Ruth's Coastal Walk (UK)

61. Prinsted, Thorney Island, Emsworth and Langstone

Posted on August 20, 2011 by Ruth Livingstone

I start off from the waterfront at Prinsted, walking towards the Ministry of Defence owned peninsula of land, known as Thorney Island.

Access to the ‘Island’ is restricted but walkers are permitted. There is no vehicular access allowed and you can’t take a shortcut across country, so either you complete the whole peninsula walk (seven miles) or you have to turn back. There is an excellent description of the walk [pdf file] published by the MoD.

But before I reach the military area, I come across a marina and am forced off the coast while I detour around the boat yard. I find it amusing that the MoD allows access around its land but the marina does not.

Beyond the marina the walk continues and this stretch of path is well maintained. To my left is the wide, open expanse of Chichester Harbour with mud and water beyond. The sky is covered in clouds and the light is too dull for good photography. I am missing my DSLR Olympus camera, broken a few days ago when I dropped it on the hard floor at a pub. Today I am using my old Sony Cyber-shot.

After a long, straight stretch of path, I come to the military check point. Among the warning signs there is no indication that there is a right of way through here. It is a good job I did some research before this section of the work and I know that walkers are allowed through the gate.

There are no guards at the gate, just an intercom device with a button to press. I was warned I would need to give my name, address and mobile phone number. In preparation, I have even learnt my mobile number off by heart. So, I am slightly disappointed when, despite the fact I can hear people chatting over the intercom in a distant guard post, nobody asks me any questions or talks to me. There is a buzzing sound and the gate’s lock clanks open. I pass through.

The path follows the shoreline and deviations are not permitted. I pass some bird watchers and meet a couple of walkers and some joggers. Later, as I progress towards the point of Thorney Island, I meet fewer people.

I walk past an old airfield runway and along a path lined with wonderful blackberry bushes, covered in juicy berries, where I spend some time enjoying a snack of fresh fruit.

The sky darkens and it begins to rain. I don my waterproof jacket and stow my camera and iPhone in plastic bags. Just as I finish weather-proofing my equipment, the rain stops.

Longmere Point is deserted. I don’t know how many people make the complete walk around Thorney Island, but on this dull Saturday I don’t meet any walkers as far along the path as this. There is an area of sandy dunes at the point and great views across Chichester Harbour to the open sea beyond the harbour mouth.

I stop in a bird-hide and have a drink and a snack. Through binoculars I can see the area around West Wittering where I walked before, including the large house with the tall fences that so irritated me at the time. (I have to confess to a perverse sense of pleasure that the owner’s attempts to shield his house from sight are so easily circumvented with a decent pair of binoculars.)

The path winds through shrubs and bushes and I lose sight of the coast for a short period. Inland I see a group of people in a field, staring into the sky. For a moment I think they are clay pigeon shooting. Then I realise they are flying model aircraft.

Coming back to the shoreline, I find an area where there are two wooden seats with flowers and other memorial items. But, instead of bearing the names of elderly people, these benches are in memory of two young soldiers – Steven Jones killed in an air crash in Baghdad and Sean Reeve, killed in Afghanistan.

With daughters the same ages as these young men, I find this almost unbearably sad.

Later, I do some research about the young men and discover that Sean Reeve may not have lost his life if he had been travelling in a more robust landrover. Steven Jones may not have died if he had not been in a vulnerable Hercules aircraft. The Hercules had not been fitted with special safety foam and the coroner ruled he and his companions had been unlawfully killed due to serious failings by the RAF. What a waste.

In sombre mood, I continue walking on a raised bank along the west side of Thorney Island. I meet nobody. There is mud and sea to my left and ditches to my right. I startle a large bird (a marsh harrier, I think).

After a period of time, I pass fresh water ponds on my right. This is The Great Deep. And I negotiate another set of security gates – again without having to talk to anybody, just buzzing the intercom and I am let through – to leave the MoD land behind.

A long straight path stretches ahead. For the first time since before the blackberry bushes I come across other walkers; a couple are hovering just on the other side of the MoD security gate. A man is walking with tripod and huge lenses, on the hunt for birds.

It is nearly 2pm and I am hungry and tired. Ahead I can see the buildings and sailing vessels of Emsworth Marina. There I meet my husband and we have lunch in the Deck Cafe overlooking the small harbour. The food and service are excellent.

From the marina, I walk into Emsworth and make my way around the Slipper Mill Pond. This is a lovely walk and I had no idea how beautiful Emsworth was, having never heard of the place before. It is well worth a visit.

In the middle of Slipper Mill Pond is a small island. It is covered in the black shapes of cormorants. Among the black figures is a lone, white egret.

I wish I had my old camera with its zoom lens. Although the sun has finally appeared, the snaps taken by my Cyber-shot are of poor quality. I resolve to buy a new camera – soon!

My walk around the mill-pond has taken me inland. I walk through a housing estate to reach the shore again, but find my way is barred. The tide is in. The footpath is covered.

I curse inwardly and traipse along the town’s streets until I find my way back to the shoreline.

Now I am in a very scenic setting. The sun is shining. People are out enjoying the afternoon. The tide is in and ships are bobbing in the water. My bad temper quickly disappears.

A wide promenade leads from the shore. This is the Town Mill Pond Promenade (yes, Emsworth has two mill ponds) and it loops out into the water to form a large semicircle, joining the shore again further along.

I really enjoy this part of the walk. The promenade is lovely and the walk along the waterside (called both ‘The Wayfarer’s Walk’ and ‘Smugglers’ Way’, depending which map you look at) is wonderful. With the tide in, the walkway itself is very narrow.

I pass a jetty where small ships are being launched. There are children in the ships and adults shouting instructions from the shore side.

Further out to sea, races are taking place. Sailing boats are passing to and fro. I am not a sailor and, although I know there must be organisation behind it all, the scene looks chaotic to me.

Further on, I pass a small beach where families are enjoying the weekend and youngsters are messing about in boats. Another perfect English day.

The footpath leaves the shore (for no good reason that I can tell) and passes through fields. If the tide was low, you could continue round on the beach. But today it is covered in water. So I walk through a field of cows and then along the sea wall to a wooded area.

I realise this is one, enormous graveyard. There is a mixture of old graves and new graves. I sit on a seat in the graveyard to adjust a blister plaster and to unzip my lower trousers and convert them into shorts. As I do this, I realise I am sitting in section of the cemetery devoted to children; full of little graves with toys among the flower tributes.

Leaving the cemetery behind, I walk towards Hayling island. This area is called Langstone Harbour. Ahead I see the tower of an old mill, while just across the water I see a large hotel building among trees. I have been told to watch out for this building as it was the venue of some friends’ wedding reception, many years ago.

Dutifully I take photographs, knowing that the quality will be poor.

Hayling Island is a real island and, therefore, I am excused from walking round it. I was tempted because I am told the Island is scenic, but I looked at the OS map and saw there is no footpath access to most of the shoreline (why, I don’t know). Since I don’t fancy spending a day walking on roads, I am sticking to the mainland.

From here, I can see the road bridge across the island. It is busy with traffic.

I walk past a pub and around the Langstone Mill. This is a listed building and has been converted to residential use. Apparently Nevil Shute stayed here for a few months, escaping the wartime bombing blitz on Portsmouth.

Later, I learn this area has a great literary heritage, having been home to Keats, P.G. Wodehouse, Kipling and Nevil Shute, among others.

I found this amazing photo of Langstone Mill, circa 1895, surrounded by ice floes.

I cross over the busy A3023 leading to Hayling Island. It takes me some time to find the footpath on the other side. I walk down a cycle lane and find myself back at the bridge. Frustrated, I retrace my footsteps and find a footpath sign that directs me through a newish housing estate. After a couple of wrong turns, I find the footpath leading westwards.

Initially, I pass a number of people out for a late-afternoon stroll. As I walk further, the people disappear. Looking back, I can see the bridge to Hayling Island, as viewed from this side.

Tired now, I find this section of the walk rather boring and hard going, as many sections consist of loose gravel. I am walking into the sun. Ahead, silhouetted against the bright sky, is Portsmouth. I can make out the Spinnaker Tower.

I pass through an empty car park and the path winds along the shore, below a high bank. A familiar, and unpleasant, smell fills the air. Yes, there is a sewage works here – hidden behind the bank.

By the sewage works is a creek. I follow the footpath up the creek, heading through an industrial area. Across the creek is an industrial complex belonging to Tarmac. In front of the industrial structures, incongruously, is a large group of beautiful swans.

The path runs alongside an electricity substation. I meet a couple picking blackberries. With the stench of the sewage works nearby, I am not sure I would want to pick blackberries here and I remember the wonderfully tasty berries I picked on Thorney Island.

The footpath ends in a road – a small industrial area. I wait for my husband to arrive in his car.

Miles walked = 13 miles
High points = discovering Emsworth
Low points = sad thoughts on wasted lives, Thorney Island
Resolutions: to buy a new DSLR camera a.s.a.p.

Later, when I look at the OS map to plan the next day’s walk, I realise I have crossed the county boundary and have left West Sussex behind. I am now in Hampshire. This crossing was unmarked and, therefore, unnoticed – and happened just as I left Emsworth Marina after lunch. Another milestone passed!

