As Kingston is synonymous to me with vomit, and Manchester with art galleries, for Brighton it will always be burgers. On every visit I’ve eaten a burger. Most at the same veggie place, which I’m told has recently closed. It tends to be the case that when places recur on your travels you end up at the same spots you’ve discovered before. It’s a comfort blanket thing, you felt good there before so you might revisit. It often feels as if you know that one spot better than anyone. I wasn’t particularly comfy in Brighton, never have been, but at that burger place the world couldn’t have been more made for me.
On my very first visit I asked our host for directions to a veggie place and she drew up a map. On a napkin. I’ve still got it to this day, of course. It’s hidden away in one of the journals on the shelf. I remember having to walk up one hill and down another with this napkin flapping around in my hand. And the place was only a couple of streets away. The pavements were crowded with summer-chasers.
The recommendation couldn’t have been any better. After eating this hearty burger I was stood looking over the flyers plastered to the walls. There was so much happening, but nothing to bind it all together. Except that place, letting anyone and everyone put up their posters, with no questions asked. I met no-one there, and only spoke to place an order, but that place left me enamoured. A small void in the world of food had been filled.
I was trying to sort the idea out in my mind on Clifford’s Hill today. Looking out across those fields I was tidying up the files in my mental filing cabinet. How could it be an actual void? A genuine hole in the soul? Ah! What created it was not a void, but a memory. Looking back, with the benefit of hindsight, I could tell that a certain spot in that town had definitely had an effect on me. I could dress the memory up or down as I wished. I could twist life and soul and lie, if I wanted, to make it seem more of a big deal.
