Tag Archives: Hastings

Carelessness and Consequence En Route to Granny Oxford

This morningā€™s schedule is ļ¬lled with a strict series of carefully coordinated train trips that will carry me from the south coast of England through London Town to the edge of the Cotswolds ā€“ Banbury, to be precise. There, my ā€œadopted grandmotherā€ will meet me when my ļ¬nal train for the day pulls into the station at 12:05, but much needs to fall into place ļ¬rst.

I Know Where You Live[d]!
Charlotte Walker, recorded as the informant of great grandmother Kate Isabella Boltonā€™s birth, lived at 3 Trinity Mews in Hastings so, naturally, Iā€™m going to swing past the place before heading off to the station to catch my ļ¬rst train which leaves just after 08:00.

Trinity Mews is roughly a block and a bit away but I still jog-walk there for fear of being late for the ļ¬rst leg of my northbound journey. The property is marked as private so I donā€™t go in but snap a few pics from the street.

Oh, for more time (and a peek inside Number 3)! I long to uncover who Charlotte Walker was. All I know is that she was present at Great Grandma Kateā€™s birth but was she the midwife? A friend of the family? Perhaps thereā€™s a baptism record or a newspaper clipping somewhere that would make the connection for me. Perhaps title deeds to the Trinity Mews residence would answer some questions. I wonder if Iā€™ll ever know. For now, I have to content myself with standing outside the home of one who witnessed my great grandmotherā€™s entrance into this world.

Monday Morning Madness
I motor back to Cambridge Gardens, snapping a spooky selļ¬e on Brassey Steps as I go.

The Speedy, Spooky Selfie Snap on Brassey Steps.

I grab my bags, check out (i.e. leave the key in the door ā€“ foreign concept to a South African!) and make my way to Hastings Station. The platform is insanely busy and, I realise, itā€™s school rush hour. Consequently, the arrival of the train signals a rather tense jostle for position as I join the tide of satchels, briefcases and shopping bags vying for a spot on it. I only have 5 minutes between its arrival at Brighton and my next oneā€™s departure for London Victoria, so canā€™t afford to miss it. Thereā€™s no sitting room left and those of us standing are so tightly packed that it takes a few attempts before the doors manage close successfully.

Thankfully, I make my connection to London Victoria and, with the train having emptied considerably, I peel off my backpack and ļ¬nd a seat. Barely an hour later, I wrestle my luggage onto my back again and hightail it through London Victoria to Victoria Underground Station. The direct route, amid all the construction, involves stairs and so itā€™s here that Iā€™m particularly grateful to have my luggage on my back. I catch the underground to Oxford Circus and then once more from there to Marylebone.

I walk through to London Marylebone station and collect my ticket for my ļ¬nal train trip of the day from the self-service machine. Phew ā€“ what a morning! The platform for the Banbury departure is not yet listed on the boards so I grab a cappuccino while I wait ā€“ a ļ¬tting reward for a hectic schedule, skilfully executed. Until now.

I look up at the boards and notice that the platform for the 11-something to Banbury has now made an appearance. Shouldering my baggage once more, I make my way through the gates and bundle myself into a quiet carriage. Itā€™s not long before we leave London behind and are cutting our way through the English countryside.

The Consequence of Carelessness
The train makes several stops along the way and, after about forty minutes or so, I almost instinctively become aware that itā€™s not going to make it to Banbury by 12:00. As I process this thought, I cast my mind back to the booking Iā€™d made. I remember seeing another train scheduled to leave London Marylebone at around the same time as the one Iā€™d chosen but it was scheduled to take almost an hour longer. ā€œAinā€™t nobody got time for that!ā€ was the thought that had gone through my head when I booked my ticket and now here I was, inadvertently aboard the wrong 11-something to Banbury šŸ™

As the realisation dawned, my heart sank. The fact that I had caught the incorrect train and was going to arrive late at my destination didnā€™t bother me; it was that my adopted grandmother had offered to drive to Banbury to meet me at the station and now I wasnā€™t going to be there ā€“ that bothered me a great deal. Mortiļ¬ed at the thought, I scold myself severely before considering an appropriate course of action.

