On England’s south coast, an hour from London and facing France, Brighton’s an incongruous city. Who do you expect to inhabit a tourist town? I’m not sure, but this place’s juxtaposition of hippies and indie kids with the gaudy seafront tourist attractions does seem peculiar. I hear that Fatboy Slim lives here, and that the dance clubs are pretty good, just to add another random factor into the mix.

London’s dirt and hassle and smog and whinging drove me spare in not too long at all, and I resolved to get out for as long as I could stay semi-conscious in the 48 hours I had off between night shifts. I wanted the sea, and Brighton had what I wanted.

I like being able to rock up to the train station, push some buttons and flick my card, walk onto the train without waiting, sit back and watch the scenery. What I like even more is arriving at my destination, noticing that in my smug, dazed London button pushing I’ve ripped myself off by buying a single ticket for 10 pence less than I could have bought a return for, explaining politely my stupidity to the ticket office, and being charged 10p for my return ticket.

So it was that with relatively little hassle I ambled out of Brighton station, and made straight for the salty waves, ahead on the horizon through a tunnel of old stone buildings. Sea air. Sea breeze. Cawing gulls. I sat on the pebbles, spread where sand would be on another beach, and soaked it up. Read. People watched. Gazed intrigued at the old pier sitting at the other end of the beach from the new one, rusting and running crumbling into the waves.

Weak sunlight seeped through the clouds and a soft, salty breeze curled off the water. This was not a day for a bikini or speedos, although some tourists seemed determined to persevere. They’d come all this way and they were gonna damn well act like they were on a beach holiday. The rest of the beach was scattered with punks and hippies and indie kids, tattooed and pierced, wrapped in scarves and jerseys and brown, grey, black.

Behind us all sat fairground attractions, children’s rides and excited signs advertising seaside entertainment to British families on summer excursions. The signs, painted on wood, are peeling and fading in the salted air. On the windy, weak sunned day, this place had an aura of lost glory, the recent end of a golden age. Or maybe I’ve just been reading too much war reporting from the Middle East now.

Whatever, Brighton was relaxing. After reading and meditating on the horizon for a couple of hours I hired a bike and wheeled along the waterfront. A smoothie finished the day off, and getting home on the train was as easy as getting in. I’m a fan of British public transport.

Other posts by Katie Llanos-Small