Saturday morning in Fuengirola and the joint is jumping. I’m perched outside my favourite cafe, watching the world go by. This is not a place for quiet contemplation. Far from it. It’s noisy. Off the scale noisy.

Spaniards are always in a hurry, never more so than when they are sitting in a traffic jam with one hand planted on the car horn. The cacophony from the gridlock is extraordinary and only matched by the volume and intensity of the shouting which goes on around me.

Along with being impossibly impatient, Spanish people – who I like very much by the way – seemingly rarely simply talk to each other, much preferring to shout. Loudly.

The woman sitting opposite catches my eye. She is sipping on a large glass of white wine. It’s 10am, and I’m on my third coffee of the day. The woman looks at me, deeply weather beaten from many years toasting gently on Mediterranean sand. She solemnly raises her glass in my direction.

“Salut”, she says. 

I raise my coffee cup and smile back. “Salut”, I say, returning the compliment.

“This”, she says, “is my third glass of wine today”. She takes another long sip. The hint of a flirtatious smile.

“Okay”, I say. “Respect… This is my third coffee. And hey, it’s only 10 in the morning.”

She beams benignly and leans in closer. “It won’t be my last”, she cackles.

She asked me where I’m from. I tell her Brighton, on the south coast of England.

“Ahhh”, she says in near perfect English. “Brighton. I was there many years ago, when I was a young woman, maybe 18 or 19.”

For a fleeting moment I read a lifetime of disappointments reflected in her pale blue eyes. Given as I put her in her 70s now, we are going back a good while. Long before Brighton became a go to destination for bearded hipsters descending from the mean streets of Shoreditch.

She is German she says. From Düsseldorf. She shrugs. To grow up in Germany in the immediate aftermath of the Second World War was very difficult, she says, quietly.

“My father was a soldier in the Third Reich. He saw many things, and occasionally he’d allude to them. You could tell he was haunted.”

A silence.

“There are far too many Germans in Spain now”, she asserts.

“And to think I came here all those years ago to get away from my fellow countrymen.”

“The best laid plans”, she adds, raising an eyebrow.

“How long have you been in Spain”, I ask?

Another sip of wine. 

“I think maybe now 40 years”, she says. “I have seen many changes”.

“I’m sure”, I venture. “The world is very different now”.

“Fuengirola was like a fishing village when I first arrived here”, she says, glancing up to catch the waiter’s eye for a refill. “And now it is full of tourists, it’s changed beyond recognition. I don’t really like it anymore – but I don’t think I have much choice now. I’m coming towards the end of my time. We’re all just passing through, aren’t we?”

I nod. “Yep”, I think. “We are”.

She raises the glass again.

I’m wondering if I should break my no alcohol-during-the-day rule simply to join her in a toast. But I think better of it, and order another coffee.

As we’re talking I notice another woman sitting just behind her. She has parked up her mobility scooter and is lighting a fag. She orders a large glass of rosé wine. What is it about the wine on a Saturday morning?

I just catch her voice above the general babble and clock she’s English, although with the very deep tan and southern Mediterranean look she could have passed for a local. She smiles at the waiter, and I see she has one solitary upper tooth centred in the middle of her extravagantly lined mouth. Like a craggy rock sitting abandoned on a Cornish peninsula, the tooth is a deep brown hue. I can’t think it’s going to be sticking around much longer.

She engages the waiter in animated conversation, and I’m impressed with her fluent Spanish. I guess she’s been here a long time as well. Despite the mobility scooter, and the early morning cigarettes, and a large glass of wine, she radiates an energy which belies her advancing years.

“How are you today Carlos?”, she yells across the busy tables. “When are you going to be taking me out to dinner?”

Carlos the waiter gives a loud laugh. “Are you free tonight, my darling?”

“I’m always free”, she says. “Especially if you bring me another glass of rosé!”

“Okay it’s coming now”, assures Carlos and scampers back into the gloom of the tapas bar.

You have to admire the energy of these old girls. Starting the day as they mean to go on.

After three weeks on the Costa Del Sol, I’m restless and I’m ready to get back to Brighton. Spain is a magnificent country but I can’t help thinking that down here in the roasting heat, where the long days are punctuated only by the sighs of the inevitable afternoon siestas, there’s not a huge amount going on.

I’ve decided that I much prefer the north of the country, where the climate although gorgeously temperate, is not so punishing, so utterly enervating.

I like the green of northern Spain, and I love the extraordinary range of cuisine in that part of the country. And the Costa Brava is seriously under rated in my view.