She doesnā€™t have a mobile phone (that I know of) but I wonder whether I can get hold of her before she leaves home. My mobile, which has thus far had no problems ļ¬nding a network, now stubbornly refuses to connect. For the remainder of the trip, I continue trying to call, all to no avail. I ļ¬‚y out of the train as we eventually pull to a stop in Banbury. Swinging myself down the stairs, I frantically search the parking lot ā€“ nothing. I retrace my steps to the longer term parking ā€“ no sign of that familiar face there, either.

Catching public transport is the next option but I want to make certain sheā€™s arrived home ļ¬rst and isnā€™t still searching for me. My phone has not yet found itself so itā€™s time to go old school and use the payphone. For that, I need the correct coins, which I donā€™t have, so I ļ¬gure thatā€™s a good enough reason to buy a Ribena in the station shop. Clutching my precious change, I make the call and discover sheā€™s not yet there. After a ten minute wait, I try again and this time she picks up ā€“ yay! We chat brieļ¬‚y, I apologise profusely, and then dash out of the station building to hail a cab.

Granny Oxford
We negotiate the trafļ¬c out of Banbury and soon Oxfordshire is ļ¬‚ying past in a blur of green. My thoughts turn to my adopted grandmother. She was a teacher at my motherā€™s school, George Watsonā€™s Ladies College in Edinburgh, back when my mother was a student there. They stayed in touch through the years and I met her during a trip to the UK with my mum in the 80s, I think.

We corresponded erratically after that and, years later, in the late 90s, while I was doing Oracle Forms development on a Fleet Management System in Bracknell, she helped me maintain some semblance of sanity during what was a particularly difļ¬cult time of long working hours and relentless project deadlines. Often, if I had a weekend off and it was my turn to use the pool car, I would head north on the hour and a half-ish drive to spend a couple of days with her. It was then that she began referring to me as her adopted granddaughter. One of my colleagues at the time dubbed her ā€œGranny Oxfordā€ and, while she lives in Oxfordshire, not Oxford, and isnā€™t my biological granny, the name stuck.

ā€œWhich way?ā€ my driver asks suddenly, pulling me out of my reverie. I look around. I donā€™t usually come into Sibford this way but soon get my bearings, even though itā€™s been eight years since my last visit. I direct him the rest of the way and, a few minutes later, Iā€™m hugging Granny Oxford and her sister, who now lives with her.

Home Away from Home
ā€œDinnerā€™s not quite ready,ā€ Iā€™m told as I walk through the door, so I go upstairs to put my luggage down. Nothing has changed. The familiar guest room feels like home, from the pink paint on the walls to the rose-patterned curtains, to the window overlooking the apple tree in the front garden, to the wooden ļ¬‚oor and the white dresser. I breath it all in deeply and exhale slowly before making my way downstairs again.

My bedroom window looking onto the apple tree.

Dinner (or lunch, as I know it) is a delicious stew, and is followed by dessert and an afternoon ļ¬lled with catch-up chats. One of Granny Oxfordā€™s outstanding characteristics is her incredible industriousness and that hasnā€™t changed either. Sheā€™s constantly baking or making or learning something. Her larder inevitably contains an array of home-baked goods, her hands are always busy and her calendar is usually covered with a generous sprinkling of appointments. She introduced me to needlework when I ļ¬rst met her and, on this particular evening, sheā€™s putting the ļ¬nishing touches on a Christmas stocking sheā€™s made for the WI (Womenā€™s Institute) meeting weā€™re apparently attending tomorrow šŸ˜‰

Exhausted, I eventually fall into bed and drift off into contented slumber, but not before whispering a prayer of thanks for awesome adopted family šŸ™‚

A Sunday Stroll to Church Then into Battle!

Kate Isabella Boltonā€™s parents, Alfred and Clara, were married in Emmanuel Church, Hastings, in 1877, and so my plan is to head there for a Sunday service and get to sit in the building whereĀ my great, great grandparents would have committed themselves to one another, almost 140 years ago.

Portion of ā€œEngland. Certified Copy of an Entry of Marriage. General Register Office; Hastings, Sussex, December Quarter 1877, Volume 2b, Page 51, No 37 for Marriage of Alfred Bolton and Clara Pinny.ā€

Itā€™s a fair walk but a beautiful morning for it, cool and bright. Seagulls squawk pleadingly overhead but, other than that, itā€™s still quiet out.

I stop brieļ¬‚y on the way to get some shots of Holy TrinityĀ before heading up Castle Hill Road again. Itā€™s a little more forgiving when one has a bit of time to spare!

