A Brighton-Sunny Day

The prototypically English seaside town has very specific charms, and any seaside town worth its sea-salt has a pier. Brighton's is possibly the most famed of all- although the era of the pier is over, people still flock to it, even in February on one of the coldest days I can remember. 

Nowadays, Brighton is more known for its lively, youth-oriented scene than for Victorian lovebirds strolling down a windswept jetty. We heard rumors that there was a Banksy piece somewhere downtown, but we never found it. There was, however,  a wealth of other interesting graffiti. 




The Royal Pavilion-which we didn't actually visit. I vaguely remember it from my childhood as being opulent, lush, and festooned in rich carpets. I wish I could have gone again, but time was running short, as tends to happen when none of us are willing to get out of bed before nine am. at the earliest. 

It was just as I remembered it-cold, thrilling, nostalgic. To give you an idea of the weather, as we returned to Canterbury that night, it started snowing, and didn't stop for two days. But I also had a distinct memory of hot sugared doughnuts at the end of the pier, a warming thought which sustained me and my companions while the wind whistled.

There used to be another pier here-as a matter of fact, there used to be a couple more piers here. Each one has met with disaster, which is the fate of all spindly wooden structures that try to defeat the ocean at the same time they attempt to entertain hundreds of eager flaneurs at a time. This particular one above met with multiple disaster. First, a storm shattered it, then, after a long period of neglect, fire decimated its already weak remnants. It was quickly becoming dusk as we walked along the beach, and this husk of a pier almost blended in with the greying sky. We speculated as to its likely haunted nature.

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If only the teller had been there! Even if I don't believe in the validity of such practices, what a setting to disbelieve them in...

Isn't it lovely, all lit up and lively? 

This sculpture, jutting out into the beach, looks very much like a doughnut. But in fact, it depicts the globe, curling into a gaping spheroid, the continents being sucked into the hole in the centre. The beach itself was rocky and dark, with only the occasional dog and owner crunching along the shoreline.

And in what seems to me to be a stunningly poetic way to end this post, here are real, non-sculpture doughnuts, cuddling together for warmth at the bottom of a crackling paper bag. Yes, we found the so-craved-for fresh doughnuts, at the very end of our journey, and they were everything we could have wished for. Warm, yeasty, fragrant, and sweet, with a crunch of sugar, they represent the best that English piers have to offer. They are familiar, sometimes to the point of staidness. They are comforting, and offer no challenge, either to the taste-buds or to the intellect. They are fun, cheap, and perhaps not very good for you. But a doughnut is hot, while the English seaside pier is very cold, most of the time....I think I'm losing the metaphor.I suppose what I'm trying to say is that Brighton is worth the calories. (Punsters, I apologize.)

The White Cliffs of Dover

My mother warned me about Dover. While acknowledging the cliffs' historical significance and iconic status, she added, "But the city itself is really boring." Thanks for your honesty, Mom, and yes- you were mostly right. But I'm still happy I made the visit. Perhaps the high street left much to be desired, and perhaps all restaurants closed at 3 pm, leaving my friend and I wandering the sidewalks deliriously, cursing each "closed" sign and forcing us to frantically order Indian takeout for home delivery while on the train back. But the sun shone that day, the hills were green, and the cliffs gave off a cool, pale radiance that made me glad we'd come.
See that door up there? I think it might have been part of the War Tunnels, which we did not explore. (Not enough time or money, although I felt a bit wistful about the omission.) It seemed mystical to me, rather than historical, however; as if a race of hill-dwarfs lived there, hidden from the human world. 

okay, the hills don't look so green here. but most parts were. 

There were small, mostly dingy houses pressed right up against the base of the cliffs, lining the tiny, cobbled street. This cat watched us pass by, serenely bored, remaining motionless but for the twitch of his tail even as we approached to stare him down. 

For a mere 20 p, we could attempt to see all the way across the English Channel. It sort of worked. It was better to just look with our eyes, watching the lumbering barges coming in so slowly it seemed as if they weren't moving at all, until they were suddenly docking. 

I wish this place were a Bed and Breakfast; I wouldn't necessarily want to live there forever, although it is very nice, if a bit isolated. But it is perched right on top of the green hills I was telling you about, with a clear view of the Channel, not 40 yards away, with the looming silhouette of Dover Castle visible on the woodsy mountaintop. It looked warm and homely, a good place to retreat for a day or two. There was some kind of symbol above the entrance- can you see it? It looked a bit like a rune of some sort, or a secret marking. I wish I understood it. 

The town itself, however, is a bit of a ghost town in places. In other places, it's a moderately busy, uninspired row of cheap stores and kebab shops, overrun by schoolchildren in uniforms, shouting and pushing. But look to the cliffs, and all will be well.