Rockets, cacti and the Devil's dyke...

It’s been years since I’ve been to Brighton, so many that I’m not sure how many exactly - certainly not since childhood. I remember travelling there as a small boy in a collection of black cars with cracked red leatherette upholstery and engines that would get cranky and need fixing every fifty miles or so.

It seemed such a long journey from Oxfordshire where we lived. Long and boring and full of the fear of car sickness that could take hold of any of us children at any time. We travelled for years holding two big old copper pennies in our hands and sitting on newspapers. It worked… usually.

I have three vivid memory points in that journey. All three small landmarks as we travelled closer towards our destination.

Memory point one - Rockets! I remember a field of missiles, grey and threatening, thrusting their long pointed noses to the sky, probably pointing towards some Russian city or other.

Memory point two - Cacti! I remember a stretch of massive cactus standing amongst large rocks and sand, like something out of one of the cowboy shows I loved to watch.

Memory point three - The Devil. As we passed Devil’s Dyke, my Dad would always tell us that if we were naughty the devil would come down from the hill and take us to Hell where we would burn and burn. I saw him once, high up on the hill in the distance, horns and beard and tail – I know I did, he smiled at me and winked fire as we passed below.

Last week I visited Brighton again, first time in I don’t know how many years - not quite fifty but almost I guess. No rockets, no cacti - I did pass Devil’s Dyke but don’t know if He was still up there winking fire and waiting to come down and take me off to Hell to burn and burn.

The pavilion was still there though, covered in scaffolding but in better condition than one of the two piers I remember. The West Pier burnt down in March, 2003 and lies like the skeleton of some huge sea beast washed up in the water just offshore.

For a few minutes I wandered lost, a child again in the warren of jewellers that is The Lanes and stood for a moment on the flint pebble beach where we used to sit fully clothed, wind blowing hard around us (me), on our (my) day trip to the seaside. I picked up two of the knobbly grey pebbles and pocketed them, they sighed contentedly as they settled in the pocket of my dark blue business suit.

Being there again if only for a few hours, brought back so much and many. I knew what to expect – the pebbles, the jewellers, the minarets of the Pavilion – it seems some memories remain correct and true - but the rockets, the cacti, the Devil? I remember them all AND equally as clearly as the pebble beach, the pavilion, the piers, the narrow thoroughfares of The Lanes.

Yes, I remember them and maybe in remembering I make them real.