Blessings
I reach the church with about half an hour to spare and wander the streets that surround it, appropriately named Vicarage, Priory and Emmanuel. As I do so, strains of 10,000 Reasons (Bless the Lord) ļ¬lter out of the building as musicians prepare for the service. Itā€™s one of my favs and seems somehow appropriate. Gratitude gets my insides doing a little happy dance!

Just before 10:30, I make my way indoors just as two elderly ladies do the same. They notice Iā€™m not a regular, introduce themselves and bustle me through the doors, introducing me to a number of other congregants along the way.

I ļ¬le into a pew, trying to look inconspicuous, but a couple sitting behind me are eager to hear my story. We chat easily as I share where Iā€™m from, why Iā€™m here and where Iā€™m heading, and they tell me something of themselves. It transpires that their daughter and her family had recently been holidaying in Orkney and so more threads of this amazing tapestry of connectedness reveal themselves, as the chords of 10,000 Reasons reach my ears for the second time today šŸ™‚

Emmanuel Church, Hastings, Order of Service.

Afterwards, Iā€™m graciously invited to stay to tea but have a train to catch and so say my goodbyes. The lady sitting behind me with her husband says, ā€œWe wonā€™t forget this day,ā€ and I swallow the lump in my throat ā€“ I walked into this building a total stranger and leave, barely an hour and a half later, blown away by the kindness and warmth of this beautiful community.

Pensive but ļ¬lled with joy, I head back down the hill, admiring the splashes of colour, mostly pastels, that mark many Hastings houses.

Into Battle!
At the station, I buy a return ticket to Battle (Iā€™m optimistic, you see!) and hop on the train. Battle, as you may have guessed, is a place rather than an event, although it is named after the Battle of Hastings which took place on this site in 1066. Itā€™s also where William the Conqueror had an abbey built in gratitude for his victory over the Saxons and in penance for the blood that was shed. Itā€™s a good 15-minute walk to the battleļ¬eld from Battle station and I ļ¬nd that Iā€™ve arrived on a weekend commemorating the battle which took place here on 14 October, 949 years ago.

Consequently, Battle isnā€™t devoid of danger after all, for the place is teeming with people and almost every child is armed with a sword or axe of wood or plastic which theyā€™re ļ¬‚ailing around madly, at a height rather hazardous to adults! I take refuge in what remains of the chapter house and dormitory range.

I then head down to the battleļ¬eld, wandering among the Saxon tents, where battle preparations are underway. In keeping with the theme, I decide on a wild boar burger with applesauce for lunch ā€“ delish!

Then, sun glistening on their helmets and standards ļ¬‚uttering proudly, the Saxons, led by Harold, draw up battle lines to form their trusty shield wall. It has served them well in recent victories and, as long as it holds, they will stand. Soon, the Normans are deployed onto the battleļ¬eld, William the Conqueror leading them.

The battle rages and a skirmish sees William falling. In the confusion which follows, his men drop back, now unsure, faltering. William is alive but needs to prove it to his warriors. He remounts and removes his helmet, so they can see his face, as he rides along their lines.

A ļ¬‚ank of the Norman army begins retreating. Theyā€™re pursued down the hill by a group of Saxons. William sees his next tactic demonstrated. He orders his army to repeat the retreat and, sure enough, some Saxon soldiers are drawn away, following the Normans apparently retreating down the hill, only to be surrounded and annihilated by them. The shield wall is thinning.

Then, another ļ¬‚urry of Norman arrows trace a graceful arc into Saxon lines. Shields are lifted to deļ¬‚ect them but a cry of horror rises to the skies, too ā€“ an arrow has pierced Haroldā€™s eye and he drops to the ground ā€“ dead. A band of faithful men surround him, loyal to the last, but they lose their lives and Haroldā€™s standard falls.

The Saxons rally bravely but they are leaderless and the shield wall is disintegrating. The Normans pick it to pieces and William emerges victorious to lay claim to the English throne. This historic ļ¬eld Iā€™m standing in lies soaked in the blood of battle and marks a turning point in the British narrative.

I walk back through the grounds, below the Guesthouse Range and the Abbey, past the dairy and icehouse, to explore the Duchess of Clevelandā€™s walled garden.

