A yellow ferry chimney glides past yacht masts and a tupperware sky. A dog walker is emphatic that my chosen path to the cliffs is really boring and told me an alternative route – she was right.
A portentous sign by a tarmac road informs me I was entering “The Brighton and Lewis Biosphere”. Three huge gun positions overlooked by a manned coastguard station suggest Newhaven must have been an important port in WW2.
Despite the Daily Mash claiming Brighton is “To become the UK’s first ‘twats only’ town” the city can’t come too soon as this stretch of bungalow coast is Britain at its most tawdry.
Very fresh and dramatic cliff erosion with alarmingly large bites into the existing footpath leaving fence wires hanging into the abyss as if a huge sea monster took a munch. Note to self: no cloud gazing reveries!
Monument to the Greenwich Meridian, an invisible line last passed eighteen days ago in London and next to be crossed in Sand Le Mere in Yorkshire in a few years time.
Concrete promenade below the cliffs slows the rapid erosion of the chalk cliffs edged with houses around Peacehaven.
A miniature cricket bat zip-tied to the cliff top fence – it’s inscription long since faded away. A memorial to a beloved pooch?
Two promenading Greek Orthodox Clergymen nod as I pass. Sea mist makes hands and camera sticky.
At Saltdean a charming Spanish cafe owner had all his female clients giggling shamelessly. Lifeguard alone except for the drizzle.
The pier etched against the overcast sky. Walk into a naturist beach by accident and then get surprised for a second time by the almost silent electric railway packed with parents and kids coming out of nowhere.
The worldly and the innocent intermingle and deck chairs are still being hired in the drizzle, I’ve arrived at Brighton.