Another meet-up with my nephew and his parents and grand-parents. Not that I got much of a chance to discuss modern music, philosophy or the decline of literary standards in the celebrity era as the little feller was asleep most of the time. When he was awake, he eschewed beer, pub grub and conversation in favour of ultra-fresh milk. Not very sociable, but I guess it’s hard to be sociable when you can’t focus and most of your life’s experience so far has been closed up in a warm place and fed through a tube.
The garden of the pub we chose was at the base of a large hill steep enough for handgliderers to throw themselves off. Several were doing it as we arrived. Along one side of the garden runs a stream that springs from, well, a spring. The garden is on a slope that would be impossible in The Netherlands, possibly even illegal.
It had taken a longish time to get to the pub because the world, his wife, their kids and dog were heading down to Brighton. A continuous plod of cars heading sarf meant that anyone else had to find their moment to get across a key roundabout.
Apart from the fame of the beach, and that Brighton itself is well know for its aging and homosexual population, today was also the list day of the Brighton Festival. And arts and theatre festival which is lower key and less commercial that its Edinburgh counterpart.