The Costa Del Sol it seems to me, is all about the beach loungers, the extraordinarily oppressive heat. The heat makes it difficult to function, and even though I attempted a few 30 degrees-plus games of tennis, I know that this is not the place for me to hang out for too long.

As the late American writer James Salter once said, you can earn a buck writing about dead and alive places, but don’t expect them to nourish your soul.

David Andrews

I don’t know what your views on the bin strike were, and here is no place for a political argument, but even if you’re sympathetic to the striking binmen there comes a point when you’re tired at looking at piles of rubbish, and so it becomes necessary to go down to the seafront and look south. The sea, thank goodness, is free from visible bin liners bobbing up and down in the waves (although it is perhaps only a matter of time).

There are few things as refreshing as a walk along the beach on a bracing autumn Sunday, the wind blowing hard from the south-west and the sun blinding off the sea. It was at some point as I was passing the British Airways 360 pole that I realised I had a craving for oysters and a glass of white wine, eaten al fresco while looking out to see. (I happen to believe that wine is red, not white, but there is a time and a place for everything.) I had recently been paid for a little bit of work and thought: damn it, I’m going to splurge it all on a treat for myself. And oysters it had to be, because they’re one of those foods that are best eaten outdoors in challenging conditions.

I walked along, pausing by the menu boards of the restaurants along the promenade. The first one I came to said, at the top, “Oysters 4.5”. What did “4.5” mean? I went inside and asked a waiter. My worst fears were confirmed: it meant £4.50 – per oyster. So this was one of those restaurants that consider it vulgar or unstylish to use a pound sign or zeroes. Perhaps there are some lunatics who think “4.5” means four and a half pee, but it doesn’t, and I carried on searching.

As I feared, this was by no means an untypical price along the promenade. I trudged back westwards with a heavy heart.

And then I remembered the Regency. Even though I have been living here for years, I haven’t eaten there yet. I looked at the menu. Oysters were £11 – but you got six of them for that. A plate of whitebait, which I haven’t eaten in years, was just under a fiver, a glass of white just over. Bingo.

Readers: it was marvellous. This is not a restaurant review, so I won’t go into detail, but when ythe waiter came up to clear my plates and asked me how it was, I replied: “that was even better than I thought it was going to be, and I already thought it was going to be pretty good.”

He beamed at me. “That is the right attitude,” he said. For some reason, his Italian accent (the owners are Italian) added to the charm of his remark. I ended up rounding off the meal with a coffee and a small brandy so the experience wasn’t quite as cheap as I’d planned, but it was very bracing outside.

Well, well, what a delicious month October was. Your Gull is usually pecking at the bins of the best restaurants in town, but with rich pickings all over the streets during the bin strike, why take to the air when there’s enough pizza and burgers to feed the chicks for weeks? But as we go to press, the bins are empty again, and this bird is back on the wing. 

First stop: Porthall to check out why the Chimney House, once so beloved of Brighton foodies, has lost its way. Shouting loud and proud about their local sourcing, you’d think that the pub would be packed with food fans with fire roaring and ale flowing. “It’s very hit and miss,” said one local heading home after another disappointing Sunday lunch. And after almost breaking her beak on a bit of crackling, your Gull suggests a little more love in the kitchen to lure back the locals. 

Or maybe it’s that they’ve all gone to try the new vegan fish and chips at No Catch on the seafront which has even fooled Great Uncle Gull, a legend among fish connoisseurs in Birdworld. A chorus of cackles was heard among the younger climate activist gulls as he pronounced the ‘fish’ as the best haddock he’s ever scavenged.

The Gull’s London family have been raving about the Caribbean flavours at Rum Kitchen in Shoreditch, Soho and Brixton where the jerk chicken is marinated for 48 hours and the curried slow mutton simmers for six. So when it landed in Black Lion Street, your Brighton bird was straight round the back to sample its leftovers as the weekend DJ was cranking up the carnival vibe. Saltfish fritter anyone? Don’t mind if I do. 

Catching a thermal to Church Street, a waft of local produce stopped the Gull in her tracks. Chef, Phil Bartley is an old mate; his restaurants Hove Place, Taste Sussex, Cases and Curds and Whey have been feeding the chicks for years. So it was a delight to see him open his latest, at Ten in the North Laine. A small plates menu is always a good look for a gull; people think they can eat like a bird, but we scavengers know that they’ll over order and there’ll be tapas for tea. And it’s quality stuff! The meats and cheeses are all from Phil’s artisanal showcase, The Great British Charcuterie, and with a lovely outside space, your friendly bird doesn’t even have to head to the bins for a beak of cheese.

