I came to Worthing with some bias. Bias because it’s my friend Dan’s home and because it isn’t polite to tell someone you don’t like where they live. (Although people in Hull seem to laugh it off). So I brushed aside the difficulties I had finding the seafront from the train station. I compared Worthing to Cheltenham. The station in Cheltenham is crap and miles from the centre and nobody complains, they just take the bus, taxi, or huge four-wheeled drive they don’t need because they are not farmers (for the most part). And Worthing is a bit like Cheltenham.  So I let it off, because there was some vague signage at some points. Signage which combined with my conviction mixed with guesswork and hope led me eventually to the sea.

Once at the sea, I smelled the smell of rotting seaweed. I was later told the council used to clean it up but said it had become too expensive to continue. But surely Brighton do it? Brighton doesn’t smell. The pier was lovely, the place had the English charm found in Martin Parr’s photographs. Charm that is found in the places that are left alone.

There are parts trying to be Brighton, a small art corner on the coastal path, just the one bar with tables on the beach. But Brighton sometimes seems too bohemian. It’s nice that Worthing has elderly people playing bowls, they should be embraced. There should be tea parties and bunting. Worthing should be the seaside town that time forgot. In part.

It’s a good place. But needs livening up a bit.

I won’t go into my journey back to the train station too much, suffice to say that I was reminded of the time I got stuck on a ring-road in Norwich.