Saturday

I can see the draw. Brighton has a bit of London in it. That part where tattoo parlors mix with boutiques and bars, coffee shops and doodads and flea markets. It's perhaps not as edgy, and surely not as pricey. It's gay friendly and pink hair friendly and if you've had enough of the little shops in little streets, you can go to the pebble beach and throw rocks into the water.

I think I was right in viewing it as a coastal town where perhaps the coast doesn't set the tone for most days for most residents, except for the weather it brings with it. The sea is to Brighton as Lake Michigan is to Chicago. Yes, in the summer, the beaches may be crowded with big city people looking for a day's (or several days') outing, but there are a heck of a lot of people who live here claiming they love to live by the sea but who never pay it much heed except to look out occasionally and note that it's still there.

At least that's my guess, because Brighton was busy today, it being a weekend day, but there weren't many strollers on the beach (which, by the way, does not lend itself to strolling because of all those big pebbles and because the "boardwalk" along the edge is asphalt, right by the road no less and therefore not especially inviting).






I did not give Brighton much time because even though I was up at 6, writing a post took a while and I lingered, too, over breakfast, which was lovely and prepared exactly to my liking. Again I passed on the croissants and other delicious extras. The time for carb heavy breakfasts is just around the corner. For now, I'm enjoying the English take on the morning meal.






My map of Brighton got lost in the shuffle and so I haven't the detail I'd like for this post, but I'll walk you through my half day, or half of half day and you should know that my walk is the one recommended by my hosts and so I think it captures the heart of this place reasonably well.



(I start at the guest house -- the building with the yellow sign)





(plenty of narrow lanes with sweet shops)





(pedestrian zones offering more shopping opportunities)


A major attraction in Brighton is the Royal Pavilion. In fact, it put Brighton on the map even before the rail came here. It is the place that was built for the pleasures of Prince Regent George IV and if you think it looks a little Indian in design, that's because there is that influence, at least on the outside.






I did not visit it on the inside because I did not want to spend the hour on it and besides, I was too distracted by the flowers in the garden and the appearance of a young fox. No one seems to know why he is here and how he came here. Maybe he considers this his summer home now, not unlike many who operate out of here especially in the summer months, finding that to be a more lucrative time for business.






More walking along pedestrian funky streets, reminding me also a little of our own State Street in Madison, though without the students that tend to populate our own place of eclectic shops and eateries.











I did go into two stores -- one called Bebe something -- with kid clothes of course and one that is very London, also displaying at least a small section of children's attire.








(that's me, handing over the credit card)


I think my granddaughter will be ready for a summer play-suit and a summer dress and matching pants and hoodie. I sort of cannot imagine her entering the three month range, but indeed, when I get back, she'll be just a few days short of three which is in my mind quite amazing.

More strolling, more taking it in...



(this is probably my favorite block)




(lots of original store names)







And by noon I'm done. I pick up my suitcase from the lovely and perfectly tended guest house ("we thought we'd relax after doing the major renovation eight years ago, but there is always something that needs updating, fixing, refreshing") and I walk the long way to the station, allowing myself even more views of street scenes that seem to be the essence of this interesting city. I think I gave you the best parts of it. (There are large sections of Brighton that are less interesting.)



(my last England photo has to have a Fish and Chips sign!)


Now comes the time to take the 13:03 to Gatwick Airport, where I catch the 5:05pm Easy Jet (discount airline) to Nice,  arriving there a little tardy at 8:30pm (this also reflects France's continental time zone which runs an hour ahead of the U.K.).

I'm not staying in Nice. I'm staying in La Napoule, just west of Cannes (a half hour drive or train trip from Nice).

Do you remember the movie (or book) "A Room with a View?" In it, Charlotte the chaperone to Lucy goes on incessantly about the absence of a view in their set of rooms at a Florence Pensione, despite the promise of one in the correspondence leading up to the reservation. I love that scene! Charlotte, of course, appears a bit batty, but I understand her point. Each one of us has something that they want from their rooms away from home (except for Ed who just wants to be left alone to create his little mess around him and not be told to clean up because the maid needs space to walk around the bed). When this something is missing, you feel lost.