Over at Circus Parade, just off New England Rd, Asian inspired newcomer, Kusaki has much to make a bird happy with its futuristic interior Japanese garden. As your gull took a much-needed perch, Brighton’s foodies devoured the menu. Plant-based and pretty as a picture, there was barely an aubergine left for the Gull to peck at. She did finally find a charred local tender stem broccoli coated in Szechuan teriyaki sauce, toasted almonds and sweet red chilli and headed straight back to Whistler HQ to report. Watch out for a full review on the Whistler website. 

Now your Gull is partial to a little chocolate at the end of a hard day’s flight, and she was delighted to find not just any old chocolatier opening on Market Street, but Knoops, the café which helps you design your unique chocolate experience. Sadly, the knoopologists whose job it is to help you sniff out your perfect blend, had clocked off for the night by the time this Gull got to the kitchen door, but a quick rummage through the discards had your bird singing a whole new tune.

Back in Seven Dials as the sun set, local favourite, The Red Snapper was glowing. It’s packed to the gills again most night after changing its feathers during Lockdown to a take away and indoor market, and there’s no happier gull than this one, helping to clear up after a night on the tiles with a banquet of seabass skin and prawn tails. And as her fellow gulls glowed white against the starry sky, your Gull took flight and headed home pondering on what a tasty town Brighton has become.

Once upon a time in West Hill, there were more pubs serving a fine Sunday lunch and midweek dinners than you could throw a pud at. The Sussex Yeoman held the crown while The Eddy, under its previous landlord, played with its chefs like a game of dice.

Now both have dispensed with food completely; under Hatt and Mark at The Eddy, life’s way too much fun to eat, while The Yeoman is still reeling from the social distancing rules in its tiny kitchen.

But what’s this? The West Hill Tavern – or the Westie as it’s better known – has steamed into the foodie void left by its neighbours and is serving up a rather tasty menu. Sunday lunch is a mountain of a meal which really could last all week if you ask for a doggy bag, as we did.

The kitchen is run by Phil Bartley from Great British Charcuterie and is in charge of sourcing the dry-aged Angus beef, the South Downs lamb from Lancing College’s home farm and rare breed pork belly from Dingley Dell. And that means it all feeds back into the circular economy and supports the local farmers saving the planet by sequestering carbon into the once pesticide-soaked soil with their beasts’ handy hooves. The squash, mushroom, spinach and cheddar, almost all born and bred within the sound of Brighton waves, are shaped into a classic Sunday Wellington and come with a vegetarian gravy that would confound the pickiest of palates.  And don’t get me started on the hot cookie dough with ice cream, Chocolate & Beetroot Brownie & Salted Caramel Ice Cream, local cheeses or selection of Gelato Gusto ice creams.

But it’s the 10” sourdough pizza, made fresh by Great British Charcuterie Co. Brighton’s own suppliers of some of the best local meats and cheeses it can find, that has become the Westie’s backbone since Lockdown. Try the Wagyu pastrami from Bowhill Farm in Chichester with Mayfield Swiss, Pickles and Dressing or the pepperoni from Moons Green Farm in Tenterden.  And if you weren’t in on Sunday, you might even have space for the Nut-Hella-Good pizza to follow, with Nutella, marshmallows and white chocolate gelato.

Easy Life bring their debut album tour, life’s a beach, to Brighton Dome on Monday (15^th November). The Leicester five-piece offer a musical crossover spanning from alternative R&B, through to indie pop, while making the occasional stop at hip hop along the way.

Life’s A Beach, which was released in May, demonstrates this versatility brilliantly. Daydreams is an indie pop track that proved to be a Radio 1 crowd pleaser when it was released in October due to its memorable chorus line and relaxed groove. Lifeboat, on the other hand, is the alternative R&B stand out track from the album, but maybe the song that will be the most exciting to catch live is Skeletons as the track’s infectious beat will be bound to get the crowd moving.

When Easy Life were voted NME’s ‘Best New British Act’ for 2020, they were marked as a rising band not to be missed. Since then, they’ve continued to amass a large and loyal following who’ve supporting the band at every turn. The success of their debut album, which charted at number two in the UK, combined with their growing fan base, enabling Easy Life’s easy journey from Best New Act to centre stage at The Dome.

www.brightondome.org

By Bethany-Jo O’Neill