Do you really want to grow old in Hackney? This question from The Exocet (Youngest of All) came through the phone from sunny Melbourne and over following days echoed within my head. Then the Tornado (First Born) returned from a work trip to Thailand with a gift of beautiful seashell earrings. As I looked at them, the echo fluttered again … but I dashed it away.

Shortly thereafter I dreamed I was with my Mother in our childhood home in Hove. We visited each room, remembering lovely and funny things that happened within those walls. We laughed, exchanging anecdotes until outside the laundry room I told her You know the people who bought the house changed everything. They knocked down this wall, moved the kitchen there …. She stopped me in my tracks. Ma, Giovanna! We must write and tell them not to do that.

From her old bureau we slid her blue Swiss writing paper out of its drawer and she began the letter. They won’t read your writing! I said. She passed me the paper and pen and I began to write. Che diamine! They won’t read yours! Where is my typewriter? asked Mother. I thought hard and with puzzled expression explained: Its at my house in London …

The collision of past and present perplexed us and then, suddently my sister appeared through the wall … What are you two doing? She laughed … You’re not supposed to be here! I woke feeling happier than for a very long time.

Fast forward a week or few when HH and I visited friends and family on the coast and walking through oh-so-familiar streets the penny dropped: this is where I belong. Having been in The Smoke for some 40 years, somehow it no longer made me happy. I turned to HH: Would you mind if we moved to Brighton?

Thrilled by his unexpected, affirmative reply we took advantage of our rental status and not six weeks later, just before Christmas the most esteemed Rumsey & Son moved us from the old Hackney Wick bungalow to our converted Georgian stable by the sea; bigger, brighter and dear reader, considerably cheaper than we are used to. D, a journalist friend of old who lives nearby came along to our third viewing: Party kitchen! he said. Take it.

The night before meeting our lovely removals team at the new house, we returned to Sea Spray where we stayed when visiting prospective properties. Ready for our arrival – and exhaustion – the Manager announced an upgrade to The Suite, replete with outside hot tub. Oh bliss! The fierce, hot jets melted the ache from our limbs and a deep, deep sleep ensued.  The following morning, we upped early to watch the sun rise over the calm English Channel, which ebbed and flowed sleepily in the morning light. With happiness coursing through every vein I realised that at last, I was Home.

The interim six weeks were intense but with workplaces closed we settled in without taking time out. On Christmas Morning many more parcels and boxes were unwrapped than anyone else will have enjoyed; at 3pm an amnesty gave way to a modest fridge-emptying lunch. Internet-free, we curled up to a DVD fest and opened some wonderful wine. We could not have been happier.

Life by the sea is different; we are but one block away from the front and on a gusty day, in place of a low growl from the A12, while I work, the sound of waves crashing onto the shore reaches me. Seagulls wake us, their cries a sonorous contrast to the magpies and parakeets of Hackney.

The air here has a clean, salty quality I hadn’t realised I missed so very much. The Regency and Georgian architecture a daily reminder of our good fortune; people spark up conversation in the street. The swell of independent shops includes the grocer, wine-cellar, family-run bakery, butcher, cheese shop, hardware store and dry-cleaner all within a few minutes’ walk. If the hour is late, a trusty bijou (but surprisingly cavernous) Co-Op occupies a handy corner site.

Temptation presented by the well-stocked Flea-Market and Trading Post has been replaced by a desire to sell things that have no place here. My Pilates studio is across the road and many exemplary owner-run restaurants and coffee shops the cherries on our Kemp Town Cake. Indeed, together with a customer, the Barista at Portland coffee nearby helped transport the eight beverages I bought for our removals team. Where else does that happen?

On our first day entering the courtyard within which sits our front door, a rather handsome gent followed us in and on learning that we were The New Neighbours, shook our hands. His cherubic missus later popped a Welcome To The Mews card through the door and when we saw them pass by that afternoon, invited them in to toast our new home. Within two evenings we were at theirs, meeting and clinking glasses with them and other near-locals. A couple of nights later we reciprocated, adding to this crew a couple of our own very local friends; a small gathering of neighbours who didn’t mind the semi-chaos of a spontaneous new-home invitation.

Yes indeed, we have landed on our feet. As I tap this blog, HH is at a carpentry event, meeting like-minded woody folk. Finding himself in the area, cousin T called by last week and soon we’ll swing by to see cousin V.  I have shared a pot of Earl Grey with school friend S who lives close-by and after moving in, a ceremonious pizza was enjoyed with Bad A who lives just ten minutes away. This weekend The Tornado, her partner S and my grandson come to celebrate her birthday.

Memories of teenage romance abound, landmarks of family life lie in wait here and there and the pier with its Arcade temptations glitters enticingly less than half a mile away.

Near daily strolls along the prom are simply glorious; last Sunday the place was deserted due to high winds and it was upon this gale that my words were swept into the heavens, for in a moment of sheer joy I threw back my head and at the top of my voice let the world know … I’M SO HAPPY!

People are calling now to find out when they can come to stay; if that’s you, just hang on a while. We may take some time to prepare the spare room …

© Giovanna Forte 2025.