Vanilla bean ice cream melts on the fingertips and fresh sea water breathes into the pores. 16km is walked on a stone beach and a box of battered fish becomes victim to the seagulls. Children’s squeals echo off the piers wooden boards, whilst flashing, overpriced arcade games encourage more noise.
Stroll along the Hove’s colourful huts and briefly converse about sunny weather and gin with a local 60-year-old English lady called Grace. Turn right and there’s the Royal Pavilion, a regent estate of brilliant architecture and serpentine paths, which sticks out in the city like a British Taj Mahal.
Take to The Lanes for narrow streets of old merchandisers trading gold for 100 quid, or the hipster grounds on Vine Street where vintage shops and quality coffee houses sit like neighbours. Stop to pat multiple terrier breeds on the sidewalk and childishly pop bubbles on the beachfront. Finger the spines of dusty books and do a try on a haul for the sunglass assistant at the markets.
Sweaty, salty and satisfied, board the 5:00pm train scheduled for a return to London. En route with a book in hand or headphones plugged in, eyes absently gravitate to the scenery outside the window. Cured and dosed on sunshine, polite people and the oceans waves, I say goodbye to the beauty of Brighton.
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