Route:

Posted in 06 Sussex, 07 Hampshire | Tagged coast, hiking, photography, travel, walking | 3 Comments

60. Bosham to Prinsted, Southbourne

Posted on July 25, 2011 by Ruth Livingstone

It is the first Monday of the school summer holidays and I have taken the day off work. Today I am walking round a peninsula that protrudes down into Chichester Harbour, between Bosham and Thorney Island. On the map, this finger of land looks sparsely populated with one village called Chidham on its knuckle and a few houses clustered near the its tip.

My camera is broken, following the drop onto the hard floor of the pub yesterday. I am reduced to taking photos with my iPhone. I am not in the best of moods.

I start off along a path that runs below the sea wall, on the landward side, walking through farmland.

Then, up on the sea wall itself, I walk along a narrow path. After a while, I am forced off the path by a housing estate on the outskirts of the village of Chidham. The houses are large. The gardens well-tended. Stern signs tell me to stick to the roadway through this area – walkers are only just tolerated and we must behave ourselves.

Finding a footpath to the sea wall again, I am relieved to be back on the coast. The tide is out and to my left I look across flat marsh and mud to Bosham, where I walked yesterday.

Further along and I am forced off the coast again. This time, by a private marina. I wander around a track that leads behind the boat yard and around some buildings. Between gaps in fencing, I notice a group of youngsters gathered around an instructor. I believe this is Cobnor Activities Centre.

Momentarily I become lost. I ask some people where the footpath is, but they are visitors to the Centre and they don’t know. Then I see a man with a rucksack, walking purposefully, and I follow him.

At the far end of the Centre, I am allowed back on the sea wall again. This area is a nature reserve and some effort has been put into making pools of water just inland of the shore – The Cobnor Point Habitat Creation Scheme – particularly designed to encourage water voles. I watch out for these little creatures, but I don’t see any.

This part of the walk has been designed to allow wheelchair access. I meet a few other walkers, but non in a wheelchair. Across the mud and the water, I can see West Itchenor and the narrow channel of water across which I rode in the Ferry P yesterday.

After a while, as I round Cobnor Point, the path narrows again and I walk on the shore itself, just below the sea wall. It looks as if this path is just above the high tide mark but may become flooded at times.

Overhanging the sea wall are oak trees. They are very close to the shore and I walk on the shore beneath their overhanging branches. I wonder how they survive. Are their roots bathed in salt water when the tide comes in?

At this point I pass a couple of walkers, husband and wife I presume, walking towards me. They have walking sticks and look tired, picking their way over the stones along the shore path. I suspect they are walking round the whole of this peninsular, as I am, but in the opposite direction.

From here on, I see nobody else until I get closer to Prinsted.

Back up on the sea wall now and this part of the walk is very pretty. There are wild flowers along the path. To my right, inland, I see glimpses of the private grounds of a fine house. This gives way to waterways with fields beyond. The country side is empty of people and very tranquil.

I follow the sea wall. The sun is shining. There is very little breeze. It is growing hot and I am hungry for lunch. There is no vehicle access to this side of the peninsula and I have no choice but to continue walking until I reach the ‘mainland’ again.

I walk around Chidham Point. Nearly there now.

At the top of the peninsula, just south of Nutbourne, I begin to see walkers – people out with their dogs and children. A few families are sitting on the shore, on the edge of the mud, picnicking. The adults sit sunbathing on the stones of the sea wall, while the children grub around in the wet marshland.

In the distance I see a marina with sailing boats moored in the channel of water and I realise I am looking at Thorney Island. A spit of mud, looking like a causeway, leads out towards the water. For a moment I am tempted to walk along it. Surely I can cross over here? But a look at my map dissuades me. There is no way across the mud.

Eventually, I arrive at a car park. This is Prinsted, part of Southbourne. It is time for a late lunch.

My husband and I drive to Rowlands Castle, where we sit outside at a pub and eat a good meal in the sunshine. We savour a rare Monday morning off work together. Next to us, a table of teachers, with a whole six weeks of holiday ahead of them, sit and moan about how hard they work. Am I sympathetic? No!

Vital stats:
Distance walked = 7 miles,
Horizontal distance travelled = 2 miles.

Route:

Posted in 06 Sussex | Tagged coast, footpath, hiking, Sussex, walking | 4 Comments

59. East Wittering to Bosham

Posted on July 24, 2011 by Ruth Livingstone

The sun is shining on this Sunday morning. My walk begins where it ended yesterday, from Bracklesham car park. I was not looking forward to resuming my fight with the shingle. But I needn’t have worried.

The tide is low and I stumble down the loose shingle bank to where I can walk on wonderful, firm sand – smooth and still glistening wet from the receding waves. There are no other people out yet and my footprints are the first marks on the virgin surface. I don’t know why it is so wonderful to make the first footprints on a beach. But it is.

There are long breakwaters stretching down the beach. Sometimes I can walk around their lower ends. Sometimes I have to climb through them. I don’t mind. Sand. Glorious Sand.

As the morning progresses, people begin to appear. Looking eastwards, squinting into the morning sunlight, I see Selsey Bill and the distant look-out tower, where I walked yesterday. Cormorants are perching on the warning markers at the end of the groynes.

Walking along through East Wittering, dog walkers appear and I see a cyclist wobbling towards me along the beach. His progress is interrupted by a groyne and he turns back.

Further on I come across a family constructing a maze. A circular pattern has been marked out on the sand and people are scooping shingle up with buckets and then ‘pouring’ it along the lines of the maze.

Higher up the beach, a girl on a large horse passes me, trotting eastwards. Later, I see her again, cantering back, this time along the edge of the waves.

There is a mass of land out to sea – I can see white cliffs with high land beyond. I am pretty sure this is Bembridge on the Isle of Wight. Bright sailing boats pass to and fro in the water.

Ahead, I can see a cityscape, hazy in the distance. There is an unusual structure, towering above the other high-rise buildings. I recognise this – it is Portsmouth’s Spinnaker Tower. I would very much like to visit this amazing building. It has panoramic views and a glass floor to the viewing gallery – not for the faint hearted!

I have passed through East Wittering and am now walking across a wide, sunny stretch of beach. People are everywhere – sitting on the sand, erecting windbreaks, riding bikes, building sand castles, running down to the water, paddling and swimming. It is a beautiful day and I revel in the scene – this is the first weekend of the school holidays and an absolutely perfect English summer’s day.

Among all the holiday makers, I see a couple of serious walkers striding across the beach. One man has a huge rucksack and looks like the sort of person who would cover 20-30 miles a day. The other has some interesting floral shorts and very muscular legs (maybe he is a cyclist too), with a dog in tow.

With over a year of walking behind me, I feel almost like a professional walker these days. But I still travel very light – with my small green rucksack. Today I am wearing ordinary trainers, not walking boots. Compared to these guys, I am an amateur.

This beach seems to go on for ever. Having curved around, I no longer see Portsmouth ahead but, instead, see a creek with small sailing ships. That must be Hayling Island.

Then something odd happens. A group of white-clad children appear at the top of the beach and run down, shrieking, towards the sea. I think they are wearing pyjamas. How very odd. The children don’t stop at the water’s edge but run, splashing, into the sea. The shrieking is even louder now. Adults, also in white pyjamas, run after them, shouting at them to stop.

Eventually, the children are retrieved from the water. They all line up on the sand, facing two of the adults, bow to each other and kneel down. I realise it is a martial arts group. Maybe judo. Or karate.

Just when it appears that order is restored, the lineup is disrupted by an excitable dog, who bounces into the group and prances around among the children. A man, shouting ineffectually, runs into the line up and chases the dog. Everybody gets tangled up in this game of tag, until the dog is eventually caught and dragged, reluctant, away from the children.

At the end of the beach, a long finger of dunes pokes into the estuary. This shifting mass of sand is called East Head and belongs to the National Trust. In today’s sunlight, against the blue sea, it looks beautiful. There is a car park near by. People are arriving. Barbeques are being lit. Picnics are in progress. Everybody is having fun.

I decide not to walk to the end of the dunes. Time is pressing. Instead, I walk across to the landward side. Here there is an area of salt marsh and I pick up the footpath that leads along the shore line towards West Itchenor.

This part of the walk is lovely. I walk across flower filled meadows, through wooded areas and by the side of an area of wide mud. The only downside is the sheer number of walkers I meet. Some people are on cycles (despite the fact cycling is not really allowed).

I look over Chichester Harbour – a wide bay with many estuaries, mainly mud except at high tide, but with deeper channels where sailing ships pass to and fro. There are lots of small dinghies out today and races are going on.

I pass through a small village called Rookwood – a hamlet really, just a few houses. The path deviates from the shore because of private property. Then, back on the shoreline again, passes along the bottom of gardens belonging to very fine houses.

Suddenly, the path is forced between two high fences. The fences are cleverly constructed so that the gaps between the wooden slats are covered by a second layer of internal slats. The wood is new. I feel constrained and somewhat claustrophobic in this narrow space.

2/3rds of the way along, I come across a pair of gates – one on each side, so the owner of the property can pass through his high fences and cross the footpath. Through holes for the locks, I can see what lies on the other side of both fences. To the seaward side, is a hard dock area with some boat launching equipment.

On the landward side is a very nice house. It looks new. It’s huge. And the owners obviously feel that those of us who use this footpath should not be allowed to get any view of any part of their property.

