oh we do like to be beside the seaside

 Dino acompanies us 'off the premises' as it were - leading us along the bike paths that take us into Brighton and out the other side.  He points out 'Millionaire's Row', five large houses that front onto the west end of Brighton beach and where the beach is closed to the public.  Outrageous.  These miserable celebrities might have a nice view out front but the backside of their houses is a small industrial estate.  As we roll into Brighton proper we pass 'No Cycling' signs on the

 promenade.  But it's spring time and the promenade is quiet.  Dino confesses that Suzi would be displeased to know he was taking us this way and she's not alone.  "Oh look, some more people who can't read" a woman shouts sarcastically at us as we pass by.  I point to her dog, which is not on a leash.  "You too!"  A little later an old man grumbles at us, muttering about criminals.  The cycle path rejoins us as we negotiate the marina and then out under the cliffs at the east end of town, where we finally say our farewells.

 
We head eastwards rolling merrily along in the sunshine. Outside a supermarket an old couple remark on our loaded bikes.  I tell them we're off to Alaska and the chatty old lady nods her head towards her taciturn husband saying "He used to ride his bike everywhere".  Before they get on their bus they wish us all the best.  These kind of spontaneous good wishes always leave us feeling extremely happy - something we wouldn't experience if we were just travelling to work and back every day.

are you sure this is the bike path?

Along this stretch of the coast are the white chalk cliffs known as the Seven Sisters where we almost get lost on a bike route that takes us across several fields.  Bizarrely we meet large groups of tourists tramping towards us - French school kids, a Chinese family, some Japanese women - all in search of the iconic view of the cliffs.  We have to negotiate a tricky stretch of A road before we can turn off again onto back roads that lead to Birling Gap, where the cliffs part at the beach.  There's a cafe and tourist information place here with toilets and the car park is busy.  We amble out to look along the beach where a few walkers are strolling along.  A motorcyclist in leathers indicates a couple who have just walked off ina hurry.  "They've just spotted a body on the beach.  They've gone to phone the Old Bill."  We are shocked by this.  We didn't realise people actually did refer to the police as 'the Old Bill'.  Out amongst the seaweed and rocks on the shoreline, exposed by the retreating tide is a dead woman with no clothes.  We watch in morbid fascination as a walker slowly gets nearer and nearer to the body.  He is clearly oblivious of the horror before him.  And then he stops, he looks, he steps away, he turns, and very slowly he retreats to the stairs back up to the carpark.  We are all in shock.  Staff from the cafe come to close off the stairs and within a couple of minutes two large policewomen drive up.  We move off and along the road towards Beachy Head, the highest cliff.  It's on this road that we pass a car that at first looks like a breakdown recovery vehicle, and it sort of is.  "24 hour Chaplain Service" it says.  "We are here to talk to if you need".  This might be the UK's suicide hotspot, and it leaves us feeling cold and hollow.

Sluice Lane

It's probably not a great time to pass through Eastbourne, which is a rather depressing sprawl of seaside town, the antithesis of Brighton.  Half an hour at the local Asda store and our depression is complete.  Everyone looks overweight, ill or badly dressed.  Sorry, let me rephrase that.  Everyone looks overweight, ill and badly-dressed.  We are such snobs.  Hurriedly we cycle out of town.  This part of the coast looks quite built up on the map but we are saved by the romantically-named Sluice Lane, which cuts down to the seafront through fields that have deep water channels all around them.

If we carry on we will arrive in the next town, so we stop to cook on the beach and then backtrack to a field with a gate and a stile.  Without much ado, we unload over the gate, pass the bikes over, and quickly hide ourselves behind the hedgerow.  Thank goodness for hedgerows.  Our night's peace is broken only when a car pulls up at the gate at around midnight.  A car door opens.  We expect to be rousted but nothing happens.  The driver gets back in and drives off.  It's only in the morning that we find some flattened cardboard boxes dumped in the turn-off.