As I head back toward the gatehouse, I pass a tapestry strung up between some trees. Itā€™s not the famous Bayeux tapestry, as one might expect, although there is one panel dedicated to the technique used for that piece. Rather, this one tells the story of a lesser known battle, the Battle of Maldon. The artist informs me that it took him three years and that itā€™s for saleā€¦ for Ā£6 000, if youā€™re interested and happen to have that lying around!

A badly stitched composite of four photos of the tapestry of the Battle of Maldon. It took forty photos to capture the entire tapestry!
Another badly stitched composite of four photos of the tapestry of the Battle of Maldon. These four frames show the end of the tapestry.

Full Circle
Back in Hastings, itā€™s already dark as I take another walk along the beachfront, to Queenā€™s Apartments.

Queenā€™s Hotel, now Queen’s Apartments, where my great, great grandfather, Alfred Bolton, lived at the time of his marriage to Clara Pinny.

This used to be the Queenā€™s Hotel and itā€™s where my great, great grandfather, Alfred Bolton, lived at the time of his marriage to Clara Pinny in Emmanuel Church, where my day started.

Iā€™ve come full circle. Iā€™ve returned to places that were part of the lives of my ancestors, part of me. Iā€™ve had a history lesson. Iā€™ve touched the past. And I have an early start in the morning!

On the Streets Where You Lived (Part 2)

I pre-planned this now-late lunch for CafĆ© des Arts, having stumbled across them on the Internet. Perhaps it was their tagline that got me: ā€œSatisfy Your Coffee, Art and Food Passionsā€. Perhaps it was their social concern. According to the intro in their menu, the ā€œcafĆ© was opened by Autism Sussex in 2009 as a social enterprise to provide training and work experience for people with Autistic Spectrum Condition. The aim is for trainees to learn transferable skills which will enhance their chances of future employment in the wider community.ā€

Hastings Orientation
I order a cappuccino and look around. Large, comfy-looking armchairs encircle low tables in the front windows. Stained glass windows and wooden panelling line the back of the cafĆ© area. Shelves display works by autistic artists. Theyā€™re all for sale, another way CafĆ© des Arts seeks to support and empower those on the autistic spectrum.

The cafĆ© is also directly across the road from Holy Trinity, which appears to be the church of the parish in which my great grandmotherā€™s birth was registered. ā€œWhere was she baptised?ā€ I wonder idly. Was it in the beautiful though unusually-shaped church I was now looking at? I make a mental note to ļ¬nd outā€¦

Portion from “Benjamin Tree (Registrar), Certified Copy of an Entry of Birth Given at the General Register Office, Registration District Hastings, 1878 Birth in the Sub-district of Saint Mary in the Castle in the County of Sussex, No 343, Kate Isabella Bolton, Application Number 5995428-1, BXCG 312312 (England, General Register Office, 09 Oct 2014).”

Holy Trinity Church, Hastings, was built on a triangular piece of land formed by the intersection of Robertson and Trinity Streets in the 1850s (about the same time Hastings Station came into being). To my uneducated eye, it seems the site may have been ideally suited to the eccentricity of the churchā€™s Victorian architect, one Samuel Sanders Teulon, a great character, by all accounts. Hastings itself had, of course, been around a lot longer, with its ļ¬rst documented mention in 790. Historically a Saxon settlement, market and ļ¬shing town, and port, it later became a popular seaside resort, and remains a tourist destination today.

A Brisk March up Castle Hill
By the time Iā€™ve devoured a delicious goatā€™s cheese, pesto and salad sandwich, itā€™s just after half past three. If Iā€™m to make it to Hastings Castle at all, it needs to be today and Iā€™ll need to hurry ā€“ last admission is at 16:00. I pay my dues and turn right out onto Robertson Street, marching hurriedly in the general direction of the castle. I appear to be on track by the time I reach Castle Hill Road but it shows me no mercy. Itā€™s a steep climb and, within minutes, Iā€™m gasping for breath and it feels as though molten iron is searing through my calf muscles. Just when I think Iā€™ll never make it on time, I round a bend and see a sign for the castle.

I reach the entrance, barely able to speak, at 15:57 ā€“ just in time to buy a ticket and stumble into the last audiovisual presentation of the day. Afterwards, I wander round what remains of the castle, though much of it has long since collapsed into the sea or fallen prey to ruin, decay and disrepair. With its majestic vantage point high above the town and overlooking the sea, itā€™s easy to see why William (the Conqueror) ordered the building of a fortress here, a few days after the Battle of Hastings.