Because these high fences make me feel very indignant, I couldn’t resist taking a photo of the very thing the owner was trying to hide. Here is a view of this lovely house, taken through the hole where bolt is fitted in the gate.

I know landowners don’t like the idea of footpaths through their gardens. But the other properties along here, equally grand, take a more relaxed approach. So, to whoever put these fences up and ruined this section of the footpath, shame on you.

The footpath goes leads into West Itchenor, where I meet my husband for a very nice lunch at the pub.

Then, I walk down to the quay and out onto a jetty, where the map shows a Ferry P (a passenger ferry) crosses over the water to the hard at Smugglers Lane, Bosham. Although I could walk around the estuary from here – it runs in a long finger up towards Chichester – I have decided to avoid this unnecessary detour. In any case, I love catching local ferries.

The ferry is a perfect little minature ferry-boat and can take bicycles as well as passengers.

The journey across the narrow channel should only take a few minutes but takes a little longer. Partly because we have to weave in and out of moored boats and moving sailing ships, and partly because we deviate to drop people off at their boats. First a man, who jumps out the back of the ferry and into his rubber dinghy, taking the rest of us by surprise because we weren’t expecting it. Then a father with his three children scramble off the ferry and onto their sailing boat. The children are young (aged between 5 and 10), wear life jackets, and seem remarkably at ease leaping from one craft to another.

As we approach the hard at Smugglers Lane, we see a group of people – walkers and cyclists – waiting for the ferry to arrive. There is a hard pathway through the soft mud, leading to the ferry embarkation point.

The Itchenor Ferry has run since the 17th century and operated 24 hours a day until the 1960s, when the ferryman applied to the House of Lords to allow the ferry to stop running. A seasonal service (summertime only) was reinstated in 1976.

From the hard, I walk along the shoreline, following the footpath. This is another lovely walk, through wooded areas and along grassy banks, less crowded than the walk to West Itchenor.

I round a bend and see Bosham ahead. This is a very pretty village. I have friends who live here and decide to drop in and see them.

Not used to arriving by foot and from this direction, I am a little disoriented and wander around until I find their driveway. They aren’t here. The house is shut up.

Disappointed, I head into the main village. I walk along a road that floods at high tide. The tide is coming in, but has yet to reach the tarmac.

I stop at a cafe. My heart is set on tea and cake. Unfortunately, half the population of West Sussex seem to have the same idea and there are no seats. Next, I find a pub. Yes, they do tea and cake. And they have a lovely little balcony overlooking the water. Unfortunately, I drop my camera on the hard floor in the bar and jam the focus. I don’t realise this until later.

On the balcony, in the sunshine, I sit and enjoy a good cup of tea, watching the tide come in. Then I realise I may get cut off. Will the footpath be passable at high tide? I don’t know.

I leave the pub in a hurry. People have put chairs out on the shore and there are still cars parked on the low-lying roadway. The tide is coming in at a pace, you can see the water growing closer to the tarmac. I wonder if the visitors realise and move their cars in time.

I walk through Bosham and set off along the footpath. It runs around the bottom of gardens, below the walls. From the deposits of seaweed above the path, I realise the path is below the high tide line. I keep an anxious eye on the sea, creeping closer.

I leave Bosham behind and see the ‘mainland’ ahead. I would have really enjoyed this part of the walk, apart from my fear of the tide coming in and flooding the path.

I reach the end of the footpath, still dry. Now I walk through a field to the road. On the other side, according to the map, there is a track leading up to a lane and this is where I have arranged to meet my husband.

But I can’t see the track. How strange.

Then I see a man walking his dog. He turns off the road, walking through long grass. I follow him and find the track. It is an old road, now disused. Tall grass has grown up on the verges and hidden the tarmac. At the top of the road is my husband, waiting patiently.

This was a fantastic walk – beautiful weather and varied scenery. A great day! I believe, when the tide is high, sections of the footpath become covered in water. If you are planning this walk, make sure you know the time of high tide.

Miles walked = 11
High points = Beach walking to East Head and Ferry P at West Itchenor
Low points = breaking my camera

Route:

Posted in 06 Sussex | Tagged coast, ferry, hiking, photography, travel, walking | 6 Comments

58. Pagham to Selsey Bill to East Wittering

Posted on July 23, 2011 by Ruth Livingstone

Despite its name, Pagham Harbour is no longer a place where boats come, the entrance to the harbour having silted up years ago. (In fact, I don’t see a single dinghy, yacht or ship of any sort during this stage of my journey today.)

After the death of the harbour, the land was reclaimed as agricultural land in the 19th Century. Then, during a violent storm in 1910, the unforgiving sea broke through the banks and claimed it back. Now this area is an important Nature Reserve.

From here to Selsey Bill is only 3 miles as the crow flies. Of course, not being a crow, my route is much longer. Unable to walk across Pagham Harbour – on account of acres of mud, creeks and rivulets – I am walking around the circumference of this wide area of marshes and mud flats.

The sun is shining and the day is beautiful. At the entrance to the Pagham Harbour, I stop and take photographs of a group of white water birds. There is a swan grooming itself in the sunlight and, close by, a beautiful little egret strides around, busily darting its neck in and out of the water.

Beyond are ducks and some birds with over-large heads wading in the mud. Ah, I recognise these birds – oyster catchers. They seem a little different from the oyster catchers I met on the Chetney Marshes in Kent. Their beaks are paler – not such a bright orange. I wonder if their diet is different here and this has affected their colouration.

Then I see a large bird, dirty grey in colour compared to the brilliant white of the egret and swan. It wades through the water, close to the swan, keeping a careful eye on the water, looking for breakfast. It is a heron. I have never seen one so close up before.

I leave the little creek behind and head into the marshes. I overtake an elderly couple of bird watchers. He has a huge camera with an enormous lens around his neck. She has a tiny pair of binoculars. I ask them if they have seen anything interesting.

‘Not much happening,’ they tell me.
‘There are oyster catchers, swans, an egret and a heron back there,’ I tell them.
‘Oh yes,’ they say, dismissively. ‘Those are all very common here.’

There are a number of paths to choose from, and I stick to the route that takes me closest to the distant sea.

The footpath looks well maintained and I am falsely reassured by the paving slabs and wooden steps over the muddy areas.

Luckily the tide is out, or I could have been defeated by mud and water. I find myself wading through mud and stumbling over uneven, tussocks of grass in the marsh. It seems the sea is gradually reclaiming this area, taking over the ancient footpaths and drowning the trees.

At one point, while slipping a sliding along a muddy section of path, I see debris on the marshy grass around me. I recognise this; here are the tiny carcasses of little white crabs, just as I saw on The Strood, Mersea Island.

It is the tide that washed them up here. I wonder if they were dead on arrival or died later, stranded on the unfamiliar territory, unable to find their way back to the sea?

I come to an area called Sidlesham Quay. There are a collection of houses and a road winding round the apex of the marsh. Here there used to be an old tidal mill. The inland pond (where sea water was stored when the tide came in) is visible on the other side of the road. When the harbour silted up and the land was reclaimed as agricultural land, the tidal mill died. Only some ruins remain, stranded in the mud.

I wonder about the feasibility of resurrecting some of these mills, in this age where we are looking for ‘green’ energy sources. We have built huge off shore wind mills to generate electricity. What about harnessing the power of the tide?

I walk around Sidlesham Quay and rejoin a foot path, taking me along the western side of Pagham Harbour reserve. I pass two ladies, sitting on a bench, painting the scene in watercolour on long, horizontal strips of paper. The sun is warm and the paint is drying too quickly. I stop and chat to them. They tell me there is a way straight across the marsh at low tide. But they don’t know the exact route.

From the footpath, I take photographs of Sidlesham Quay, looking very attractive in the sunshine.

I walk on a raised bank, skirting the edges of the marshy land. The sky is clouding over and the sunlight drifts across the flat landscape. In the distance I can see the sea wall that stretches across the old entrance to the old harbour. I am growing tired of mud and grass and look forward to seeing the sea again.

Later, I walk through an area where the path is surrounded by tall grasses, wild flowers and blackberry bushes.

Suddenly, I notice, there are butterflies everywhere. And big, fat bumble bees. I spend far too long on this section of the walk, taking photographs.

Photographing butterflies is immensely frustrating. Just as you line up a perfect shot – in focus, sun out, no grass stalks in the way – the damn things flit off. But I am pleased that I do manage some good shots.

The path becomes more overgrown and overhung with oak trees. I am surprised to see such large trees with their roots close to salty marshes. I wonder if they will survive.

I meet a man pushing a bicycle along the overgrown path. He has telescopic equipment hung around his neck. He warns me ‘it is a jungle’ ahead. I grow worried that I won’t be able to get back to the shore. We stop and chat. He is a very enthusiastic bird watcher and travels all over the place to pursue his hobby. I ask him how far it is to Selsey Bill, but he seems unsure of where this is.

But I needn’t have worried. I turn a corner, cross an area of flat marshes, climb up a bank and find myself looking out over a long shingle beach.

To my left, I can see back to Bognor. The break in the shoreline is hidden, giving the illusion you could walk, uninterrupted, along the beach. I am now only a mile away from yesterday’s finishing point. I was planning to walk, eastwards, along the beach, to the mouth of the Harbour. But the beach consists of rough shingle and I am both tired and behind schedule.

