In order to get to Rye Harbour the Sock had to drive through Hastings! For the uninitiated, Hastings is the hell on earth of the South coast. Even Bexhill-on-Sea has become almost fashionable in a retro sort of a way but Hastings remains solidly seedy and suspect.
As the Sock drove into Hastings an enormous car boot sale dominated the landscape. 'Booters Only' proclaimed the badly written cardboard sign – so that meant almost the entire population of Hastings, the odd ‘plain clotheser’ and a few of the Sussex county types looking for their missing antiques. The Sock only once went to a boot sale and failing to see any Clarice Cliff amongst the cracked kitchenware, never endured one again.
The run-down seafront exudes a general air of doom and decay, dank with the smell of rain-dissolved dogmess smeared on the pavements. The iron railings drip trails of rust, the pier is sandwiched between tacky amusements and soiled bouncy castles. It makes you wish the firestarter, who torched Brighton’s cherished West Pier, had used his talents here!
pictures for twitchers here
The day was not lost however, the 'Jarmanesque' seascape at Rye Harbour with its plethora of seakale, yellow horned poppies, valerian, viper’s- bugloss and bittersweet was mournfully beautiful and the Sock was entranced to see an avocet and her young amongst the multitude of terns, and blackheaded gulls.