As with any castle worthy of the title, Hastings Castle has a few ghost stories to tell. One belongs to the structure itself: it is said that 18th century sailors out at sea were occasionally able to look back and see the castle whole, in all its former glory. Ghosts said to wander the ruins include that of a nun, a lady in white, and a woman carrying a baby (who is thought to have ended her own life and that of her child following desertion by her lover). The phantom of murdered Archbishop of Canterbury, Thomas Becket, is also thought to hang out here. Fortunately for my constitution, I saw none of these, although this creature could be seen wandering around:

Yours Truly in the Chapel of the Holy Cross

Middle Street Today
I have no number for the Middle Street location where Great Grandmother Kate was born and, even if I did have, I doubt the building would still be there. Nevertheless, I make my way back down Castle Hill Road and into the ā€œNew Townā€ again. Middle Street is easy to ļ¬nd. It feeds into the shopping district and, today, The Body Shop occupies one corner and a pub the other, at that end. Behind these, the backs of shops are housed in newish-looking buildings. Further up, thereā€™s a university parking lot and then a couple of ramshackle, rundown houses on either side. At the top of the street, grafļ¬ti covers a garage door.

If I had more time here, Iā€™d be hitting the museum and archives, ļ¬nding out more about this street in the late 1870s. For now, I simply get to walk where my ancestors walked, about 137 years ago. I savour the experience and then, as the sun begins to set, I head for the beach and the Old Town.

Walking the Town Flat and Reaping a Reward
Itā€™s a gorgeous evening but the beach is quiet. I meet a seagull whoā€™s very friendly until I try to photograph him. I wander along the pebbles.

Hastings pier and beach (yes, it’s a pebble beach, because that’s mostly how England rolls!)

I pass the miniature golf course and railway, the amusement park, and then the net shops. The information boards tell me, ā€œThese Tall Black Wooden Sheds are unique to Hastings.ā€ They were used by ļ¬shermen to store their ļ¬shing tackle and keep it dry and prevent rot.

Iā€™m now striding down Rock-a-Nore Road in search of Rock A Nore Kitchen, a tiny restaurant earning quite a name for itself, judging from the commentary on the Interwebs. With only about ļ¬ve tables and a reputation which is both glowing and growing, I suspect they may be fully bookedĀ this evening. They are.

Not to be easily outdone, I have another evening meal option up my sleeve. I am in England, after all, and on the coast. Fish and chips is pretty much mandatory, and Iā€™ve done a bit of homework: Life Boat Restaurant is the place to go. Itā€™s back a little, in the hustle and bustle of the Old Town, which Iā€™m already wishing I had more time to explore.

While waiting for my order, I notice conļ¬rmation of popular Internet opinion taped to the counter in the form of an article from the Hastings Independent Press. It shows Life Boat Restaurant voted the top ļ¬sh and chip restaurant in Hastings, by the locals, in February this year.

Who’s the Best?

Itā€™s almost 20:00 now and Iā€™ve put in a pretty decent power-walking effort today. I feel Iā€™ve earned my meal but nothing could have prepared me for the size of it.

I’m not sure that there’s any truth to the tagline on the packaging, but I’d like to think so!

They offer a medium and a large cod. I chose the medium and shudder to think what the large would have looked like. The pics do not do it any justice at all but I feel it would have fed at least two and a half people!

Medium cod and chips (allegedly!)

Exhausted, but sated and grateful, I eventually fall asleep in the town where my great grandmother would have done the same, as a baby, over a hundred years ago.

On the Streets Where You Lived (Part 1)

Of course, sleep never seems to last long on a plane before one gets hyper-uncomfortable. Thereā€™s a whole lot of squirming and a little bit of shut-eye playing on repeat until breakfast is served some two hours before landing.

Itā€™s a continental breakfast, quite ļ¬tting since weā€™re now ļ¬‚ying over France. Iā€™m tracking our progress on the moving map, you know ā€“ just to make sure the pilotā€™s on course and holding altitude and all that! I start lifting the shutter and sneaking peaks out of my window, matching the lights below with our current location. Itā€™s not long before I identify the lights of Paris, beautiful even in the darkness from 40 000 feet. We begin our descent.

Clearing Immigration and Making Connections
Iā€™m a little concerned I may not have left enough time to catch my bus from Heathrow into London so, on disembarkation, I power-walk through Terminal 2 (the Queenā€™s Terminal, Iā€™ll have you know!). Itā€™s a long walk but welcome after 11 hours airborne, strapped to a seat.

