Week 3 – South Heighton (near Brighton on the south coast), East Sussex

I'm less motivated to keep up with this blog since Betsy went home, but I'll add a quick recap of my last week now.

I really liked the place where I stayed, especially the hosts: Rhoda and her husband Christian, a sculptor with works throughout the area. They're about my age and were very interesting to talk to, mostly about travel and different parts of England they'd visited or lived in. They really love East Sussex (I do too), and we were trying to figure out why it might be more appealing than Dorset. We agreed that Dorset might feel a bit more like a vacation or retirement destination, whereas East Sussex seems to have more ordinary working people. Plenty of wealth in East Sussex too (parts of it are within commuting range of London), but also plenty of real towns and villages with a wide range of ages and occupations. I'm not saying that that doesn't exist in Dorset, only that we didn't see as much of it. Or, when we did see it in Bridport, it had the feeling of a place in decline. East Sussex doesn't feel that way to me, though the city (Newhaven) bordering the town I was in wasn't so different from Bridport—Rhoda and Christian didn't really care for it and always encouraged me in other directions. 

Anyway, I'd go back to East Sussex in a heartbeat, and I loved the town of Lewes, where I spent the better part of two days wandering around, looking around in antique stores (geez that sounds lame, but they have such interesting stuff!), hanging out in pubs. Harvey Brewery is there, and they make my favorite beer, Sussex Bitter.

The iron railing in the foreground is part of a pedestrian bridge connecting the two parts of the town—it was always full of people strolling around, eating ice cream, looking at the river. It was a happy place, and clearly plenty of people had come from elsewhere (probably neighboring towns rather than other countries), but it didn't feel touristy. Here's the view from the bridge:

This is the pub owned by the brewery—they had huge casks of Bitter that were "gravity" poured—no nitrogen, no fizz, just perfect freshly brewed traditional ale.

I posted this a few days ago on Instagram, but for those of you who didn't see it, here's an interesting character who turned up in the pub. Must have been 80 years old, and he wore jean shorts and a blazer, Doc Martens, and carried a wooden cane. And he had a nose ring.

Here's the front view—and not to worry, I was very careful and quick about snapping these pictures. (I'm pretty sure he and his companion, on the right, were a couple.)

I walked almost every day. On Monday, I parked near Firle Beacon, exactly where I'd ended my walk from the house on Saturday, and walked about 4.5 miles to the village of Alfriston, where Betsy and I spent one night after our time in Kent. It was a cold and very windy day—I've got on all my layers (shirt, sweater, sport/athletic jacket, plus the rain jacket).

This is part of the South Downs Way, which I walked all of (110 miles) in 2019; it was great to repeat some of my favorite stretches. The bit that went down to Alfriston (from up on the Downs) was awful: all flint stones and gravel, very hard on the feet. And then after lunch I had to walk up it to get back to the car. Not a great deal of fun, but that up/down bit was only about a mile each way, so most of the walk was great. Incredible views, often 360°.

Lunch at The George, Alfriston. I took this before my Welsh Rarebit arrived. I feel dumb that I could not remember what this was—maybe I'd never eaten it before. It's basically just cheese on toast, except the toast is "saucy." I added ham to mine because I was starving from the walk.

On Wednesday afternoon I went to Monk's House, the home of Virginia Woolf from 1919 until her death by suicide in 1941. Famously, she filled her pockets with stones and walked into the River Ouse, which ran just behind the property. 

I'm reading E. M. Forster's Howards End now, so it was great to see a picture of him visiting the Woolfs in the 20s. This is her writing desk (behind glass):

The property itself was incredible, and beautifully maintained by the National Trust. I got to talking to one of the workers, a guy about my age, as they were closing up, and we compared notes on places we'd walked. He asked where I was from, and when I told him, he said that he'd been to Maine many times. I, of course, said, "Oh, my wife's family have a cottage on the Maine Coast." He asked where, and I said, "Near Damariscotta, if that means anything to you." To which he said, "It does! That's where I stayed; it's where my friend lives." And as evidence that he wasn't just going along with whatever I said, he add, "Just down Bristol Road." What a coincidence. There's my new buddy in the distance putting away chairs on the other side of the Woolfs' bowling green, with Virginia's writing hut barely visible under the big trees:

Here are a couple of pictures that were part of a display inside the writing hut. The setting was beautiful, and I so wished Betsy could have seen the gardens....

On Thursday I drove to the village of Litlington to visit the Long Man Brewery. I picked up a t-shirt and a bottle of beer for later, then drove down to a parking area where I could start my walk toward Cuckmere Haven. This walk was again a repeat from three years ago—this was one of my favorite moments of the entire walk, when I emerged from a couple of miles of heavy (and at that time soggy) forest and saw the coast for the first time. Here's the spot:

It was absolutely packed with day-trippers. I learned later that both Thursday and Friday were bank holidays as part of the Queen's jubilee (more on that in a moment). I did my best to get onto some less travelled paths, but once I got back close to the river, it was just hordes of families, barking dogs, and generally noisy and unpleasant to be around. I'm slightly exaggerating, but I have less and less patience with crowds, especially when they're making a spectacle of themselves in such a quiet, special place. As I made my way back down to the river, there were horses grazing all around me—hardly any people in this spot, thankfully.

After the walk, I went a little ways down the road to the Plough and Harrow for lunch and a pint. This isn't the best picture but at least you can see the flag. 

Everywhere I've been, there's been bunting and flags and posters announcing street parties—most of them happening this afternoon (Friday, 6/3) and tomorrow. It's an incredible time to be here, and I can't help but feel more affection for the royal family than I ever have previously. I understand the opposition to the monarchy—it requires huge financial support from taxpayers—but it does bring in significant income in connection with tourism. Without the monarchy, would England retain its "special" status for people thinking about international travel? 

Beyond this, though, I've come to appreciate this queen's . . . moral authority? She's brought a steady hand to any number of crises, and it's exactly because she's not elected that she's in a unique position to give the people of this country a sense of tradition, continuity, and . . . something bigger than any individual moment. Then there's the fact that she's officially the head of the Church of England. I have no interest in organized religion for myself, but I can appreciate its connection with the queen's role. 

The older we get, the more we like tradition, it seems. Anyway, here I am liking these traditions very much, and feeling fortunate to be here for the jubilee. No other monarch has served 70 years, and Elizabeth can't have a lot of years ahead of her, so this is a rare moment in the history of this country. I just wish Betsy (and Claire!) were here to see it with me.