So I turn right and begin walking towards Selsey. Selsey Bill is the triangle of land you can see jutting down, clearly visible on the weather maps. I am looking forward to arriving here. It seems an important landmark on my walk.

I see more people about, walking and fishing. I would like to walk beside the water’s edge, but the shingle is too difficult and I follow a track along the top of the beach. At one point, the track becomes a ‘private road’. Houses have gardens that stretch across the road and encroach on the shore – private areas of lawn, fenced off with ‘keep off’ signs.

Then I meet the beginning of Selsey’s promenade. And here is a blue plaque and I learn that By the Sleepy Lagoon, the famous theme tune to Desert Island Discs, was inspired by the view across the bay.

The sky has clouded over completely and the light is dull, so the view does not look too appealing today.

The walkway along Selsey shore is narrow and crowded. People are out, walking dogs and with push chairs. Some are in mobility scooters. I find it difficult to adjust to the crowds after my morning of isolated walking.

There is a collection of fishing boats on the shingle and places where you can buy fresh sea food.

Further along, I see a structure I believe to be a pleasure pier. But as I draw nearer , I realise it is a pier for a life boat station. Presumably, in low tide, the pier is necessary for the launch of the boat.

At the foot of the pier, people in scuba diving gear are assembling. They are getting dressed, pulling on their body suits and adjusting equipment. I wonder what they are up to. Is it a lesson? Or a communal dive? Or a special expedition of some sort?

As I near the tip of Selsey Bill, I come across an obstruction to the path – a private house. The tide is high and waves are splashing up around the concrete skirt of the bottom of the property. Maybe, if the tide was out, you could walk around. But now I have no choice. I turn inland and walk through a park area, missing out the tip of Selsey Bill, before arriving back on the shore. I am now on the west side of the triangle.

After a brief stop for lunch (and there are not many pubs or eating places in this area), I continue my walk, heading for East Wittering. Again, I am unable to follow the shore – there is no walkway and the sea is up to the sea wall itself. So, I walk through streets.

I rejoin the coast at the end of a road. Here there is a tall look-out tower. I guess it is connected to the lifeboat station on the east side of Selsey Bill.

The sky is dark ahead. Heavy clouds threaten rain. I walk along the shore, grateful for patches of firm sand among the shingle, trying to speed up.

There is a holiday park ahead with a plantation of static caravans. The sea wall is being eroded and the path along the top of the wall has become too dangerous and is closed. Some of the caravans nearest to the sea look weather-beaten and have boarded up windows. I walk along the road through the holiday park, past a complex of buildings with fluttering flags.

On the other side of the holiday park, the shingle beach stretches ahead towards Bracklesham and East Wittering. There are fishermen on the shingle and people out walking dogs.

I meet a younger woman (late 30s, maybe) with an energetic dog. She tells me she has come here to escape from her family. The dog is a new acquisition. She talks non-stop for about 10 minutes. As a result, I could tell you lots of personal things about her and her intimate family relationships, but I won’t.

Now I walk for miles along a high shingle bank, with dark sea on my left and flat marsh on my right. The going is difficult. I slip and slide on shingle, hunting for stretches where the stones are packed down. There are few features to break the monotony of the walk. I have the illusion I am walking on an endless treadmill of stones. A distant piece of driftwood (a rare sight on this beach) appears of monumental importance as a landmark.

I have plenty of time to think. I wonder if the shingle will ever end. I wonder why I am doing this. I think about the woman I have just left. (The amount of private information she offloaded within a few brief minutes, suggests she was either desperately lonely or hypomanic.)

It is a relief to reach Bracklesham. But also a disappointment. There are private houses backing onto the beach, but no promenade or footpath. Then shingle beach becomes steeper. The stones on the bank become looser and harder to negotiate. I am very tired and slide down the shingle bank to walk near the waves. This was a mistake, the shingle here is even deeper and more tiring than on the bank.

Seeing a carpark ahead, I leave the beach and text my husband. Am I in East Wittering? No, I am in Bracklesham. Don’t I want to walk another mile and meet at the East Wittering car park? No. I don’t. I’ve had enough.

Miles walked = 11 miles

High points = Sidlesham Quay, birds and butterflies
Low points = Selsey Bill and endless shingle

Route:

Posted in 06 Sussex | Tagged coast, hiking, nature reserve, photography, travel, walking | 18 Comments

57. Littlehampton to Bognor Regis and Pagham

Posted on July 22, 2011 by Ruth Livingstone

A long weekend, with four great days of walking, stretches before me. It is midday on Friday when I arrive at Littlehampton’s East Beach and my plan is to walk into Bognor Regis for a late lunch.

The tide is coming in and much of the sand is covered. I walk along the top of the beach, over packed-down shingle, around the top of groynes. As I start this walk, to my right are fields and open countryside. As I approach Middleton-on-Sea and, later, Bognor Regis, more and more houses appear.

In the distance, I can make out a finger of low-lying land, extending out into the sea. That must be Selsey Bill. Beyond this low land, I can see a higher cliff. Is that towards Portsmouth, I wonder? I didn’t think there were cliffs ahead. Strange. Perhaps my eyes are playing tricks on me.

I come to an area of beach where artificial breakwaters – large rocks – have been formed to protect the shore from erosion. Between the gaps in the breakwaters, small semi-circular ‘coves’ have been formed. I am reminded of the first time I saw similar breakwater reefs, back in Sea Palling, Norfolk.

I perch on one of the breakwaters and have a drink and a snack. The tide is still coming in and I am surprised to see how quickly the water begins to swirl around the base of the breakwater. I realise I am in danger of being stranded and quickly climb down off the rocks and head back up to the top of the beach.

I see an egret, flying low and graceful above me. I pull out my camera, but am not quick enough. By the time I am ready, the egret has landed some distance away. I take this fuzzy shot of the bird on the beach. Then it is off again and I manage to capture it in flight.

I really love these birds. They are unmistakable – completely white plumage and very stylish in flight. This might be a little egret, a common bird on the coast around here. But, I think, with the large wing span and paler legs and beak, this is probably great white egret.

I am walking through an area called Middleton-on-Sea. The sky has become cloudier and the sun goes in and out. Ahead, along the coast, lit up by a patch of sunlight, I see some white, tent-like structures. I know I am approaching Bognor Regis and I wonder what the white structures are.

When I draw nearer, walking along a wide promenade, I realise the ‘tents’ are permanent structures, the roof of a holiday park with a large swimming pool, a hotel and residential buildings.

The beach here is still shingle. Maybe there is sand when the tide goes out? I don’t know.

As well as the trappings of a holiday resort, Bognor beach has fishing boats, fishing nets and crab (or lobster) pots.

The place is not crowded with the summer holidays yet to begin. I have enjoyed the walk so far, but am getting tired and hungry. So, I look forward to finding the pier, where I am planning to meet up with husband for lunch.

The pier turns out to be a big disappointment. Yet another pier destroyed by storms and fire, then left to disintegrate. What a shame.

Originally opened in 1865, the pier once had a pavilion and a landing stage for pleasure craft. You can read about its history on the Heritage Trail Website. You can see how the pier once looked from old postcards.

What remains of the pier (a building on the landward end) is being used as a nightclub. But there is some sort of construction going on at the end of the pier. I wonder what they are doing with it.

The ruined pier was once the site of the Birdman competition – the competition for human-powered flying machines. But the event has moved to Worthing because the pier at Bognor became too dangerous to use.

We have lunch in a cafe where the food was good and the signs proudly claim – ‘open all day’. We arrive at 3:00 and are just finishing our lunch at 3:30 when we are somewhat surprised to see people being turned away. ‘Open all day’, we are amused to find out, means open between 10:00 am and 4:00pm. Last orders are taken 30 mins before closing time.

We were lucky to get our lunch.

After lunch, I walk westward, along the Bognor promenade. A fun fair is arriving. Large trucks are lining up to unload alongside the promenade. Men unpack the trucks, quickly and efficiently constructing the various amusements. I see a dodgems being assembled. A small crowd gathers to watch.

Further along, I come to a part of the promenade with a wide circle painted in white paint. A young couple with a very excited toddler are standing here. They are waiting for the ‘promenade train’. This is its end point and turning circle.

At the end of the promenade, private housing restricts access to the beach. I would like to walk on the sand, but the tide is high and there are only dangerous rocks and ‘Keep Off’ signs.

Reluctantly, I turn inland and walk through an area of housing. There are new estates here – all with ‘Private’ signs, although I guess the roads are actually public roads with free public access.

Amongst the housing, with no sight of the sea, I get rather lost. Eventually, more by luck than good map-reading, I find a footpath back to the shore. The footpath signs are well hidden, almost buried in a hedge and not visible until you get to the end of a ‘private’ road.

I hope the path leads to the beach, although it is not indicated on the sign. I walk down a tunnel of greenery, between tall garden fences and, to my great relief, find myself back on the shingle shore.

The going is difficult. The shingle is loose and there is no clear path. If it wasn’t so tiring, I would really enjoy this section of the walk. The beach is almost empty. Plants are growing on the shingle and the view is attractive.

