Driving to Brighton, England

The airport was busy, half a dozen passenger jets criss-crossing the sky, sectioning the flimsy grey garden fleece covering the background blue with precisely ruled white lines thickening and wobbling as they aged. A few frayed tufts hinted at high breeze. Into the rural, we sped across flat farmland starting to sprout new housing estates. At the Downs we had to dawdle up the Beacon hill, cursing the weekend cyclists, then feeling guilty for our vehicle lazy irritation. At the top at last, two panoramic views vied for our attention : behind us, the tree carpeted level stretched east to west fringed by the distant northern hills; ahead the buxom grassy downs lolloped on towards the far sea brighter than the obscured sun gazing downcast behind its veil. Descending more, the city met us with busy streets between the crowded houses. And finally the pier. And the problem of parking.