But it was Sunday. I had nothing else planned and, more importantly, the television was playing up. So I headed to London‘s Victoria Station to catch the train to Brighton. It must be a popular destination as there are six trains an hour, except on Sunday, of course, when there are only three. I guess Sunday isn‘t a popular day to go to the beach. It must be a religious thing.

You can reach Brighton in about an hour from London, so in no time at all I was heading down the main street of the town on my quest to find the sea.

The beach itself was largely as I expected ­ stony and cold, with a few people diving resolutely into the waves as the early stages of hypothermia began to rob life from their unsuspecting bodies.

There were, however, all the trappings of an English resort beach ­ which is certainly an interesting sight. There were various rides and stalls and, to my surprise, a Punch and Judy show, which amazed me in this age of political correctness. The empty sea of chairs in front of the puppet theatre did suggest, though, that perhaps its day has come and gone.

I was particularly interested in the seafood stalls dotted along the beach. Staffed by large, crisply dressed men with straw boaters, they offered such delicacies as cockles, winkles, whelks and jellied eels. Morbid fascination drew me closer, but a visual inspection, coupled with the aroma, left me with a feeling that the dining experience would be akin to grazing off the bottom of the Dover to Calais ferry. I moved on.

Brighton‘s Palace Pier was completed in 1899 and is a perfect example of everything you‘ve expect in an English seaside pier. It has a fun fair on the end with fortune­tellers, sideshows, various restaurants and food stalls.

It even has those humorous murals of weightlifters and bathing beauties where you can stick your head through for a photograph for friends back home. Here I am looking like a complete Noddy at Brighton The Palace Pier provides a great idea of what a seaside visit must have been like in decades gone by. Even today it‘s clearly popular with many people. While it didn‘t particularly appeal to me as a source of fun, it was still fascinating to experience such a classic English holiday image.

By now I was ready to take on some of the cuisine on offer at the beach. Not that I necessarily expected haute cuisine, but I do think that part of the fun of a visit is to tackling the specialities of an area. Fish and chips in paper seemed like a genuine English seaside meal.

Declining a side order of mushy peas, I sat down and attempted to eat while a howling wind attempted to give me a fish facial, at the same time massaging chips into my upper extremities. I‘ve only had fish and chips in England once before, and the experience was pretty disappointing. Lots of oil and very little else.

Even so, my Brighton fish feast managed to set a new high in culinary lows. The experience was somewhat like sticking your mouth over a North Sea oil well and inhaling. Except I think an oil well might have tasted even vaguely of fish.

I desperately needed something else to provide some degree of enjoyment, and of course dessert was going to be it. It‘s got to be said at this point that I will tackle virtually anything in the sweet line. Nothing is too loaded with calories, sugar, cream or chocolate that I won‘t give it a try.

My only consolation is that it‘s probably less damaging than a drug habit ­ I think.

Deep­fried Belgian waffles soaked in caramel and peanuts would quite likely kill someone with less junk food experience than me, and it was definitely a one­time experiment. (Children should not try this at home.) The resulting sugar rush gave me the momentary belief that I could swim to France, before I settled on a quiet sitdown before I was extremely ill.

By then I‘ve had enough of the beach, so I headed inland in search of more cultural interests, specifically, Brighton‘s famed Royal Pavilion.

The Royal Pavilion is a truly spectacular sight. It was built for George, Prince of Wales, when he began visiting Brighton in 1783. Fans of the British television comedy Blackadder will remember the prince from the third series, where he was fetchingly described as having all the intellect of a jugged walrus and all the social graces of a potty Indeed, you can begin to understand the sentiment on hearing the basic design philosophy behind the Royal Pavilion. The exterior is a sweeping edifice of classic Indian architecture designed by John Nash, but clearly paying tribute to such structures as the Taj Mahal. It is breathtaking to look at and would stand out in any city of the world.

George then cunningly threw a curve in the proceedings by decreeing that the interior of the pavilion be decorated in Chinese style. The place abounds in golds, reds and blues, along with dozens of Chinese statues and bamboo fittings. On paper it sounds dreadful, but somehow George, or more probably his architects, pulled it off. The Royal Pavilion manages to be opulent and indulgent, and yet I could still imagine staying there and enjoying it ­ the perfect weekend retreat ­ which is exactly what George had in mind.

All the rooms are impressive in different ways, from the Banqueting Hall to the Music Room and the apartments where Queen Victoria stayed as a young girl.

My personal favourite was the Great Kitchen, built to cater to the lavish feasts thrown by the Prince Regent. A typical menu is displayed in the kitchens and includes more than one hundred courses, including twenty starters, 36 entrees, 26 mains and eighteen desserts. By this I do not mean that you chose from this selection ­ I mean you ate them all. Dining was almost a test of manhood in the Regency period, and a gentleman‘s capacity for food and drink was an indication of his standing in society. Only poor people ate modest meals. Then again, poor people didn‘t end up crippled by gout and being wheeled around in sedan chairs, so I guess things evened out a little. On top of that, the prince‘s menu included such delicacies as cock‘s combs in aspic which frankly makes the food on the Palace Pier look pretty good.

I left the Royal Pavilion with an hour or so to spare before heading back to London. In that time I discovered the quaint Brighton streets, imaginatively called The Lanes. They are a small neighbourhood of tightly woven, cobbled streets crammed with all manner of antique shops, boutiques, cafes and bistros. The streets are so narrow that in many places you can literally reach out and touch both sides at once.

If you want a great visual experience and a sense of how Brighton must have been a couple of centuries ago, The Lanes are the place to go.

I wasn‘t too sure about Brighton to begin with, but I think I found the better things last. Personally, I‘ve give the whole seaside thing a miss and instead head straight for the heart of the town where, for me at least, Brighton has considerable charm and a lot to offer.