I know this will come as a huge disappointment to those of you waiting with bated breath for more tales of grubby bedding, wonky baths or dirty cups, but as the main participant in all this, I can tell you I was mightily relieved to find my room in last night’s Airbnb in Ramsgate was clean and comfortable, Kaz was the perfect host, and the house was packed full of colourful and interesting bits and pieces.
At least, I think that was the case. Half an hour after I arrived I opened my bedroom door to be hit by a smell so strong and evocative that I wonder if I actually spent the rest of the night stoned. Believe it or not, as a sixties art student, I never once smoked a joint (and I’m not just saying this because I know my mum’s reading it). When the joint came to me I just passed it on, like some adult game of pass the parcel. For some reason though, unlike cigarette smoke, I always loved the smell of dope. And last night it took me right back.
So when I went out on the landing and smelt that old familiar smell I sniffed hard, took a few deep breaths and with a smile went back into the bedroom.
As I went to leave this morning Kaz was still in bed. We had a bit of a shouted conversation between bedrooms before I asked her if she’d write one of my postcards . We ended up chatting for about half an hour – she from her bed, me in the doorway – about all sorts of things: my road trip, her house, other Airbnbs teenagers, politics – all very interesting.
Then off I went Brighton.
Apart from a missed meeting with a friend (she was at a funeral – I hoped my repeated texts and calls hadn’t interrupted the service), the extortionate cost of parking (£10 for two hours!) and the fact that I couldn’t remember where I’d left my car (and I was edging up to the next £5 increment) Brighton was pretty uneventful.
I wandered along the front, looking out for likely shots. The sun was shining and the sea was sparkling. Brighton’s appeal was obvious.
The town was a lot bigger than I remembered from my previous two visits, the first being forty three years ago when the future husband and I had just left art college, and with the optimism of youth (and no jobs or money) had decided we would live in Brighton. I don’t remember what brought us to this decision but I do remember hitching a lift in a lorry, going to look at a fabulous flat in a huge mansion, a row and heading home again.
The second visit was when I was quite ill with post natal depression and we’d left the kids with my mum and dad in London. I think it was supposed to be a nice little break for the two of us. I must have been more ill than I thought because somehow the husband persuaded me to strip off on the nudist beach and go splashing in the waves with him. Somewhere there’s a picture of the back of me in the sea, mercifully only my shoulders visible.
I walked along to where I thought the nudist beach used to be. I wanted to ask if it still existed but decided that to do so whilst sporting two large cameras could easily be misconstrued. I must admit it brought back a few memories though.
In my panic to find the rip off NCP car park and avoid a further charge I found myself rushing past one of one of the big posh hotels, narrowly avoiding the big posh doorman, who was hailing a cab for an equally big posh guest. He looked at me aghast as I lurched on, cameras banging against my chest, and mid bite of a cheap cheese and pickle sandwich. That would have been bad enough but due to my disorientation and panic, I went back and forth FOUR times before finally identifying the correct road.
My final call was to visit a friend of a friend who I’d not yet met. We’d been introduced to each other online by mutual friend, Buzz, who must have had a sixth sense that we’d get on. We were both on time limits so we sat in the kitchen, drinking tea and chatting as fast as our tongues would allow. I don’t think there was a second’s pause. By the time I was leaving, an hour later, I felt as though I’d known Liz for years.
Strange how you just connect with some people.
Finally, I steered the faithful Smartie towards Worthing and my bed for the night. My auntie (who’s my age and not old enough to be my auntie) has fed me and watered me and chatted and listened, until we could chat no more.
I’m in a clean, warm comfy bed.
And tomorrow I begin my journey homeward.