Living in London

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In our continuing quest to see all of England, not just the posh parts of London, we found ourselves on the Isle of Wight this past bank holiday weekend. Why do we keep signing up for these little mini-vacations?  Why are we not off in Barcelona or on a beach in Sardinia like all the other Brits? It wasn’t a bad weekend . . . it just wasn’t that remarkable. 

We drove from London – five hours of bumper-to-bumper carriage way to the car ferry, a 35 minute ride across the water, then another hour of driving – to get to a lovely, two star, amateurish-run hotel high above the beach.  It felt like all five stories were clinging to the cliff with their fingernails and showing every sign that they won’t be hanging there much longer (the cracks in the wall and the leaning stairwell were alarming). 

We had some moderately successful meals, a delightful long walk along the coast and a pleasant stroll through the botanical gardens. Best of all, we caught up on some serious reading. 

The most amazing thing was watching the children playing in the surf. The temperature was in the mid 60's (18 C) and just because the sun was shining a number of children were frolicking in the water as if they were in the Bahamas. It was fun trying to figure out what draws people to the beach at the slightest whiff of sunshine (18 C at best, brisk wind, most people huddled in the little special-built shelters).

Our colleagues were mildly perplexed by our decision to come to the Isle of Wight for this weekend; and now that its over, so are we!