The light is fading. Although there are many hours before sunset, dark clouds are piling up overhead. Conditions are poor for photography. I am anxious about rain and hurry, as best I can, over the rough shingle.

On one of the breakwater posts, I see a cormorant – black and sinister in the darkening light.

The way ahead along the coast is interrupted by the entrance to Pagham Harbour. Here there is a car park and people are walking on the shingle. Spots of rain are beginning to fall. People begin running back to their cars.

I stop to get out my waterproofs, wrap my camera in plastic and bury my iPhone in an internal pocket. Then I continue, walking through the car park, to the nature reserve that borders Pagham Harbour.

Once upon a time, this was a proper harbour, with deep water and shipping. As the harbour mouth silted up, the land was reclaimed as agricultural land. The sea broke through some years ago, flooding the area again and forming an extensive marshy area. It has been left as a nature reserve – a huge area of tidal mud flats, marsh land, water, vegetation and wildlife.

I walk along a footpath. To my left is the wide area of Pagham Harbour. To my right is a smaller, deeper lake, with ducks, swans and gulls.

Past the lake, there is a caravan park and housing – but all set back in the distance. As a result of the bad weather, everybody else has vanished. I am totally alone for this part of the walk, as I follow the path along the muddy shoreline. Old, decaying wooden structures stick out of the mud, looking like giant, rotting teeth.

The rain stops but the light is fading fast. I hurry as best I can. Instead of shingle, there is mud to contend with now. I slip and slide.

Ahead I see a couple of bird watchers, sitting under umbrellas, by a ‘hide’. At this point, I am forced to walk along the muddy skirt of a protective wall. I wonder if I have lost the footpath entirely. The bird watchers watch me with blank expressions under their caps. They might be irritated by my stumbling intrusion. I wonder if I have scared any birds away.

At the end of the wall is a track. I turn inland, following the track, heading into the village of Pagham. Here I end my walk for the day.

Miles walked = 10

Route:

Posted in 06 Sussex | Tagged birds, coast, hiking, photography, travel, walking | 2 Comments

56. Ferring to Littlehampton

Posted on July 10, 2011 by Ruth Livingstone

Sunday morning and I set off from Ferring in good spirits. My husband drops me off at a small car park. I walk past beach huts and a little cafe. The cafe already has some customers, enjoying breakfast or a morning coffee.

The beach is shingle and, as I stumble and slide on the stones, I wonder how difficult the walk today will be. Rounding a gentle curve in the shore, I see there is a footpath running along the top of the beach. Ahead is an area of green grass and the footpath leads across this. I am grateful for the firm walking.

People begin to appear – dog walkers, hikers, joggers.

This is the Kingston Gorse Estate – apparently private property – but with a public footpath crossing it. The estate cannot resist erecting warning signs. All fun of any sort is strictly forbidden. Luckily, walking is allowed.

Further on, I pass by some very fine houses.

The sky is full of fair weather clouds and there is a haze on the horizon. It is warm, but not hot. There is a good breeze today and sailing ships are out on the sea. In the far distance, across the water, I see the curve of a shoreline. Is that Selsey Bill, I wonder?

The tide is going out and I walk down the beach to the edge of the sea. There are patches of firmer sand among the shingle and I walk beside the waves. Rows of wooden groynes run down across the sand. Their ends are under water and I can’t walk round them. So, I climb, jump or scramble over them. Every so often, if a particularly high one blocks my way, I have to take a detour up the beach to get round the top end of the obstruction.

At top of the beach are rows of bright beach huts. Very few are in use on this fine July morning. I wonder if it gets busier here when the schools break up. But the beach is still mainly shingle and not ideal for family holidays.

I am passing through an area called West Kingston and then head towards Rustington, on the outskirts of Littlehampton.

I stop on some rocks and have a snack. I attempt a self-portrait. This involves balancing the camera on a stone and setting the timer. I use my rucksack to focus the shot. Then I run to perch, nonchalantly, beside it.

Unfortunately, the resulting shot gives a good view of the lower part of my body, but cuts off part of my head.

Later, with some further cropping of the photo on my computer, I manage to make the shot look more posed – as if the cropping was intentional. (Thank goodness for photo editing programs!)

As the day progresses, more and more ships appear. There are sailing races going on.

As I walk along the top of the beach, through Rustington, I notice this plaque. Two world air speed records were set here; or, to be accurate, in the air just off shore from here. Both records were set about 60 years ago – before I was born – and have since been broken. But I am impressed. One was set in 1946 for an air speed of 616 miles per hour. The other was in 1953 for an air speed of 727 mph. I had no idea there were planes that could go so fast, all those years ago.

More information about air speed records can be found on Wikipedia. The official fastest air speed is now 2,193 mph, set way back in 1976 – when I was still at medical school. It is hard to believe that record has remained unbroken for the past 35 years.

(The fastest speed in air was actually recorded by the Space Shuttle on re-entry – a whopping 17,500 mph. The Space Shuttle program is about to end. I wonder how we will break the record in future?)

As I approach Littlehampton, I walk along a wide pavement, just above the vegetated shingle bank. Later I see some weird benches and street furniture – a continuous, slatted bench, ‘the longest bench in Britain’, which loops in places to form interesting shapes. Unfortunately, I couldn’t take any good shots, because there were too many people about.

Ahead, on the beach, I can see a small pier extending out to sea. This marks the mouth of the River Arun. The tide is out, and people are walking on the sand and along the pier.

I stop and have a drink and snack.

Across the river mouth, just 50 feet away, is the next part of my walk. But to cross the river I have to head into Littlehampton to find a bridge.

Beyond the narrow river mouth, the river opens up into a lovely harbour area. Walking into Littlehampton, following the riverside walk, is a joy. There are new buildings – cafes, houses, shops – and a new walkway along the river with seats and nice paving. This really enhances the town.

I remember how I tried to walk along the river at Faversham (North Kent) and how access to the riverside was barred, on both sides of the river, because the developers had been allowed to take over the bank as ‘Private Property’.

Faversham was a lovely market town but failed to make best use of one of its main assets – the river. Faversham’s planning committee should be ashamed of itself. Look what can be done. Look at Littlehampton. This is how to develop a river bank so that everybody can enjoy it.

I find a footbridge crossing the river. It appears to be resting on rails, as if it can be pulled back to allow larger ships to pass by. The rails are overgrown with weeds and I assume it is not in use. But later, I find you can ask the harbour office to retract the bridge if you need to get through.

As I cross the bridge, I see something odd. There is fire truck on the quay and a group of firemen. Further along, there is a fire hose spraying water in a huge jet across the river. The hose is unattended. I wonder if they are practising or if there has been an incident.

On the other side of the river, there is no lovely walk – just a footpath that follows the river bank. There are ships – some abandoned – lying in mud alongside broken down jetties and derelict wharves. I quite enjoy the run-down feel to the area.

As I approach the mouth of the river, I see the place where I stopped for a drink and snack. I feel I can almost reach out and touch the seat I sat on; so close – but it has taken me almost an hour to get round to this side of the river.

I see something I couldn’t see from the other side. A speed restriction sign for boats. And a warning about speed cameras! No escape from the wretched things.

One reason for the speed restriction is the narrowness of the entry to the river. Another reason is the swans. There are hundreds of them along the shore and they form a crowd on the other side where people are walking, hoping for food.

This area is called ‘West Beach’. A narrow road leads up to the shore and ends in a small car park. There is a cafe here. People are sitting in the sunshine, eating lunch, talking and laughing. A sandy bank leads down to the beach. It looks lovely and, if on my own, I would have stopped here for lunch. But I have arranged to meet my husband in a pub further along the coast – at Atherington, Climping Beach – so I keep walking.

I follow the fenced footpath up through the dunes. The going is easy because the path consists of slats of wood.

The fencing is designed to protect this area of the dunes from wear and tear, preventing erosion. Signs explain why. The dunes are sustained by the plants that bind them and dune grass is very fragile.

I remember how the dunes in Norfolk were similarly protected.

Further on, the fencing disappears and it is possible to roam freely, if you wish.

When I reach the top of the dunes, I gasp. What a fantastic view!

Before me, a long, wide, curving beach with sand. Sand, glorious sand, as far as the eye can see. And, as the tide is out, there is plenty of it. The light is in my eyes, flashing off the far away sea, reflecting off the beach, dazzling me. In the distance I see other people out on the sand – walking, running, digging, playing, exercising dogs. This is lovely.

I walk over the soft sand at the top of the beach, heading for the firm surface below the high tide mark. Then I
walk further out, going into areas where the sand is still wet, splashing through shallow water and not caring if I get my feet wet. My walk is nearly over. And this is the best bit so far.

Inland are some old fortifications and, after a while, I come to a where a road gives access to the beach, ending in a car park.

As I head inland, approaching the car park across the wide expanse of sandy beach, I see my husband waiting for me. I can tell it is him. He is in full cycling gear, has his bike beside him and is wearing a bright yellow fluorescent jacket. As I get nearer, he turns away and disappears. Where has he gone? When I reach the road, there is no sign of him.

I begin walking up the road towards the pub and text him, ‘where r u?’.

He hadn’t seen me walking across the sand. He cycles back down the road to meet me and we travel up to the pub together – he cycles as slowly as he can and I walk as fast as I can manage (which isn’t very fast). The pub is crowded but we find a table outside and enjoy a lovely lunch in the sunshine, before heading home.

