It was early December 2025 when we decided to spend a weekend in Brighton, ostensibly to visit our grandsons and their parents. I say “ostensibly” because Brighton always gives the impression that it will be a civilised, slightly bracing seaside break, and then immediately sets about disproving that notion.
We had stayed many times before in a particular hotel, which had worked perfectly well. Sadly, it had recently closed. It transpired that the family who owned it had decided that buying the property next door, along with a Porsche and a Rolls-Royce, was a better use of funds than continuing to run a thriving hotel. Thus, the hotel became a money pit and quietly disappeared.
Undeterred, I shopped around online and eventually landed on the Holiday Inn, Brighton website. Booking the hotel, however, was only the beginning. One also has to decide where to park in Brighton, a decision which requires the same level of strategic planning as a small military campaign. After careful thought, I decided that seafront parking was the least worst option.
Having made that decision, I booked the hotel — only to discover that by default I had booked a room for one person, despite the fact that my wife and I were clearly two. This was swiftly resolved by a very calm and helpful lady in America who assured me that everything was now fine. I believed her.
We forgot all about it until Thursday evening, when we decided that leaving at around 10 am the next morning would be “relatively relaxed”. By 10 am, the Land Rover was loaded, sandwiches had been purchased from a garage (always a sign of optimism), and we set off via the M6, M42, M40, M25, M23 and eventually Brighton — a route that neatly demonstrates why Britain is never quite finished.
Arriving in Brighton involves navigating a forest of traffic cameras and speed limits that descend from 40mph to 20mph every few yards, often without warning or mercy. Eventually, we reached the seafront, where the only remaining challenge was to park — and then pay.
The payment system relies on an app called JustPark, which requires a mobile signal. Brighton, at that moment, did not have one. Nor did it have shelter. A howling gale was blowing in off the Channel, and stepping out of the van felt like volunteering for a small natural disaster. Eventually, after much screen tapping and mild swearing, I paid twenty odd pounds for a day’s parking.
We then stepped straight into the gale and headed for The Lanes. As ever, they were full of strange people doing strange things. At one point, a man carrying a white duvet under his arm lunged towards us while we were sitting in a coffee shop, then wandered off happily. We admired jewellery, noted the suspicious number of Rolexes, and eventually returned to the van just after four, ready to check in.
The hotel, however, was a mile and a half down the seafront. With luggage. A lot of luggage. Laden like pack animals, we set off into the storm, wind lashing us sideways, until we finally reached the lobby, where there was a queue.
At reception, the lady confirmed that, yes, we only had a room for one person. Fortunately, she kindly upgraded us to a “superior suite”, which cost only £350 for two nights. (Had I had the foresight to book a couple of months earlier it would have cost about £150) We fought our way upstairs (the lifts operating on their own mysterious timetable) and collapsed.
By six o’clock, we were hungry and went down to the restaurant, only to discover a Christmas party in full cry. It was deafening. We retreated and decided to find somewhere nearby, meeting my son — who had come down from London — en route. In the teeth of the gale, we discovered a Chinese restaurant, whose staff were welcoming and efficient. During the meal, the wind was so strong it physically threw a young woman into the restaurant window. I imagine she still remembers it.
After dinner, we battled back to the hotel, hoping for a quiet drink. The only available space was the sports bar. It was freezing cold, screens flashed at every conceivable sport, and the beer was not really aimed at people of my generation. Neither was the parking app – but my son, being a lot younger, fettled it and another £20 parking fee evaporated. We had a quick half and fled.
Breakfast the next morning was in the same sports bar. The waiter explained, in great detail, how a buffet works. Despite already knowing, we played along. It was easily the worst buffet breakfast we have ever had. There were only 4 kinds of cereal, with no muesli. They had the usual toasting machine, which gives you options, warm and white or burnt and smoking. And it was cold.
We then went outside to admire the pebble beach and the ruined pier, still stubbornly standing despite years of punishment. I took many photographs of crashing waves and dramatic skies. Sadly, the camera rendered it all as a pleasant summer’s day.
After that, we took a taxi to my son’s house, where he had prepared an excellent buffet — thank you again, Chris. We then went to the Royal Pavilion to see a Christmas exhibition featuring Jane Austen. There was absolutely no connection between Jane Austen and the Pavilion, but this did not stop them from trying. A rock choir was singing Christmas songs, which was rather good fun.
Next came Snoopers Paradise — a vast, very posh second-hand shop selling what can only be described as extremely well-presented junk. The North Lanes were absolutely rammed. We were exhausted. The others wanted a restaurant; we were restauranted out. Tesco sandwiches were purchased instead and carried back up Brighton’s steep hills, where we were rewarded with tea at my son’s house. Nectar of the gods. We Ubered back to the hotel, ate sandwiches, drank wine, and collapsed.
The next morning, the bathroom in the hotel had started to smell, and little black flies had started to appear. I tried to pretend they didn’t exist. Another freezing, miserable breakfast was in order, but we survived, checked out, and collected the Land Rover. We drove past the hotel we had wanted to stay in – the Rolls Royce owners one, just to confirm it really was closed. It was.
We then headed to Petworth House for its Christmas display, which was genuinely excellent. Sadly, the café was rammed, Petworth village provided no food at all and we got soaked. So we bought chocolates and left.
The drive home featured average-speed cameras every few yards, sudden 20mph limits, rain, diversions, a blocked M40, a stationary M25, and roadworks everywhere. Eventually, after much perseverance and concentration, we arrived home at about five o’clock.
All in all, a lovely weekend in Brighton. In theory.