When I consulted people about my nasal catarrh, "There is only one thing to
do," they said. "Run down to Brighton for a day or two."
So I started running and got as far as Victoria. There I was informed that
it was quite unnecessary to run all the way to Brighton. People walked to
Brighton, yes; or hopped to Kent; but they never ran. The fastest time to
Brighton by foot was about eight hours, but this was done without an
overcoat or suit-case. Even on Saturdays they said it was quicker to take
the train than to walk or to hop.
Brighton has sometimes been called London by the Sea or the Queen of
Watering Places, but in buying a ticket it is better to say simply
Brighton, at the same time stating whether you wish to stay there
indefinitely or to be repatriated at an early date. I once asked a
booking-clerk for two sun spots of the Western coast, and he told me that
the refreshment-room was further on. But I digress.
One of the incidental difficulties in running down to Brighton is that the
rear end of the train queue often gets mixed up with the rear end of the
tram queue for the Surrey cricket ground, so that strangers to the
complexities of London traffic who happen to get firmly wedged in sometimes
find themselves landed without warning at the "Hoval" instead of at Hove.
To avoid this accident you should keep the right shoulder well down and
hold the shrimping-net high in the air with the left hand. If you do get
into the train the best place is one with your back to the window, for,
though you miss the view, after all no one else sees it either, and you do
get something firm to lean up against. It was while I was travelling to
Brighton in this manner that I discovered how much more warm this summer
really is than many writers have made out.
Around Brighton itself a lot of legends have crystallized, some more or
less true, others grossly exaggerated. There is an idea, for instance, that
all the inhabitants of this town or, at any rate, all the visitors who
frequent it, are exceedingly smart in their dress. Almost the first man
whom I met in Brighton was wearing plus 4 breeches and a bowler hat. It is
possible, of course, that this is the correct costume for walking to
Brighton in. Later on I saw a man wearing a motor mask and goggles and a
blue-and-red bathing suit. Neither of these two styles is smart as the word
is understood in the West End.
Then there is the story that prices, especially the prices of food, are
exceedingly high in Brighton. After all, the cost of food depends
everywhere very much upon what you eat. I see no reason for supposing that
the price of whelks in Brighton compares unfavourably with the price of
whelks in other great whelk-eating centres; but the price of fruit is
undeniably high. I saw some very large light-green grapes in a shop window,
grown, I suppose, over blast furnaces, and when I asked what they cost I
was considerably surprised. Being afraid, however, to go out of the shop
without making a purchase, I eventually bought one.
But these things are all by the way. It was when I reached the sea-front at
Brighton that I made the tremendous discovery which is really the subject
of this article. I realised the secret of Brighton's charm. It can be
stated very simply. _It lies in the number of things one needn't do there._
At little seaside resorts, such as Cockleham, there are a very limited
number of things that people do, and as soon as one gets to Cockleham an
irresistible inclination seizes one not to do them to-day. If anybody says
it is a good day for bathing you say it is better for boating. And if they
agree you wonder if, after all, golf.... And so you preserve your
independence and feel rested and stave off for a little while the evil day.
But only for a little. Very soon, for lack of alternative suggestions, you
are bound to be dragged in and do something.
But at Brighton the number of things to do is so enormous and so varied
that you can spend days and days in not doing them. On the pier alone there
are something like a hundred complicated automatic machines which you
needn't work; there are fishing-rods which you needn't hire, and concerts
to which you needn't listen. The sea is full of rowing boats and motor-
launches which you needn't charter, and the land is full of motor-brakes
which you needn't board. You needn't mixed-bathe nor go and watch the
professional divers, nor the fish in the Aquarium, nor the people with
Norman profiles arriving in motor-cars at the hugest hotels. You can simply
sit still on the beach and discuss which of these exciting things you won't
do first. And while you sit still on the beach you can throw pebbles into
the sea. No one has ever thrown as many pebbles into the sea in his life as
he wanted to, because someone keeps saying, "Well, you must decide;" but at
Brighton you can throw more than in any seaside place that I know. And, now
I come to think of it, I wonder that there is no charge for throwing
pebbles into the sea at Brighton. I should have thought a low wall with
turnstile gates and three or four shies a penny ... but I leave this
commercial idea for the Town Council to work out.
When I had thrown a great many pebbles into the sea I began to nerve myself
for the struggle of returning. Over that struggle I prefer, as the saying
is, to draw a veil. Suffice it to say that it is harder to run up to
Brighton than it is to run down. But whilst I was running up I made a
curious and interesting discovery. I found that the spell of Brighton had
cured my cold. I had lost it in the soothing excitement of wondering what
not to do next. This is the true panacea.