Vital stats: distance = 8 miles.
Best parts of the walk: Littlehampton and its West Beach.

Route:

Posted in 06 Sussex | Tagged beach, coast, hiking, travel, walking | 5 Comments

55. Shoreham to Worthing To Ferring

Posted on July 9, 2011 by Ruth Livingstone

I return to Southwick and start walking along the coastal A259 road, heading towards Shoreham. The road is busy and passes through areas of light industry.

I see the entrance to Shoreham Harbour and the lighthouse that marks the bifurcation of the harbour area, alongside a big, new lifeboat station.

To the east, the harbour has deep water and I see large ships moored, against the backdrop of Shoreham Power Station. To the west, the water is shallow and is only suitable for small pleasure ships, before it merges with the mouth of the River Adur.

I reach Shoreham itself and the scenery undergoes a dramatic transformation. Gone are the industrial units and yards. Here are pleasant houses, shops and a fun fair by the water. And here is the narrow pedestrian bridge leading over the water to the spit of land that is Shoreham-by-Sea.

The bridge is busy – with cyclists, walkers, shoppers, families. It has an interesting construction. The middle section sits on rails and can be moved back to allow taller ships to pass through the channel.

I walk through the housing estates of Shoreham-by-Sea and reach the beach.

The wind is picking up and there are kite-surfers out on the sea. I stop and watch. Remembering the 30ft high leaps I witnessed at Camber Sands, I am disappointed not to see any huge jumps into the air today. Maybe the wind is not strong enough.

In the distant haze, across the sea to the east, I can make out the white cliffs around Cuckmere Haven and, just visible, the Seven Sisters beyond.

I begin walking westward.

I decide not to try to walk across beach – deep shingle – too uncomfortable and tiring. (I am getting a little bored with shingle beach, I must confess.) So I walk on the tarmac path, along the shore, separated from the sea by rows of beach huts.

To my right is the town of Lancing and a waterway called Widewater Lagoon. This is a saline lagoon, formed by sea water filtering through the shingle bank and topped up by rain water. There are some fine houses lining the other side of the lagoon. This must be a lovely area to live.

A notice board tells me the lagoon was in danger of ‘dying’. Dry summers and natural evaporation had led to high levels of saline in the water and the death of many species. The lagoons are now artificially topped up with fresh sea water, if necessary, to create a less hostile environment.

The efforts appear to have paid off. The lagoon is very attractive. I see a heron and a couple of egrets, along with all the usual types of gulls.

I approach Worthing. There are pretty terraces of houses, a nice wide beach, boats drawn up on the shingle and a decent pier. What a nice town!

A crowd has gathered on the promenade by the pier. There is something going on. Morris dancing! And women Morris dancers too. There is enthusiastic twirling of handkerchiefs and banging of sticks. When they’ve finished, without injury, we all cheer.

The Morris Dancers move a little further down the promenade and start another dance.

I pop into the Lido for a drink and lunch. There is a cafe overlooking the sea. The food is very cheap, but it all seems a bit run down and the service is poor. When I arrive, there is a table with some ‘special’ people, presumably on an outing to the seaside. Their carers are very young and don’t expend any effort on entertaining or talking to their charges. They just sit and drink soft drinks, talking among themselves, marking time. The cafe is very hot. When I leave, the group is still there. I wonder how long they stay sitting in that stuffy cafe?

I walk eastwards, heading along the Worthing promenade towards a place called Ferring. I pass a children’s play area and come to a place where a garden has been created on the vegetated shingle bank – the Waterwise Garden.

As well as plants, there are constructions of carved wood and stone. Set among shingle stones, there is a tranquil, Japanese type feel to the garden. I like it very much and stop here for a drink and snack.

I am walking into the sun and further photography becomes difficult. I am getting near to the end of the promenade, and the end of Worthing, now.

I reach an area where there are people kitesurfing. The wind is strong and I see some great jumps. A group of photographers stand on an outcrop of rock. The kitesurfers head out to sea, turn, and come roaring in towards the rocks, leaping into the air as they come closer – creating great shots for the waiting photographers. Just beside the beach is a little cafe and people are eating and drinking in the sunshine, while watching the kitesurfers. Marvellous.

Ferring is separated from Worthing by an area of open land. There are many people out, enjoying a walk on this Saturday afternoon. I walk along a lane, close to the sea, passing behind houses and then along a shingle shore. Tired, but happy, I turn inland and find a stone to sit on, while I wait for my husband to pick me up.

This has been a great day of walking. Miles = 10

Route:

Posted in 06 Sussex | Tagged coast, hiking, kitesurfing, photography, travel, walking | 3 Comments

54. Brighton to Hove to Southwick

Posted on July 1, 2011 by Ruth Livingstone

I park on a road in a housing estate in Southwick, catch a bus into the centre of Brighton and walk down to the sea front. Here I discover something. Brighton has two piers. The second one is a burnt ruin.

I wonder why so many of our piers seem to burn down?

Heading west, my destination today is Hove and then Southwick Station – only 5 miles away. This is my fifth day of walking and I am tired. I have been alone for most of the time and I am looking forward to going home this afternoon.

I am determined to like Brighton today.

The sun is shining. At this early hour, the promenade is less crowded and the beach is empty.

I can’t resist snapping a few photographs of the colourful deck chairs, waiting on the empty shingle beach.

Walking at a good pace, I leave Brighton behind and arrive in Hove. Actually, there is no clear distinction between the two resorts. The promenade at Hove widens out. There are beach huts on the concrete – which seems a little odd. There are also some wide open green spaces with beach huts on the grass, in an area called ‘Hove Lawns’.

People are beginning to appear and the day is warming up. There are joggers, cyclists, dogwalkers, people in mobility scooters and some serious walkers with back packs.

I stop at a strange cafe / bar on the sea front – I think it doubles as a night club at night. But the food is very good.

Just beyond the cafe is a swimming area. Flags are flying and life guards sit within an enclosure of windbreaks.

The view ahead is spoiled somewhat by the dominating chimney of the Shoreham Power Station. My walk will take me along a spit of land, right up to the Power Station.

As I stop to take photos of the beach, I notice a film crew down on the shingle, with a video camera and a big recording microphone. They must be recording something for the local news.

I hear them ask a woman, ‘So, are you disappointed the beach has lost its blue flag status?’
A rather leading question, I think.
The woman replies, ‘Well, yes, I suppose I am.’

Later I read that heavy rain may be responsible for the drop in water quality along these beaches.

Beyond Hove, a spit of land continues, separated from the mainland by Shoreham Harbour. I walk along this spit, down a road that runs alongside an industrial estate. The road and surrounding land is all owned by Shoreham Port Authority.

This is the final section of an offical long distance footpath – the Monarch’s Way. But it is a really boring walk. The road is new and, although not very busy, large lorries pass along it. I can’t see the sea – there is a high bank blocking the view. On the landward side are high metal fences and security notices.

At one point, there is a break in the wall and I can see people on the shingle beach. I walk through and stand at the top of the beach. The sun lights up the chalky cliffs in the east. There is a wonderful view of the white cliffs, stretching back to the mouth of the Ouse and beyond to the Seven Sisters in the far distance.

In a short while, I will be heading inland to find my car. I may never see this wonderful view again. Pulling my camera out of my rucksack, I begin to take photographs of the sunlit cliffs.

Suddenly, a fat man shouts at me, ‘F*** off’. I look round. Is he shouting at me? Yes. He shouts again. More obscenities.

Then I realise. It is my camera he is objecting to. Why? Because this is a nudist beach. The fat man is probably naked – although it is hard to tell through the rolls of flesh.

At first I am very embarrassed. I would hate people to think I had come here to spy on nudists and take photographs of people. (Actually, I approve of the principle of nudist beaches.) So I shout an apology. Later I feel unsettled and angry by this encounter. It spoils the afternoon, as I can’t help brooding over it. The man was unnecessarily rude and unpleasant. There was no need to swear at me. Asking nicely would have done the trick.

I hurry along the road, wanting to leave the area. At the end of the spit of land is a small car park. A footpath leads inland, over some locks, across Shoreham harbour and onto the mainland again. I am pleased to find my car.

The journey back home is marred by heavy traffic and it takes me 5 hours to travel the 160 miles.

Miles walked = 5
Piers seen = 2 (1 in ruins)
Nudist beaches = 1
Rude men encountered = 1

Posted in 06 Sussex | Tagged coast, hiking, photography, travel, walking | 5 Comments

53. Seaford to Brighton

Posted on June 30, 2011 by Ruth Livingstone

I start off from Seaford on a bright and sunny morning, heading for Brighton.

Today I plan to catch the train back from Brighton. I park near to Seaford station and walk through the town, down to the sea front, then along the promenade, heading westward.

As the crow flies, this would be a reasonable walk of 11 miles. However, my progress will be interrupted by the mouth of the River Ouse, leading to a detour into Newhaven to find a bridge across the river. So, I am anticipating a walk of 14 miles today. This is a long walk for me and I am hoping the walk will not be as strenuous as yesterday, when I went up and down, up and down, up and down – eight times – across Beachy Head and the Seven Sisters.

