An English Summer 90

 

Brighton, it seems, is a city of many faces. Some bearing the patina of age. But worn proudly, as a statement, that this city is more interested in the enjoyment of today, than tidying up after yesterday.

I walk in, from the concrete artifice of the 'Brighton Marina Village .' Convenient boat parking, with residential and retail development attached. Plain and simple.

Past stately white Georgian facades, juxtaposed with the hot colours of, New York subway inspired, graffiti art. Separated by the brick reinforced seafront cliffs and a cultural gulf. The link between the city proper and the marina.

A long shingle beach stretches before me . Squirming and scrunching underfoot . The Palace Pier beyond . Perched on its criss-cross Victorian wrought iron girder legs.

Beach life surrounds me . On the stony shore and in the water.

The pier entrance is announced by neon lettering, which scrolls through the colours of the rainbow . Unabashed in its garish excess . Unembarrassed to be what it is.

It is surrounded by a sea of  kitsch . So far beyond cliche, that it has an honest charm all of its own.

Inshore lies the heart of town . The soft organic shapes, of Brighton Pavilion's mystical eastern onion cupolas, add a charismatic individuality to the skyline . A gift, to the nation, from a grateful post-war (World War One) Maharaja . Its majestic glamour an antidote to seafront glitz.

In its tranquil gardens, meditative melodies, mingle with the scent of flowers, to float in the still air. People in groups, or singly, sit in the shade of its trees, reflective quiet and still.

Beyond lie broad bustling city-centre boulevards.

Sunlit pavement cafes, line secluded squares.

Flower decked boutiques tempt shoppers with their wares.

As I return, to Stargazer, a flautist, seated on the beach above me, plays. In harmony with this city of character and characters. Comfortable to be quirky.