The magical mystery tour has begun. We have travelled through haunted forests, ogled at magnificent ruins, marvelled at stupendous Roman Villas and journeyed into parts of Surrey that only the occasional badger/mammoth has gone. "Surrey? What's that all about then?" I hear you ask with rampant curiosity since one can only assume the only thing in Surrey is an A road that goes to Brighton. Where Kent is currently being advertised as "Where London Comes to Breathe", poor old Surrey doesn't really get a look in. I mean what could they say? "Surrey... Where London Comes to Lie on a Beach and Get Pissed". Doesn't really have the same ring to it does it? Well, just like everybody else we went straight down the A road to 'that' seaside town, parked the car, and walked down to the beach. I was quite pleasantly surprised. Brighton is unlike any other seaside town I've been to in England. The distinction between the town and the beach is blurred somewhat by the cave-like bars that actually sit on the beach alongside the promenade. Walk up the steps to the road and you're greeted with a line of beige, yellow and white buildings that march along the waterfront. Some of these are hotels, some are cinemas, some shops but - delightfully - you can't really tell until you get up close, and the result is an un-commercialised and unique view that is both memorable and impressive.
Thankfully, the weather was absolutely beautiful so we sat on the beach with a pint of 1664 and basked in the warmth of the sun, before walking towards the pier and - smelling the hoards of polystyrene trays full of chips - sampled the local delights. I say 'delights' in the least binding sense of the word since my chips and scampi were cooked from frozen, and the latter was slightly wobbly in consistency and slimy in texture. You'd think that the fish and chips on the beach of a seaside town would be the freshest, nicest fish you can buy anywhere. The owner - likely circa mid 50s with a white beard and a tweed cap - would pop out in the morning and grab the day's catch with his fishing rod, then proceed to cook it in a batter recipe that had been passed down for generations by his mother, and his mother's mother, his grandmother's mother, and finally a wise old sage who appeared in a vision to his great, great, great, great grandmother when she was smoking opium around a camp fire on that very same beach, hundreds of years ago. Alas my friends, it was not to be. My only suggestion is that you find the most obscure chip shop you can, that no tourist (excluding you that is) could ever hope to find, and which imports its fish from New Zealand and its potatoes from Argentina. Then - and only then - might you get something half-decent.
After the dodgy food and a last glance at the shore we jumped back into the car and headed towards Bognor Regis in the most indirect fashion we could possibly manage. The rule was "no A roads", and so we gladly checked out all that the Surrey countryside had to offer starting with Bramber Castle - consisting of what was left of the gatehouse, and a few bits of stone around the rim. Ok then we thought, back to the drawing board. "What's Changtonbury Ring?" Carsten asked.
"Something to do with the druids I think"
"Yeah but what is it"
"Just a ring of stones I think"
"Let's check it out then"
"Alright, why not"
So off to Changtonbury Ring we went, following a large farm truck down a road until we got to a sign and a big log marking the entrance to this astounding historic monument of epic proportions. We turned a corner to behold a wondrous field with grass, a tree, and a few shrubs dotted around it. Honestly I thought, who needs a ring of stones when you have a field of this calibre? After walking round the field trying to find a stone of some description and failing, we got back into the car and set about finding our next stop - The Roman Villa - which was closed.
You might have realised at this point that I've cheated you somewhat considering the first paragraph promised so much. Well I am sorry but if I hadn't embellished a little bit then you wouldn't have felt compelled to read on, and we can't have that. Besides, for what our little trip lacked in adventure it more than made up for in scenery and adventurous spirit so I still consider it a great success.
So, after visiting a few of the more obscure villages in Surrey we finally made our way down an A road to Bognor Regis to meet Alan and Anita who had kindly agreed to put us up for the night. Ridiculously tired from the early start and the general adventures of the day we naturally decided to check out the nightlife in Bognor. Bad idea. Anita dropped us and Alan's friend Alex off at a club called Thursdays in the middle of nowhere with no bus expected until 2:50am. After being quizzed by the bouncer for I.D. and nearly not being let in, he finally waved me through and I suddenly found myself in amongst the entire student population of the south coast. No-one was over 18 and everyone was wearing clothes from Topman/New Look, and big gold chains around their necks. We had walked into the Country Chav party of the century. After a bit of dancing and avoiding looking anyone in the eye for fear of starting a fight, we eventually realised (rather snobbily I admit) that there wasn't really anyone there that we wanted to speak to, so we got a taxi back to Alan's for £24.
Next day then, and after a little walk around the town centre we said our goodbyes and hopped back into the car to make our way to my hometown - Salisbury.
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Bognor Regis Hotels