Yesterday, on the train, I saw kitesurfers along this beach. Today, with no wind, there is no sign of the surfers. There are young people around, school age children really, in large groups with a couple of supervising adults. What is going on? Why aren’t they in school? Then I remember. There is a strike of public sector workers today and some schools have closed. What a wonderful morning to have off school!

As I near the mouth of the river, I see the breakwater and the lighthouse on the other side, with a bright yellow ferry making its way into the river and heading for Newhaven.

This section of the coast is a nature reserve called Tide Mills. There are old ruined structures and a sign tells me this was a place where there was a tidal mill. When the tide came in, water entered lagoons and, when the tide came out, water ran out through water wheels, powering the mill. All around here was a village, with cottages housing people who worked in the mills.

When the mill shut down, the village simply died. All that is left is the footprint of ruined foundations.

Further on, I see groups of adults working on some of the foundations, as an archaeological dig.

I started my walking adventure knowing little or nothing about birds. Now I can name some common birds and can recognise when I see something unusual. So, I knew this little bird, with a white breast and black stripes across its cheeks, was out of the ordinary.

A signboard tells me this is a Wheatear. An unusual bird. Shy and rare. This one flits around with the sparrows. After much patient waiting, I manage to take a decent photo.

I walk through the ruins of the abandoned mill village, meeting a footpath that seems to double as the beginning of the Vanguard Way and the end of the Sussex Ouse Valley Way – both long distance footpaths.

This section of path runs along a waterway parallel to the Ouse. I am meandering, slowly, along the path when a voice says ‘excuse me’ in my ear. I nearly fall over with surprise. A very speedy walker – younger, fitter and faster than me, with soft walking shoes and noiseless footsteps, overtakes me.

‘Is this the path to Newhaven?’ I call after her rapidly disappearing back.
‘Yes. Just ahead.’

The footpath ends at a road and I am forced to walk along pavements, through a scruffy area of light-industry, past a couple of small railway stations, past the entrance to the ferry port, until I reach the bridge over the river Ouse.

This bridge is a swing bridge and shows the next ‘opening’ time on a board. I am tempted to wait for 20 mins to see the bridge move. But, mindful of the long walk ahead, I decide to keep going.

I stand on the bridge and look down toward the river mouth. In the bright light, I squint past jetties and, in the distance, can see the mouth of the river with the breakwater and the lighthouse.

I remember the beginning of my walk, 14 months ago, when I set off down another river with the name Ouse – The Great Ouse River – and walked the 16 miles from Kings Lynn to Hunstanton. That seems a very long time ago.

As I walk up the west bank of the river, I notice a number of sculptures. They all feature the cormorant, the large black bird, with a long snaking neck, that has become a familiar sight to me along this section of the coast.

This side of the river is in the process of renovation. There is an odd mix of decrepid jetties and decaying wharves, alongside smart new housing and a landscaped walking route.

Eventually, I reach the marina area, with a multitude of boats of all shapes and sizes. I stop in a cafe and have a cup of tea and some cake. Now I head towards the Fort, standing on the hill, guarding the entrance to the river mouth.

On my way up to the fort, I pass some public toilets. Some joker has placed a sign on the side of the building, ‘Last Public Toilets Before France’. It makes me smile.

I walk up, past the fort – now used as a museum, and carry on upwards, along a path that leads to the top of the cliff.

There is a lookout station up here. To my left is bright blue sea. To my right is a sprawling caravan park and housing estates – the edge of Newhaven, a place called ‘Harbour Heights’.

If I look back, towards Seaford, I see a beautiful sight. There is Seaford with the cliffs beyond – bright white chalk rising up from a deep blue sea, topped with a green open space and crisscrossed by the footpaths where I walked yesterday. Lovely.

On this side of the Ouse, the path runs close to the cliff edge and some sections have crumbled away. I follow the pathway as best I can, heading along the green space at the top of the cliffs, towards Brighton.

I pass one walker and, much later, meet a man with a dog. Otherwise, I am alone for this, the best part, of my walk today.

This section of cliffs is rich in fossils and is designated as being of ‘Special Scientific Interest’. Later on I will see attempts to hold back the erosive effects of the sea. But in this area, the cliffs are unprotected and it is evident, from the vanished sections of footpath, that the edges are falling into the sea.

Looking back, I can see the waves washing away material from the base of the cliff face, where the water is a creamy blue colour, as it carries away milky traces of chalk.

Now I am approaching a built up area called Peacehaven. Bungalows and houses, laid out in grids, stretch towards the sea. There is a narrow strip of green land and rough roadway, between the houses and the edge of the cliff.

Below, I see a newly built promenade – a gleamingly clean, unblemished, wide, concrete walkway – winding around the base of the cliff, forming a protective buffer against the force of the waves. A flight of steps leads downwards. Although I see some construction equipment below, I see nobody working. Is it open? I hesitate. Should I go down? It would be nice to walk on that clean, flat surface, next to the sea, under the cliffs. But, how far does it stretch? After a few yards, the walk disappears behind the curve of the cliffs and I can’t see what happens next.

It is a long way down and I don’t fancy having to climb back up again.

In the end, I stay on the top.

Later, I learn that Peacehaven has an unusual and controversial history. The town appeared in 1916, almost from scratch, as a result of a land-selling scheme by a Mr Charles Neville. You can see an informal description of the history of Peacehaven at Peacehaven Online and a more considered history on the official Peacehaven Town Council site.

I arrive at a monument and stop to have a drink and eat a snack. At first, I think the monument is a war memorial, but the decoration seems strange – it has a globe on top.

I read the information on the base and discover this monument marks the line of the Greenwich Meridian. Longitude 0 on the map.

This seems an important milestone in my walk, and I text the exciting news to my husband. He is in the middle of a busy working day and seems particularly unimpressed.

At the end of Peacehaven, I come across a nice pub and have some lunch. When I emerge to continue my walk, the sky had grown overcast and the clouds over Brighton look black and threatening.

I walk along a busy road. The traffic is noisy.

Inland there are houses. I pass Saltdean and Rottingdean. There is a windmill on a hill. The path goes up and down across a gently rolling cliff top. Sometimes there are areas where you can access the beach and the sea below. I am never sure whether it is worth the climb down. Despite my recent stop for lunch, I feel hot and tired.

I reach an area of wide greenery and find another memorial. This one looks like a classic war memorial, but there is no inscription, no list of names, nothing to indicate what the memorial is for – or even if it is a memorial at all.

Later, I search the internet, but don’t find any information about this mysterious monument.

I see Brighton ahead, under a mass of dark clouds. The path continues, exposed, along the top of the cliffs. It looks like rain ahead.

Hoping for better shelter, I follow a slope down to the shore and join a promenade walk, winding along the bottom of the cliffs, heading for Brighton. There are families down here. Some sit at a little cafe. Others walk, jog, or bike along the promenade. The cliffs above are crumbly. I see the occasional rock that has fallen down. I wonder how safe this walk is?

The skies become even darker. People begin to disappear. Now there is just the occasional cyclist, pedalling back towards Brighton.

I reach a marina area, new and modern. But I decide to head back up and climb up a very steep slope to regain the high ground, walking alongside a very busy road, approaching Brighton itself.

There are warning signs along the cliff here. Yet another reminder that these chalk cliffs act as a magnet for ‘despondent’ people.

I was really looking forward to arriving at Brighton. I know this is a lively, vibrant city. But, I have to confess I am not impressed. The time is around 5pm. The promenade becomes very crowded. Despite signs saying ‘no cycling’ and a clear cycle route alongside the road, people cycle at great speed along the crowded prom. I dodge cyclists, joggers, families with pushchairs, people with dogs and old people on mobility scooters. I feel tired and harassed.

Everyone seems stressed and joyless. This doesn’t seem like a seaside resort. Just another big, busy, bustling city.

Below are the usual funfairs, amusements and a small train track. The beach is pebbly. The weather foul.

Then I see something that catches my eye and cheers me up.

Below is a young lad – maybe a student – sitting at a drum kit, beating the life out of his drums. A couple of teenagers, slightly tipsy, stand on the upper promenade and begin to dance and clap. The drummer finishes a particularly energetic session and, mindful of his audience, stands up and bows to the teenagers. They shout down, asking where the rest of his band are. He just laughs and continues thumping his drums.

Brighton’s pier is disappointing. It appears to have construction works going on. I see a large crane at end of it. Later, I realise it is not a crane, but a fun-fair ride.

I head away from the seafront, towards the station. The road slopes uphill and the pavements are crowded. I walk behind a group of school aged children, early teens, who walk too slowly but don’t give me enough space to overtake them. I am thoroughly fed up by the time I reach the station and very pleased to arrive back in Seaford, where I collect my car.

It is late, and I stop at a restaurant in Seaford for an evening meal. The food is surprisingly good and the service is excellent.

Miles walked = 14

Posted in 06 Sussex | Tagged coast, hiking, travel, walking | 8 Comments

52. Eastbourne to Seaford

Posted on June 29, 2011 by Ruth Livingstone

This morning is gloriously sunny. What a fantastic day to walk up Beachy Head! My hotelier tells me it is the first clear day they have had for weeks.

I walk up a long, sloping promenade, taking me westward from Eastbourne. I remember coming here as a child with my grand parents and I swear there were formal gardens here – with bright flowers planted in intricate patterns. Now there are a wonderful plants growing alongside the walk, looking entirely natural, but I am sure this apparent random arrangment was by careful design.

