» Chez Kay
Andrew Kay, Lancashire lad, on why he finds Sussex so exciting
It is 33 years since I first moved south. I grew up in the heart of industrial Lancashire. It was a small, industrial town that specialised in making glass and it was indeed world-famous for just that. That and being the home of Sir Thomas Beecham, conductor and wit.
I never disliked St Helens, how could I? All I had to compare it with was Wigan and Widnes and any number of equally drab, northern, working towns which, at the start of the 1960s were looking pretty grimy and unloved. I know now that they have all been re-invented with canal side developments and warehouse conversions – all very chic. Back then it was all back-to-backs and outside lavvies, black puddings and barm cakes. Bread came by horse and cart, as did coal, milk, fizzy pop and the rag and bone man.
"All I had to compare my town with was Wigan and Widnes – drab, northern, working towns."
Eee, it were grim up North. It had to be – it said so in books and on the telly, how could it be anything else? Which is why when I made my first trip to the real south, to the smoke, I was so, so disappointed. I was 17 years old and had an interview at the very prestigious Chelsea School of Art. Note that it was ‘school’ and not ‘college’ or ‘university’ or, dare I say it, ‘polytechnic’. No, we were all very proud of the fact that Chelsea was a school.
I took a coach with two school chums and we set off south, almost, but not quite, carrying sticks with spotted handkerchiefs tied on the ends. The M6 and M1 are dreary roads, but back then they were fast, and pretty soon we arrived on the outskirts of London. What followed was to haunt me for years.
From the edge of greater London to its heart is one vast and incomprehensibly ugly urban and suburban sprawl – utterly vile and deeply depressing. I had grown up in the belief that where I lived was all dark satanic mills and Coronation Street-like cobbled terraces. I had been deceived. This was far, far worse.
Yes, where I lived, the town centre was soot-black and industrial, but two miles out, our modest council house sat beside a pretty lake, between two working farms. Along the road were the sandstone walls that snaked around the boundaries of Lord Derby’s estates, and not so far away we had The Dales, the Trough of Bowland, The Lake District, Snowdonia and miles of sand that ran almost from Liverpool’s Pierhead to Blackpool and beyond. For respite from all this we would be dragged off to the ‘Lakes’ for camping holidays and later to South Wales. How deprived were we.
London was not the land of milk and honey I had been promised. Okay, I concede, it does have some lovely parks, some pretty green bits, and I did grow to love the excitement and the danger. Although I also hated the fact that my clothes were permanently filthy and blowing your nose was a very unpleasant experience.
I was 31 when I escaped and I came here to Sussex, landing as so many exiles do in Brighton. It didn’t take long for me to discover that Brighton, like St Helens, was a tiny place on the edge of some of this country’s most beautiful landscapes. Before long I was as familiar with the winding lanes of Sussex as I had been with those of my childhood. I learned that Lewes was great for beer and Morris dancing, the latter of which I resolved to ignore. Worthing was great for buting fish, Firle had the best farm shop even back then, and Chichester, a lovely cathedral. I discovered Bloomsbury Sussex, farm and church, long rope skipping and near-pagan bonfire rituals that had me cowering in shop doorways. I did grow to love the excitement and the danger, but now it was from bee stings, real ale-induced headaches and the chance of drunkenly saying, "Of course I would love to join your Morris team".
