Star Inn, in front of which the execution by burning of the town's seventeen Marian martyrs took place

We then headed for the Castle, visiting the museum first and then the Castle itself, which dates from just after the Norman Conquest and is splendid. 

Part of the Norman gatehouse to the left; the Barbican to the right

A cannon from the Crimean War

I was keen to test William Morris's famous assertion about the town, namely:

'You can see Lewes lying like a box of toys under a great amphitheatre of chalk hills ... on the whole it is set down better than any town I have seen in England' 

and so headed straight up the steps to the Keep, taking advantage of strategically placed benches on the way. (Well, it was hot.) 

The views were impressive, although of course Lewes would have been a lot more compact in 1882, when Morris visited with his daughter Jenny. 

Back down at ground level, we crossed to the Barbican, which also has great views.

Half a mile or so away is chalk face of Cliffe Hill, the implausible site of the deadliest ever avalanche to occur on these islands, when, in 1832, a build-up of snow collapsed onto the town 330 feet below, killing eight people. Hard to imagine it on such a warm summer day.

By now my offspring were hot and thirsty, so to avoid the onset of recalcitrance, we drove back to the coast. Although you don't see it quoted by the local tourist board, Morris finished his observation by saying that Lewes 'is not a very interesting town in itself'. I disagree, and found myself compiling a list of all the other places there I'd like to visit and rueing the fact that every day-trip I make to Sussex is bookended by a three-hour drive.

Back by the sea, it was still hot but breezy and gulls were having fun riding the updraughts. We bought ice cream and drinks, and sat ourselves down on the beach for an hour or so before the long drive back to Bristol.

It was too late for any kite-sightings on the way back down the M4, Ma and Pa Kite being tucked up with their soon-to-be-fledglings by then. We did see a few white kites near Gatwick and Heathrow, though - Son the Elder's joke - and a kestrel to match the one from our outward journey, hovering over one of the many instances of roadkill littering the hard shoulder. A good day for us, though, at least. 

A post-plague mercy dash

 After last Christmas, when most of the family was either self-isolating or unable to travel, I was looking forward to getting together this year in relative safety. Then along came a new variant, and one got sick, two others were informed they'd been in close contact with someone with Covid, and we looked set for a replay. Except the two with Covidy contacts tested negative, and although my daughter in Brighton missed the train she'd booked on 23rd December, she was out of isolation on Christmas Eve, so I drove down to the south coast to pick her up. 

Leaving Bristol at 8am

It's never a hardship to visit Sussex, and because I'd had a long drive and she'd been nowhere for ten days, we had the perfect excuse to spend three-quarters of an hour on the beach before we made the 160-mile trip back. And although it had been cloudy and dull from Chippenham all the way to the outskirts of Brighton, we had blue skies and enough sun to colour the waves and pick out every pebble on the beach. 

Freedom!

Patent leather mermaids' purses are on point this year

Hagstones, a cross-section of flint and a pebble clearly intended for Jennifer