If you board the Thameslink from St. Pancras International in London, a one hour train ride through outskirt city suburbs and rolling farm hills will deposit you right into Brighton, a classic and picturesque beach getaway.
Used to spending my summers on the Deschutes River in Bend, Oregon, the prospect of being in the overcast city of London for the whole month of July felt foreign and not all too pleasant. Once in Brighton, I was itching to be reunited with my summer routine of spending the whole day swimming and not so unintentionally forgetting to reapply sunscreen. I was one of the fortunate few whose trip to Brighton happened to fall on a sunny day, so I spent most of the afternoon with salty skin and a sunburn, lazing around next to the sea.
The beaches in England are beautiful but not entirely kind. Accustomed to the sandy beaches and grassy river sides of the West Coast, the rocky shores of the English Channel were a surprise. My walk from towel to water was an awkward dance of grimacing and yelping, something I anticipate happening many more times this summer. Although I complained my whole way in, once my feet had left the ground, I was bobbing about in perfectly cool turquoise waters with a goofy grin on my face.
Later in the afternoon, I was joined by a few friends and we were giddy like children as we dove down into the waves and, buoyant in the salt water, popped right back up to the surface. Swimming further from our beachside perch, we were delighted to find a little rocky pier jutting into the sea where we plunged in and clambered out. We left the beach that day with hair tangled in salty knots and desperately needing ice cream.
Of course, one cannot claim they’ve had a classic English holiday until purchasing a vanilla cone with flake, an airy chocolate stick that is just as described: flakey. Exhausted from the sun, the simple pleasure of walking the boardwalk with melting soft serve in hand perfectly complemented our afternoon.
Around five p.m., or 17:00 if we’re being European, we wandered away from the waterfront into narrow streets of pastel storefronts with colorful striped flags weaving between the rooftops. Defeating the beachtown stereotype of corny souvenir shops and overpriced beachwear, Brighton is an excellent location for vintage shopping. Fortunately for my cramped suitcase and dwindling bank account, most of the stores closed before I was able to do damage.
Instead, I spent 15 pounds on tacos and margaritas and made my way to the Royal Pavilion Gardens buzzed and sleepy from the meal. Contrary to my last column, which raved about the Victoria Embankment Gardens, this was by far the most stunning park I have visited in England. The lawns sit humbly before a decorative palace with dramatic spires and domed roof tops, elegantly painted cream and glowing in the setting sun. The gardens are wild and natural, not perfectly pruned as you would expect a royal garden to be. A little pathway weaves through the flowerbeds and leads into a grassy area where I spent my last hour in Brighton reading before taking the train back to London. For cliché’s sake, it was the perfect day.
