Rottingdean - Part 1 of 3

The Town

Rottingdean is one of those grossly understated seaside villages like many others dotted around Britain’s coastline. It is especially understated when compared to the garish commercialism of Brighton only five miles away to the west. Or, based on my one visit on a miserable afternoon the bleak abandonment of the seafront at Newhaven. Rottingdean’s only concessions to tourism are one main hotel overlooking the English Channel and a few kiosk type shops and cafes near the beach. The rest of the village wouldn’t be out of place in the landlocked rural areas of any county in the country.

As with other new places I visit for the first time, one of the questions I ask myself is what the demonym of residents is. With Rottingdean one could easily choose “Rotters” but that would be as derogatory as calling people from Walsall “Wallies” which of course they are not.

There have been people living in the valley and in the village since 2500 BC. It was the first inhabitants all those years ago, Neolithic people, that stripped the surrounding hills of their woodlands to grow crops and graze their livestock. Sometime between 450 and 500 AD the Saxons took over the area under the leadership of a man called “Rota”. Without too much morphology it is not difficult to work out how by 1086 the area was referred to as “Rotingeden” in the Domesday Book. In 1315 it was known as “Rottyngden” and by 1673 “Rottindeane”. Both very close in spelling and sound to Rottingdean.

Based on the etymological history I think it would be fair to conclude that people from Rottingdean would have the demonym of “Rotas”.

Because of several visits between March and June 2023 I got to know this small seaside village, that is not really a seaside village, quite well. It felt comfortable even before familiarity set in like a favourite pair of shoes or cardigan. Even the parking warden got to know me by sight.

Morning coffee

There is a small café near where the High Street, The Green, Neville Road and Steyning Road meet at a cross-roads. I have made it a point of call for breakfasts and coffees during most of my visits to Rottingdean. The welcome has been the same every time I have gone in, friendly and chatty. The few times I have eaten there it has always been good quality and good value for money.

Today I was on my way to the library and just wanted a coffee which was going to be brought over to me.

I found a table and started to do the word wheel for the day in The Times. It is where I go first before reading the news items, the leading articles and abandoning all hope for humanity. A sort of warm up for the brain for weightier words to come. In a nearby alcove, a sort of man cave, there was a table that could seat ten. Eight of the places were taken by coffee drinkers, all of them men aged from somewhere in their late fifties upwards.

“Arsenal did well against Tottenham.”

“They did. I saw that on the news this morning.”

My ears tuned in quickly as my hearing became the audio equivalent of twenty twenty vision. Any efforts to achieve at least an average number of words of four letters or more and containing the letter “B” from the word wheel became futile.

One of the eight had apparently just returned from a trip to Corfe Castle in Dorset.

“I’ve got this National Trust membership…marvellous…parking was free and entrance to the castle was as well. Paid for itself with all the visits we do.”

He continued.

“Here, have a look. Here’s me and the missus at Corfe…bloody awful weather.”

The silent groans of non-verbal communication from the others around the table were palpable yet totally ignored. That mobile phone with the pictures of his weekend was going to get circulated regardless of the unspoken sentiments.

He handed his mobile phone to the man sitting next to him and from there it got passed around the table as fast as a primed hand grenade with a fifteen second fuse. At each pair of hands that held it there were placatory utterances.

“Very nice.”

“Weather looks rough.”

“Is that Durlston?”

“Two one.”

“Goodness she does look wet there.”

“Lucky there was injury time.”

“Did you get back last night?”

“This might be their season…you know? In the top three…it’s theirs’ to lose.”

“Yes.”

I wasn’t sure which question was being answered.

“I still think City will win the Premiership.”

“What was the A31 like and the dreaded A27? I always get held up near Chichester or Eastleigh. If it isn’t one it’s the other.”

“There’s only four games left. If Arsenal can win all of them they’ll do it.”

“We came back through Salisbury for a change then picked up the M27 at Eastleigh. Bit of a long way round. Made a change and traffic was good.”

The phone completed its lap of the table and conversation was about grandchildren, fishing, sorting out tax returns, getting the car serviced and goodness knows what had been added to the to do list on the fridge door by the time they all got back home?