Good Luck Seagull

We flew overnight into Heathrow, then, despite misgivings about driving a hire car from Heathrow into London proper, we did exactly that. Our hotel had no car park but recommended one nearby. We unloaded luggage — way too much luggage — checked in and hauled ourselves and baggage to our rooms. My buddy, our driver, and Sharon then took the car around to the pay-to-park lot. They paid through Monday morning and upon parking the car discovered a written notice of violation. This car was cited for being illegally in city — Whitehall — and being illegally parked while we did the minutia of checking in. When we paid the fines for the two offenses, it was about 55 pounds. 

By the time we left London for Brighton, we had been given those two traffic citations, replaced a ruined tire and paid all the various charges that we had known we’d have from a weekend in the city: hotel, meals, drinks, souvenirs, etc. Hi-ho! We’re off to Brighton using a sat-nav and an old roadmap. 

Brighton on a Monday midday in May was busy but not teeming. We couldn’t check in until after 3 p.m. Sharon had instructions from our Brighton hotelier to find Such’n’So car park and not try to drive to the hotel. We found the car park, eventually wedged the hire car into a space, and walked down the sea-front to the amusements pier. Being the curmudgeon I am, flashing lights and synthesized music don’t appeal to me, but like our traveling companions, we wandered the pier along with what seemed to be thousands of merry-makers. 

Halfway along a seagull shat directly on Sharon’s head. She alone was hatless in our group. After laughing and embarrassing her, we assured her that being bombed by a seagull was a harbinger of good luck. She wasn’t having it. Despite it being shortly after 1 p.m., Sharon wanted to cover her head so the bird poop wasn’t obvious, get to the hotel, have as little interaction as possible with anyone while sporting a nasty hair-do, and get one or more showers. 

We unwedged the car, extracted the luggage, and set off for the hotel, where stopping to unload and check in were adamantly discouraged. That was good advice, but it was a hell of schlep with too much luggage. The hotel — small, clean, all the amenities, only three blocks from the sea-front — was self-described as a boutique hotel. The boutique bit apparently allowed it to have very narrow and winding stairways and passages. With my vertigo I had to have help getting our bags upstairs. What else the boutique designation apparently meant was that guests (us) were entirely on our own overnight. This on-your-own bit isn’t unfamiliar to people using Airbnb or similar accommodations, but it was something we’d not encountered. 

Sharon washed her hair — several times — and used the two large towels already in the en suite as well as the electric hairdryer. We were confident there were more towels along with the blankets we saw in a small closet. We went to meet British friends for supper, the hotel employee went away. Hours later after a long supper followed by time in a pub, Sharon was ready for a night’s sleep and I was ready for a shower followed by sleep. Oops. Several blankets but no towels. And no employee. Not even an unlocked room where a desperate someone (me) could borrow a towel. I attempted to dry off with a hand towel and the hairdryer. 

Just a little blip.

Next morning we had a good heavy breakfast and reasonably decent coffee before our schlep back to the car park and on to Lyndhurst and the New Forest. As I said, just a blip. And Sharon is now able to appreciate the humor of her seagull encounter on Brighton pier. 

The alleged Good Luck? We had a great meal and good evening visiting with our friends from East Sussex. All our ensuing overnights were fun. Cornwall and North Devon were great. We made all our rail connections. And at Langley — a London suburb — we had the best Indian food ever. Good Luck? Maybe. Seagull poop? Nasty.

Come back next week but keep your hat on, just in case.