CHAPTER V 



BRIGHTON TO NEWHAVEN 



On a fine day in February I took the air in what 

 I consider very beautiful country, when I pro- 

 ceeded to Brighton to inspect disappearing Black 

 Rock and the racecourse. The long part of the 

 track — by long I mean the portion more adjacent 

 to the old Cup start — answered the conundrum, 

 When is a Brighton Racecourse not a Brighton 

 Racecourse ? with When it's a Kemp Town golf 

 links. Poor crumbling Black Rock presented a 

 puzzle also, one very difficult to solve. That the 

 line of cliffs right along to the east of the borough 

 must be damaged more and more severely as 

 Brighton groynes its sea frontage, was always 

 self-evident. As a matter of fact, no one can 

 afford to be idle in such work while his neighbour 

 is busy making groynes. The tide is bound to 

 curl round and eat in next door to begin with, 

 and right along, too. Now, just at the most 

 insidiously attacked piece of the cliff, whose being 

 undermined by the sea was a mere matter of time 

 — and not much of that, either — the land's end or 

 face to the waters and wind and frost, rain and 

 snow, consists of a big pocket of naturally crumb- 

 ling, half decomposed, loamy chalk known as 



