Bexhill

One year, the hotel didn’t open. Instead, my cousin persuaded us to come to something called Family Week — a nascent kiruv venture of the United Synagogue (the main synagogue body in England that runs most of the shuls). We were active members of our local Orthodox community — though in hindsight, we were blissfully ignorant of the depth and breadth of our precious heritage.

With nothing better to do, we booked. The address: Charters Towers in Bexhill on Sea on the South Coast. When we arrived, we discovered that it was not a luxury hotel, but an antiquated boarding school for girls, boasting a sterling academic record, wonderful grounds, and spartan accommodation.  All we knew when we booked was that we were going to be wined and dined and our children would have fun. Little did we know that the only alcoholic drink we would see was wine for Kiddush on Shabbos.

The drive was long, with dark, threatening clouds looming in the sky, and the occasional rainstorm. When we finally reached our destination, dusk was setting in and a cold wind blew a chill from the sea.

The parking lot was pandemonium. Children spilled out of cars, reveling in their freedom. Teenagers shepherded younger siblings, all with rucksacks on their backs. Mothers tried to pacify hungry babies. Fathers dragged overfull suitcases.