The sheer number of places that can be reached within an hour of leaving London will never cease to delight me. Yes I said delight. Yes I am pretty happy with my word choice.
We made a very last-minute decision to go to Brighton for the night on Saturday. Less than an hour by train- Brighton is the London version of Coney Island. Wait, no Rehobeth Beach. Wait, no it’s a true English seaside town. Wait. Whatever Brighton is, it is enough to merit a recent New York Times article my brother fortuitously sent to me. I say fortuitous because sometimes guidebooks are rubbish, no?
I have always wanted to go. Like the rest of the people who romanticize these iconic places- I imagined we would stroll hand in hand along the boardless-boardwalk, smelling the fish & chips, taking in the seaside air, while women with parasols strolled by.
But it was better than that. It rained nonstop and the gale force winds were so strong I was actually partially lifted off the ground. Brighton is every bit as charming as I imagined. We will be back.