On a still autumn morning, a zephyr, from the north, stirs Stargazer's ensign. Without ruffling her reflection, in the mirror of Sovereign Harbour. The day warms quickly. Dissipating heavy beads of dew and tempting her skipper into the cockpit, to enjoy a leisurely breakfast.
Whilst Eastbourne may share its shingle beach, groynes and chalk cliffs with the French Cote d'Albatre (Le Havre, Fecamp and Dieppe), on the other side of the Channel, it has an ace up its sleeve.
It boasts a wrought iron pier in the grand Victorian style. Complete with golden cupola. Which, glinting in the morning sun, makes a tempting target for a leg stretching stroll. Framed, as it is, by the rearing Beachy Head beyond.
As I walk, dinghies are readied for sea. Sirens signal the start of the Sunday racing. A tactical game of cat and mouse is fought out. In a fickle breeze and strong tide. Whose influence the protagonists seek to evade, by tucking in tight behind the beach groynes, when it is against them.
I arrive at the pier in time for lunch. To find that the tall facades have escaped their, previous, air of faded grandeur. By dint of fresh coats of paint, in tasteful pastel colours. Gelato parlours and terrace cafes, have replaced kiss-me-quick purveyors of Mister Whippy cornets and fast food. Perhaps it is the benign influence, of a visitor thronged Sunday that is blessed with autumnal sunshine, but Eastbourne Old Town feels to me to be on the up.
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