Seaside

We had a rare opportunity to take an unencumbered trip to the seaside, a delight. We caught the train to the capital, and headed straight to the London Review Bookshop, surely one of the finest bookstores in the world. This joined a rather long list of outstanding bookshops we'd visited on this journey, from Blackwells to Scarthin, and many secondhand stores. The LRB shop has a fine cafe, and we spent a number of hours here.

Wandering north to the station, we saw a former residence of Bertrand Russell.

The neighbourhood is filled with English language students and was very busy, but the squares are pleasant. 

Grayson Perry was doing something in this place.

And Lenin lived here once.

Although Queen Victoria didn't live here.

Disembarking the train at Brighton, our seaside destination, we strolled down the main street. The sea air and change in scenery was most pleasant.

We once lived in Brighton and were always fond of the colourful terraces on streets leading down to the sea.

We both once worked at the Hand in Hand, a charming old pub. I had a grand time befriending the locals, drinking the Kemptown ales brewed upstairs, with DJ Tropical Breeze making an early appearance banging out tapes of reggae. Best of the locals was a blind septuagenarian dealer in maritime antiques, and we became good pals. He took me to jazz shows while I took him to amateur electronica performances, where I drunkenly played bleeps on a Dell laptop. RIP ol' George. 

Brighton always had a skanky side. Is that asbestos drooping out of the window?

I used to stroll this way home after shifts at the pub.

We bought fish n' chips and sat on the rocks.

A strange substation of some kind for the novelty seaside railway.

Shrubs growing out of the walls.

Not the Abbey Road.