On this trip I am achieving that rare miracle of 100% satisfaction. I could not improve on the places where I stayed and I am just entering another gem -- this one predictably so, because it's the newest apartment renovation and rental effort on the part of the renovators extraordinaire -- Jean Paul and Martine Krebs.

Maybe you'll recall how happy I was in my little apartment in Alsace in October? I met Jean-Paul the owner then and we got chatting and I found out about his exciting venture into the south and I told him I'd be his first guest there and, well, they got it ready in time for my visit and here I am -- their first and very excited guest.

They, too, are excited, or very kind, or both because Jean-Paul picks me up at Nice airport, saving me the train trip to La Napoule and he not only shows off the new place for me, but he and Martine take me out to dinner at the Neapolis -- one of the many restaurants open year-round here.

A quick pic of the apartment, also called La Napoule...






And of the wonderful dinner...


 



...where I choose pizza because I miss a good pizza so much and this one is absolutely perfect and with so much sea food that it really puts me in the mood for being on the coast.






The dessert choice? There's not even a question.






I'll write more on all the wonderfulness that I find here in my next post. As it is, considering the terrifically fun dinner, the food eaten, the wine consumed, the stories told, it isn't until midnight when I finally turn off the lights and lose myself in the comfort of a heavenly bed.

to Brighton!

I leave St. Ives on an eery morning, initially of just fog, then of receding fog and a receding sun as well. My hosts tell me we are to have an almost full solar eclipse  (94% in Cornwall).

Should I look up? Should I take note? Will it burn my retina, even if there are wisps of fog passing before it?

I haven't the time to research any of it. I have an early train to catch.

After the completely delicious breakfast of porridge (and fruits and nuts and yogurts and, were I to be a complete piglet -- croissants and breads and jams and eggs and, well, you get the idea)...



(an appetizer before the porridge)


I say good bye to my wonderfully talented and energetic hosts and make my way to the train station, from where I do look up and around -- first, toward St. Ives which is cast now in shadows, even as the sky is nearly blue...


 



... then eastward, toward the sun and the cove, which is cast in the eery glow of a most unusual light, darkened in part by the foggy clouds (which actually made it possible for me to look and take a photo) and in part by the near full disappearance of the sun (here, it's still 10 minutes away from its peak moment)...







...one more glance up at the hills and just momentarily, at the nearly hidden sun (as the birds flew in circles, perhaps thrown off by the intense light and non-light).







And then I catch the little train to St. Erth. One last look at the sands -- this time showing signs of a receding tide and, too, looking desolate in the strange light of the eclipse:


 



Not daring to miss my connection, I have given myself too long of a layover in St. Erth, but no matter: there is a small gift shop-cafe and I spend my time admiring copies of old posters that used to advertise rail service to Cornwall. The woman who works here is a retired school teacher and what's more, after asking me where I was from,  she informs me that not only does she know where Wisconsin is but that she actually visited the state some forty years ago, on a lark, for a friend's wedding. She remembers nothing of it except that it was very green. I'm thinking she did not visit it in March. As I leave, she waves a cheery hand and tells me -- give my love to Wisconsin!



(outside, a passenger looks up, the safe way)



My five hour ride to London is an exact replica of my five hour ride to Cornwall, except that I'm less exhausted and the Internet is even less functional and of course, it is in reverse. Remembering the words of the first conductor, I make sure to take in the landscape.






In London, I must change not only trains, but also train stations. Will I see London differently now that the sun is out and the air is a good ten degrees warmer?






Not really. I am again in the same area of park and indifferent blocks and I have only 65 minutes between trains (and google maps tells me it's a 41 minute walk, without the burden of a little suitcase) and so I do not pause and take only the rare photo.



(taking your horse out to the park on a sunny afternoon)





(walking your daughter home from school)





(pretty, but so inferior to Cornwall!)


I am in such a hurry and so suspicious of Google's estimate (do they account for red lights? or uphill routes? Do they time you to the periphery of a station or the heart of it?) that I really put the motor on. As I enter Victoria...





