It was my husband who insisted — strongly — on “anywhere but London”. Despite being a work-from-wherever writer, having tween children in a two-bedroom flat in Westbourne Park and knowing we couldn’t afford more space in any adjacent postcode, it was a move I’d have happily delayed forever.
Nonetheless, when we did swap that flat for a family-sized house in Hastings, in 2021, I was optimistic. I’d chosen the location carefully and reasoned that we were effectively moving somewhere akin to a new, as-yet unrecognised Greater London zone.
It came complete with a direct train into Charing Cross, an M&S foodhall, a cinema and an outstanding contemporary art gallery — but with the added benefits of the South Downs on one side, Romney Marsh on the other, and, of course, the sea.
I reckoned I’d straddle London and East Sussex life, working on the train in, having lunch with one friend and going to the theatre with another. Weekends, I figured, would be full of yet more friends coming to stay and we’d all engage in wholesome, beach-based pursuits. The dream — I thought.
Two years on, I’m not sure that’s how I’d describe it. What I had technically known but hadn’t previously experienced is that, even two or three days a week, commuting is time-consuming, costly, and takes a physical (utterly exhausting) toll — not helped by the ongoing strikes and the regularity of encountering a rail replacement bus service.
I’ve given away more theatre tickets than I can count and am endeavouring to mute my fomo regarding dinners — and indeed breakfasts, which require a very early, and more expensive, start.
Even more, though, I miss the everyday of London — the grandeur, the grit and the possibility offered by the wealth of choice in everything from film (the Hastings Odeon seems almost exclusively to screen horror) to food (my local M&S doesn’t stock gefilte fish balls — niche, I realise, but I love them).
I’ve given away more theatre tickets than I can count and am trying to mute my fomo regarding dinners
Most of all, I miss the streets, parks and community of west London, which came with a comforting sense of belonging, London being somewhere that everyone belongs. Now, I’m referred to as a “DFL” — Down From London — which doesn’t imply the same.
There have been wins — and I can’t fault Hastings. Sure, winters can feel bleak but summer is a different story.
The festivals hosted by Charleston — the home of painters Vanessa Bell and Duncan Grant — have been a revelation (Benedict Cumberbatch’s performance of The Waste Land was unforgettable).
Glyndebourne is glorious, though lacks the Royal Opera House’s cheap seats so it’s not a regular treat, and while the pangs of homesickness extend to the excitement of Notting Hill Carnival, this town has its own extraordinary high points, such as the Jack in the Green festival that welcomes in the spring, and the bonfire celebration in October.
Vitally, the children are thriving on a diet of excellent youth drama, music and year-round sea swimming (that last accompanied by a constant refrain of “keep your mouths shut!”, thanks to Southern Water’s sewage dumping).
Finally, we’ve achieved marital harmony. Which is why I won’t be Rightmove-researching a return, despite the feeling of rootlessness that stems from a limbo existence between two places, bereft of a sense of hold in either.
I know a move takes time and I’m still hopeful that I will fully settle in Hastings. I’m also aware that I’m writing from a position of privilege and that much of the fault lies with me and my assumptions; we all know you can’t fit a square peg into a round hole. What’s certain is that London life is a hard act to follow.
