Hot doughnuts & screaming at the sea

I awoke one Monday morning a few weeks ago with a need to do something entirely different.  Something out of my comfort zone that didn’t involve a passport, a large dose of tranquillisers, an absence from the home/office longer than 6 hours and that didn’t cost a small fortune (so two weeks in the Caribbean was out).

I still wanted an adventure. I looked at the weather forecast, wished I hadn’t, grabbed a waterproof bag, my friend and business manager (who hadn’t received the text telling him to wrap up warm), and headed out on a hot doughnut quest.

Because that was, indeed, the very quintessence of adventure that I sought on that very cold and miserable Monday morning.  Figuring that Brighton was the closest purveyor of said fresh doughnuts and being quite used to the Victoria to Brighton train line. It really wasn’t very long at all before we were walking through the lanes to find some lunch. I’m good at deferring gratification like that. The pier with its sugary fatty delights wasn’t going anywhere and I knew if I didn’t eat something wholesome, I’d be gorging like a half starved hog at a truffle convention (yeah, I don’t know if that’s a real thing either).  Oh, and Sam needed a hat to keep his head warm.

Nice tapas, nice hat (waterproof too!).  Short walk downhill to the shore. Stormy sea.

Oh man! Do I like a stormy sea.  People tend to wax lyrical about mountains making them question their very existence, something about that peace engendered by feeling so small amongst the majesty of snowy peaks.  I get that, I really do.  But the relentless of the sea, the roaring waves dragging pebbles across the shore, the salty spray crystallising on rosy cheeks. And I just need to reiterate the frickin’ relentlessness.  The sea just doesn’t stop. EVER. It’s lapped those shores like, since forever and on windy days, it’s noisy, it’s so noisy that you can’t concentrate on anything other than keeping your ears out of the wind and hunching your hands into a warm pocket or two.

And then you can scream. You can scream and shout at it.  You can shout every profanity known to man, in every combination that could even make a sailor blush (and that takes into account the real expression of ‘swear like a sailor’).  So I shouted, I shouted until the veins in my neck bulged like rope and my mouth was so dry I almost went off the idea of eating a doughnut.

I said almost.

Purged of internal noise and feeling a little light headed, we made our way to the pier and there, in the lee of the pier, we ate hot donuts watching the seas and listening to the wind.  Sam then put in a request to play on the slots and so we spent a good half an hour losing five pounds in the 10p cascade dropping thingy.

I didn’t want to worry about the London rush hour, so we left Brighton and its stormy sea and the rain that had, as forecast started to pound the pavements.  My kids had hardly noticed my absence, reaching home only half an hour after their return from school.

We finished the doughnuts off after supper.  But there was no roar of wind, no cold face, no warmth from the greasy paper bag.  It just wasn’t the same.

But it was nice day.

Monday Random Mission had been accomplished.

Me on Brighton Pier With Hot DoughnutsBrighton Pier Hot Doughnuts Being Fried

If, like  me, you’d like to get down there for a hot doughnut or a sea scream – here’s Southern Rail's train timetable

The Visit Brighton website is full of key information as well as pointers to finding accommodation if you feel the need to scream at the sea some more