Brighton was magical. The sun was out, but the wind was blowing in all bloody directions. At 23 miles per hour. (As BBC weather insisted). The sky was blue with white candy floss floating about now and then. I saw a gull swoop on a five year old’s meal and pick up what looked like a fork, a sausage and two sauce sachets.
The word ‘blue’ has been maligned with its connection to moodiness. Instead, yesterday, I felt myself drowning in the blue of the open sea sky and the blue stripes of beach chairs. All was suddenly moving, and brilliant. Pebbles or not, sea shores at home and here tinkle with shells strung into curtains, keychains and souvenirs. Everything smells like salt.
Maizy and rr were the best ever company. As rr tried to catch the sun, Maizy kept leaping on her, mistaking her for an entire staircase perhaps. But the best of all was watching Maizy play fetch. She kept urging us to throw pebbles into the sea, and she would run down and leap into the waves and catch them. And she was marvelous at finding the pebble everytime.
It takes time to get used to the beach here. It’s not really a beach. It’s a heap of pebbles that doesn’t make for easy walking. But there’s a certain roughness to it that can make even the tourist friendly of places feel a little desolate in itself. [rr's post and photoset. my photoset]