Iā€™m astonished to ļ¬nd that, for UK and EU passport holders, thereā€™s barely an immigration ofļ¬cial in sight but, instead, a row of self-service booths. Trying to look inconspicuous, I shufļ¬‚e slowly towards a free booth, buying time to carefully take in all the instructions: step onto the yellow footprints on the ļ¬‚oor, remove your glasses, put down your bags, place the photo page of your passport on the scanner, look at the camera, remove your passportā€¦

The gates swing open! I make a mental note to thank my amazing mother for her wisdom and presence of mind in obtaining British citizenship for me all those years ago. Not only does it make entry into the UK a breeze, without any queues, but it also made leaving South Africa smoother ā€“ no questions about visas and how long Iā€™d be staying and where Iā€™d be staying and what other places Iā€™d be visiting ā€“ what a pleasure!

Having collected my luggage (which, thankfully, arrived ā€“ something I never take for granted), I make my way to the Central Bus Station. I happen to catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror of a lift. With almost 22kgs on my back and a day pack of 7Ā½kgs clipped onto my front, a thought occurs, ā€œI hope my Eiger-climbing uncle doesnā€™t disown me when he sees this lot!ā€ Iā€™m quite sure heā€™s perfected the art of travelling light. I console myself with the fact that I carry gifts as well as electronic equipment, including a mobile scanner and a netbook, none of which a climber would require!

I make it to the bus station with enough time to grab a much-needed cappuccino and a strawberries and cream mufļ¬n before boarding the National Express bus bound for London.

Connections of Another Kind
Itā€™s a ļ¬ne, crisp day here and bright enough for sunglasses. Out on the M4, trees cloaked in gold, studded with jewel-like ļ¬‚ecks of red, are a reminder that it is indeed autumn here, though.

We stop at a trafļ¬c light and, out of the window on my right, I see a gorgeous old entrance covered in window boxes and baskets brimming with ļ¬‚owers. Itā€™s a beautiful, postcard-British pub. I reach for my camera and then notice the buildingā€™s name: The Bolton. I scramble to get my camera out of its pouch as my neighbour, sitting next to the window, sees the scene and tries to snap it with his cell phone. We both miss it.

ā€œAre you a Bolton, then?ā€ he asks. ā€œNo, but some of my Dadā€™s family were,ā€ I respond, ā€œWhat about you?ā€ ā€œNo, but the friend Iā€™m meeting up with in a bit is.ā€ We start chatting after that and I discover heā€™s from Swindon, coming into London for a surprise birthday get-together at The Shard and then ICEBAR LONDON with some of his college mates, whom he hasnā€™t seen in years. I also discover he spent his honeymoon in South Africa. He, in turn, discovers a bit of my journey and the reason for it and, when I mention Orkney, shows me his wedding band made there. It certainly looks Orcadian: silver, with Norse-like runes engraved around it. ā€œItā€™s supposed to read, ā€˜Hope, Love and Happinessā€™,ā€ he says, and then, after a brief pause, ā€œArenā€™t these random connections just great? They make the world seem smaller, donā€™t they?ā€ We talk about family and family history and he resolves to dig into his fatherā€™s family tree. ā€œIā€™ve often thought I should look into it,ā€ he muses and, with that, the bus pulls into London Victoria Coach Station and we go our separate ways.

Hastings-Bound
While it is perhaps better known as the site of that (in)famous battle way back in 1066, Hastings is also the birthplace of one of my paternal great grandmothers, Kate Isabella Bolton.

Great Grandmother Kate Isabella Bolton

Her parents were married there, too, and itā€™s where Iā€™m headed ļ¬rst. A brisk march has me collecting my ticket in London Victoria Station and on the platform within a few minutes. I tuck into my magical strawberries and cream mufļ¬n while waiting for the train to depart and soon weā€™re out of the suburbs and cutting our way through quintessentially English countryside: pastures dotted with sheep and lined with post and rail fences or neat hedges or stone walls, steeplechase courses, and crops spread out like intricately stitched quilts.

Around lunchtime, I ļ¬nd myself at Hastings Station. Another short walk delivers me to Apollo Guest House. After a shower and a little reorganisation of my day pack for strolling the streets, Iā€™m out the door again, meandering down the road in search of Robertson Streetā€¦