Especially for our American readers, this is Trump-inspired global warming in Sussex. 20 degrees Centigrade and still February, gentlefolk in short sleeves, tickers in meltdown..
It didn’t last long, but our early summer brought folk to the coast, staring aimlessly at the sea, debating that cup of tea and a scone, popping in Boots for sunscreen…
I can never tell Shoreham-on-Sea apart from Littlehampton or Seaford, but I think Shoreham is posher due to boats.
Though the Prince doll has me a bit confused.
Some really good pubs here lately, though I must have walked past the Marlipin without noticing its unusual beauty.
11.30am and already half a dozen hardened drinkers, all over 60. And a dozen dogs, all keen to lick me or each other. London overspill at its best/worst.
None of them join me on the Harvey’s (NBSS 3), sticking to dry white and lager (not the same glass).
“I have the authenticated signature of Oliver Cromwell””
“It is from that famous beauty spot of Malham Village”
Bit pointless without context, but somehow beautiful. A very rare unspoilt Sussex High Street local.
Shoreham combines cream tea and panini tourism with hard drinking, a rare feat.
I crossed the new walkbridge to the sea, where I actually saw a bare-chested bloke. In February.
On the shingle, a pashmina, possibly Pauline’s, was rested on the branch. Or perhaps even the branches have pashminas here.