This is because they come from the sort of place where an unfamiliar car is enough to get the curtains twitching and the parish newsletter has a readership most newspapers would kill for.
There’s a particular betrayal one feels as a northerner moving south. Mainly because it’s difficult to join in with the northern camaraderie when you’ve packed your bags, crossed the Watford Gap and decided to make your living amongst oat milk and sea swimming.
So, while my parents thought they were coming for a lovely few days visiting their daughter who’d flown the nest, they were also conducting a deeply unbiased investigation into proving what they’d always known: the North is better.
I was fighting a losing battle.
In the name of investigative journalism, I threw them in at the deep end. No life jacket.
To my surprise… they floated. Mostly.
Unfortunately, their visit coincided with the red heat alert. Every ten minutes, I was asked whether it was always this hot in Brighton, as though they’d accidentally boarded a flight to Guatemala instead of Southern Rail.
As much as I explained that the entire country was slowly melting into the pavement, I know they secretly believe Sussex exists in a permanent state of Mediterranean suffering.
So… let’s dive into what they loved and what they hated.
What they hated
The seagulls
Which is ironic because, genetically speaking, they’re not dissimilar to my family. Loud. Opportunistic.
But perhaps it’s just loyalty to their daughter… given the time I was injured by them.
Watching me instinctively whip my phone out every time an emergency services car went past
Old habits die hard and clocking off is not an option. The work group chat needs updates, even if it means I leave a restaurant mid-mouthful to chase a police car down the road.
What they loved
Getting a caricature done on Brighton beach.
It just felt like a quintessential British seaside experience even if neither of us escaped with our dignity.
Saltdean Lido.
Along with the rest of Sussex. I nearly got knocked unconscious by a flying inflatable ring. We were both glaring at the crowd, waiting for the guilty party to own up, until we realised the culprit was a six-year-old who could barely swim.
Rottingdean.
Mainly because there was a breeze. For the rest of the week, every pleasant gust of wind was compared unfavourably to Rottingdean’s. It had set an impossibly high standard.
Brighton’s street art.
Every wall has something painted on it. Sometimes beautiful murals. Sometimes… less beautiful anatomy.
Finding shade in increasingly ridiculous places.
At one point, my mum genuinely suggested putting her head between two rocks because “it’s cooler in there.” It was only day two, and she was making survival decisions based almost entirely on the behaviour of lizards.
Pointing out the obvious.
Apparently adulthood doesn’t matter. I may pay rent, have a career and live independently, but my mum still felt the need to remind me there was a step. Dare I say… sometimes it was even handy.
Questioning everything.
It wasn’t just the heat causing a potential danger to life. Tensions between us occasionally reached red alert too. I suppose because I’ve written a story or two in this county, I was some sort of walking Sussex encyclopaedia for them.
Why is there a random windmill near Roedean School?
Who owns the pier?
How far is the bus to Lewes if we take the number 12 rather than the 72?
I was nothing if not a tour guide, historian and geologist.
Eating at the same place over and over again.
One can’t enjoy a meal and revel in its memory in my family. Every item on the menu must be personally verified.
So, when I saw my dad taking appreciative gulps of his lunch at Garden Café, I knew I should start getting comfortable there. When they had their first sip of the Algerian lemonade at the Blue Man, it was game over.
The walk from Rottingdean to Saltdean.
Mostly because there were enough benches to recover every hundred metres.
The buses.
Efficient, scenic and, perhaps most importantly, air-conditioned.
The Lanes after dark.
Once the city stopped trying to roast us alive, it really was beautiful.
A Brighton education.
Brighton is nothing if not unique. It is the only place where you can walk past a Regency townhouse, an artisan bakery and a mural of an enormous penis within about thirty seconds and nobody bats an eyelid.
They may not admit it, but I think Brighton won them over.
Not enough to stop them saying “it’s nicer up north” every half hour, of course.
Some traditions are simply too important to abandon.
PS: Many thanks to my print editor, Steve, for building their entire itinerary so they could rest easily at night knowing I was no part in any organisational decisions.
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