My Church of Choice

As we walk back along the rough concrete walkway from Rottingdean to Brighton, we squint through chalk dust whipped up from the cliffs and watch immense bridal veils of foam blowing up and over the distant Marina.

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Of Rottingdean and Resolution

It’s strangely warm, this New Year’s Day, with the shameless sun reflecting off the white chalk cliffs. I pull off first my coat and then my jumper as we march along the rough-cut concrete path beneath pale promontories.

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