...I hear the announcement of the last call for the Brighton train. But it's the earlier train! I've cut ten minutes from the walk and I can run for the 16:07! And I make it just as the doors close behind me. (Why rush? Well, why hang around a train station when I can have a few more daylight minutes in a new place and one that's by the sea?)

The train ride to Brighton is on a speedy link, with limited stops: a mere fifty-eight minutes for the eighty miles.

Oh, the rail surely had an impact on the development of this coastal town! It came here in 1841 and from then on, Brighton became a seaside destination for Londoners. It joins other towns along the coast just south of London in forming a block of watering holes for the harried and hassled northeners in search of fresh sea air. Brighton's population is 160,000, but if you link the nearby coastal towns to it, we're talking closer to half a million. There is a beach: miles and miles of pebble rock line the sea (or more accurately, the English Channel) and you can imagine how crowded it gets during the summer months.

St. Ives seems a world away.

I'm here for only one night. I needed a place to stay that isn't too far from Gatwick Airport and that would offer an interesting set of hours before my afternoon flight on Saturday.

I walk the twenty five minute walk to my guest house. It is an uninteresting walk, but I am not completely surprised. Most cities have a seedier commercial face around major stations. I very few photos. Here's one of tweens, after school, at a bus stop. I think this has to be the toughest age for girls. Here, they're downing soda almost as if in defiance (there is a campaign in the U.K. to fight soda consumption and snacking; given the number of times the snack trolly rolled down the train carriage, I'm not sure it's all that successful).


 



And thisnext  picture tells me that Poles are here in great numbers. (My innkeepers say that you wouldn't move to Brighton to start a family -- it's not geared for that. Jobs are in the food and hotel industries which, traditionally pay less. So it makes sense to me that unskilled workers from Poland would migrate here.)






Still with suitcase, I detour to the shore, just to take a look. Brighton is known for its pier -- one that has some of the Jersey like concessions and amusements.






It's not especially a draw now. Looking west, in the strange yellow light of an almost setting sun, I see the remains of the second pier which burned sometime ago and has never been restored.






Perhaps this detour to the waterside was a mistake. It's as if I allow that to define my image of Brighton. And it isn't a sparkling image.

But I'm keeping an open mind. Why? Because the Bournemouth inn keeping couple I met in St Ives loved this place so much. And they spoke so highly of my guest house owners.

As well they might! I walk up now past interesting blocks of homes and guest houses spilling out toward the waterfront.






And I come to the lovely front door of mine -- called simply The Twenty One. (It's just a few houses from the shore, but I'm not certain if the shore is crucial to your well being in Brighton. It's as if it creates the space and expanse, but the pleasure of life has seeped into other Brighton areas.)






My hosts upgrade me. I had booked the cheap single, I got the lovely double on an upper floor.






With a mirror facing the bed.






It's certainly different that the St Ives accommodation but it is absolutely deserving of its gushing Tripadvisor reviews. The room is quiet, lovely and well stocked. I could not ask for more.

I had written my hosts asking for a restaurant suggestion, given that it's my last night in England. I told them that I wanted fresh and honest and somewhat British. I was told to try the Ginger Dog.

It is absolutely the right suggestion: informal and good, with a more modern pub fare.



(see trout with kale)




(informal dining; also the only place I will have seen sheep close up on this trip)


I made friends here: the couple next to me are foodie types and the amount of words they exchange on the wine alone (these are all fairly inexpensive wines) makes me smile. And so we talk. About why they chose to live here (like my innkeepers, one guy followed the other who wanted sea air and an easy commute to London), about England, about food, about Brighton, about America. They had a lot to say about America, since they'd traveled there numerous times.

I walk home past shops that do remind me I am in England. Who back home would call their liquor store The Boozy Cow?





Still, Brighton, to me, is different than your average English town. I get that from my hotel hosts and from my "friends" at the pub. I think I know what to look for tomorrow. I don't have a full day here, but I'm really energized. There's a lot to be said for Brighton. You'll see. Tomorrow.