After waking up to the sound of departing semi-trailers and a windscreen soaked with condensation, we made our way to the service station to freshen up and snack. Deciding we were too tired and too lazy to head back to Portsmouth for the Maritime Museum, we blindly drove until reaching Bognor Regis.
Bognor Regis, the coastal resort of the Kings!
..Or royal family members who may have at some point visited... possibly to by shoes (so says a plaque).
It was a dreary place at eight in the morning, with a slight ocean breeze that was more bone chilling than refreshing. Its beach was brown and pebbly, with decaying piers groping out towards France. Unfortunately, the seaside towns of England have fallen into disarray, starved of funds as holiday makers fly to the Mediterranean to get their dose of Vitamin D. We came up with naught searching for a breakfast cafe, and decided to make our way towards Brighton, another seaside town, but famous for another reason. Its white chalk cliffs.
We entered Brighton knowing that parking would be hell, so made our way through Brighton towards Rottingdean, a smaller town just east of Brighton. On the way we passed many a Victorian-era building, all built for the Victorian rich and famous. Rottingdean, however, was for more humble folk, and consequently featured more Bed and Breakfasts than five-star hotels. Parking on a cliff, we made our way down to the waters edge, to marvel at the chalk cliffs. The cliffs had clearly appeared over the years through weathering, and it's face was left a relatively smooth white, but with layers of "pimples", which were striations of flint embedded in the chalk. Satisfied by our toasted paninis and sunny view, we decided to drive onwards to return home later that day.
Taking a few wrong turns here and there we ended up driving through Ashdown Forest. Making a few stops to snack and absorb the freshly generated oxygen; of which one stop was Bolebroke Castle. Sadly, this castle was more a holiday home for King Henry VIII and due to a lack of visitors, somewhat dilapidated. After a quick cup of tea, we made our way back to the M25, the main highway that would lead us to our destination, and towards a couple of soft beds. Alas, our journey could not be completed without figuring out the oddities that are British road signs.
Instead of numbers for speed limits or short phrases for warnings, the British use symbols and stripes, that would mean nothing to the unknowing (i.e. us). Dealing with the obscure signs, and the sometimes hilarious road rage of fellow drivers, we finally made our way back to Chelmsford, where we prompted ate and passed out.
Sadly, I couldn't see you while sleeping in the car, Betelgeuse.
Edwin
2011-07-13
Bognor Regis, the coastal resort of the Kings!
..Or royal family members who may have at some point visited... possibly to by shoes (so says a plaque).
It was a dreary place at eight in the morning, with a slight ocean breeze that was more bone chilling than refreshing. Its beach was brown and pebbly, with decaying piers groping out towards France. Unfortunately, the seaside towns of England have fallen into disarray, starved of funds as holiday makers fly to the Mediterranean to get their dose of Vitamin D. We came up with naught searching for a breakfast cafe, and decided to make our way towards Brighton, another seaside town, but famous for another reason. Its white chalk cliffs.
We entered Brighton knowing that parking would be hell, so made our way through Brighton towards Rottingdean, a smaller town just east of Brighton. On the way we passed many a Victorian-era building, all built for the Victorian rich and famous. Rottingdean, however, was for more humble folk, and consequently featured more Bed and Breakfasts than five-star hotels. Parking on a cliff, we made our way down to the waters edge, to marvel at the chalk cliffs. The cliffs had clearly appeared over the years through weathering, and it's face was left a relatively smooth white, but with layers of "pimples", which were striations of flint embedded in the chalk. Satisfied by our toasted paninis and sunny view, we decided to drive onwards to return home later that day.
Taking a few wrong turns here and there we ended up driving through Ashdown Forest. Making a few stops to snack and absorb the freshly generated oxygen; of which one stop was Bolebroke Castle. Sadly, this castle was more a holiday home for King Henry VIII and due to a lack of visitors, somewhat dilapidated. After a quick cup of tea, we made our way back to the M25, the main highway that would lead us to our destination, and towards a couple of soft beds. Alas, our journey could not be completed without figuring out the oddities that are British road signs.
Instead of numbers for speed limits or short phrases for warnings, the British use symbols and stripes, that would mean nothing to the unknowing (i.e. us). Dealing with the obscure signs, and the sometimes hilarious road rage of fellow drivers, we finally made our way back to Chelmsford, where we prompted ate and passed out.
Sadly, I couldn't see you while sleeping in the car, Betelgeuse.
Edwin
2011-07-13
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