Hastings Pudding

Today, I went to Hastings where I discovered that the Normans must have invaded England from New Jersey. Hastings today is a combination of Paramus and Seaside Heights. The train trip from London is quite pleasant, but it takes awhile because there’s a stop for every whistle. I was greeted by the squall of exuberant seagulls as soon as the train doors opened; they apparently were quite happy to see me. . .or the pastry in my hand. I just meandered about for about 30 minutes, put my toes in la Manche. . .that sounds so dirty, but then most things French do. Then up the cliff on the “West Hill Lift,” a cute little tram, the cutting edge of eighteenth-century technology which is going to be moth-balled next month I fear. The wind was blowing at about 30 mph–inland fortunately or I might have invented the sport of “body para-gliding.” Of course, I went in the dungeon, and wept over the monastery, and cursed the sea (rather than Henry VIII, this time) for swallowing about 60% of the thirteenth-century fortress.

And then I went three trains-stops back towards London to the place where the battle actually took place. . .at Battle–clever that. I walked the field the short way, the long way, sideways, climbed every remaining inch of the monastery (curse you Henry VIII!). William had to pay for the Benedictine priory (Pope’s orders) as penance for all the Saxon mothers’ sons he killed.
There's a slab marking where the high altar used to be which marked where William marked the spot where Harold got shot in the eye...or stabbed...or both.

During a melancholy moment as I perused Senlac hill, the field was invaded by hoardes of young public school girls. And I was privileged to witness the real reason why the Saxon shield-wall finally fell. . .the incredibly pudding-like mud. England fell when Harold slipped I bet...and there's a casino or two back in Hastings that would give me odds