Ahead, in the distance, I can see the South Downs rising up. And there is a steep path winding up the side of the green slope. (You can see it in the photo.) I wonder if that is where I am heading.

I check with a gentleman who is standing admiring the sea: is this the way to Beachy Head? Yes, he says. Then he looks me up and down as if measuring my ability.
‘But it’s a steep climb. You have to be tough.’
Obviously, I don’t look tough enough.

When I reach the green hill, footpath signs point straight up – along the path I could see from the promenade below. This marks the beginning of the famous long distance foot path, The South Downs Way.

Feeling a bit of a coward, I decide not to head directly up the steep slope. Instead, I choose to walk around the edge of the slope, keeping close to the sea. I justify this to myself. After all, my quest is to walk around the coast.

I can’t escape the incline and find myself climbing higher. From here there are wonderful views back towards Eastbourne. I stop to catch my breath and take some great photographs.

Up here the landscape opens out into a natural bowl. The grass is green and the sky blue. All around are beautiful wild flowers. High above me is the ridge of the South Downs. I can see the shapes of people, silhouetted against the blue sky, high up on the crest of the downs. It looks busy up there and I am pleased to be down here. Apart from a couple of solitary dog walkers, I am alone.

Somewhat to my surprise, I find a cricket pitch, with the boundary marked out in chalk and a score board.

Now I reach a section called ‘Cow Gap’ on my map. This is rather an ugly name for a beautiful place. Here the slope rises steeply and the cliff is crumbling. I am forced to turn uphill and end up climbing a very steep slope, up to the top of the Downs, joining the other sightseers at the top of the ridge. I hear excited voices and realise I am scrambling up towards a group of Italian children on a school outing. As I climb up to meet them, I have to climb over a fence. On the fence are signs telling visitors not to go down (the way I have come up) because the cliffs are unstable.

There are a lot of people around. I am surprised to see so many. Usually, few people stray more than 100 yards from a car park. Then I realise. There is a road up here – and a car park. That explains it.

I meet other walkers, women of a certain age – even older than me. They tell me on a clear day you can see the Isle of Wight.

I get out my binoculars. Looking back to the east, through the binoculars, I can see the white cliffs of Hastings, where I walked with my husband a few weeks ago. Beyond I can just make out the squat, grey shape of Dungeness Power Station. Looking eastwards, in the direction where I imagine the Isle of Wight to be, I can make out some land on the horizon. But I have no idea if this is the Isle of Wight or Worthing or Selsey Bill.

Beachy Head, painting by Tim Baynes - Artist in Residence - Ruth's coastal walk

Original artwork, by Tim Baynes, derived from my photo.

The view up here is truly magnificent. Chalky cliffs drop down to a pale blue sea. Far below is a lighthouse, red and white. It looks tiny – but its light can be seen for 26 miles out to sea. Today the tide is high. Waves are lapping against the cliffs and carrying away a chalky sediment. This turns the sea at the base of the cliff a beautiful pastel shade of light blue.

The land around is owned either by the National Trust or by the local council. There is free right to roam. This is an incredible place.

As I walk along the top of Beachy Head, following the well trodden path, I notice how little protection there is from the sheer drop. In places there is a rudimentary wire fence. In other places, there is no barrier between the path and the cliff edge.

I come across a poignant sight. Shivers go up and down my spine. Here, along the crumbling cliff edge, are tributes to people who have died. There are bunches of flowers and little crosses – 5 or 6 little memorials. They are sited where the path comes very close to the edge of the cliff.

Perhaps this is where people scatter the ashes of loved ones? I hope this might be the case. But I know I am wrong.

I think back to my arrival at Eastbourne station. One of the things that struck me was the sign at the station exit with an advert for The Samaritans and a signpost. Usually access to the Samaritans is via a phone line but here they have an actual physical office for people to visit. There are signs up here too, with the Samaritans’ phone number.

On a beautiful day like this, it is hard to imagine anyone wishing to end their lives. But it happens. And this place is a magnet for the sad and desperate. Beachy Head – with cliffs towering 530 feet above a shallow sea – is the 3rd most popular place in the world for suicides. There are, on average, 20 a year.

From Beachy Head, the path continues along the top of the cliffs, dipping down a little and then rising again towards the old Belle Tout Lighthouse. The function of this lighthouse has been replaced by the newer lighthouse – the red and white one in the previous photo, perched in the sea just below the towering cliff face. The old lighthouse is in use as a residential building.

I read a signboard and learn of an amazing feat of engineering. In 1999, due to continual erosion of the cliffs, the old lighthouse was in danger of being lost. So it was picked up and moved 50 feet further inland. Sadly, as this cliff continues to be eroded at a frightening pace, it may need moving again soon.

The path detours around the lighthouse and ahead of me stretches a long, undulating walk. Naively, I believed once up here the walking would be flat. I had forgotten about the Seven Sisters. Dimly, I remember my grandfather telling me about the seven chalky cliffs that accompany Beachy Head. Here they are.

But first, it is lunch time. Down in a dip is Birling Gap. Here there is a car park, a small collection of houses, a visitors centre and a cafe. The houses look perilously close to the cliff edge. I wonder how long they will last.

Access to the beach is provided by one of those scaffolding type steps, the sort I first came across in East Anglia. The gangplank connecting the steps to the cliff can be moved as the cliff becomes eroded. There are school children (Italian I think) on the steps, coming up from the shingly beach and about to board their coach.

In the cafe, I have a surprisingly good meal, sitting in a small room with large windows overlooking the sea.

After lunch, I tackle the Seven Sisters. This is the official South Downs Way. Down goes the path, and up again, down and up. Seven times.

I meet a few walkers, but no tourists. There is no easy access to the Seven Sisters – you have to walk – up and down.

One walker is resting at the bottom of the dip between two of the ‘Sisters’. He is taking medication and swilling it down with his water bottle. Pain killers, he tells me. For his knees.

The peaks become progressively higher. It is like descending a giant roller coaster, but in reverse.

I mount the last ridge (I don’t realise it is the last ridge – I have lost count) and see a beautiful bay ahead of me.

This is Cuckmere Haven. I wasn’t expecting it to be so magnificent. There is an extensive shingle beach and, on the other side, chalk cliffs again, stretching towards Seaford and Brighton beyond. All around is the rolling green of the South Downs. Perfect view. Perfect scenery. Perfectly English.

Japanese tourists are making their way up the slope towards me. The women are wearing thin soled ballet-pump shoes. They are, obviously, not serious walkers. Below, people are out on the exposed beach, enjoying the sea and this beautiful bay.

My intention is to leave the South Downs Way, which turns inland, and to cross over the bay, joining the Vanguard Way (another long distance footpath) as it heads over the cliff, following the coast to Seaford. But, as I suspected, a river intersects the bay. From up here the channel of water looks narrow. The tide is out. I wonder if I can walk across?

I see a man with a dog by the edge of the river mouth. Taking out my binoculars, I watch the man. He removes his shoes and wades into the river. He walks gingerly, hands outstretched for balance. The dog splashes at the edge of the water, but doesn’t join him. I watch for some time. He doesn’t make much progress across.

I want to scramble down the cliff and walk towards the river mouth, to judge for myself whether a crossing is possible. But the cliffs here are steep and warning signs tell me not to attempt the direct path down. I would have to go inland for a few hundred yards, descend the slope and then head back out to the shore again. I am reluctant to expend energy on a fruitless quest and, deciding the river crossing looks improbable, I turn inland.

Heading downwards, I follow the river valley. Just beyond the shingle beach is a stretch of watery marsh and lagoons. The water is brightly coloured with, I assume, algae. It is a striking sight.

Following the valley, I am heading for the Exceat Bridge. This is the nearest crossing point to the river. The whole area is part of the Seven Sisters Country Park and there are a number of serious walkers and not-so-serious ramblers out, enjoying the sunny afternoon.

I walk along the raised river bank. Progress is difficult because of vast amounts of sheep droppings. The sheep are cropping the grass nearby and a lamb bleats mournfully from beside a water bowser. I think it is calling to its mother, but another walker has stopped to watch and, in her opinion, the lamb is distressed because it can’t drink the water in the trough – the water level inside is too low for the lamb’s short neck to reach. I pause for a while. It has been very dry. Apart from the showers yesterday, we have not had any serious rain for more than 3 months. There is water around, but it is probably saline. For a moment I contemplate going down to the bowser and turning on the tap. Then I consider the farmer will round the sheep up shortly (it is late afternoon).

I continue walking and cross over the bridge, stopping for a drink and peanuts at a pub. Cheeky sparrows perch on the table, wanting some of my peanuts; they eat from my hand. I force myself to stay here for 20 minutes, knowing I will need energy to complete today’s long walk.

Following the river (now on the other side, of course), I walk back down towards the sea. By the time I reach the coast, the sky is overcast.

As the path leads up the gentle slope to the top of the cliffs, I find a man with a huge camera on a tripod. He is waiting for the sun to come out. The man tires of waiting, picks up his equipment and begins trudging up the slope, following the same path.
I turn to see what he was planning to shoot. And there are the Seven Sisters.

For the rest of this section of the walk, I keep turning back to look at the white cliffs. The sun makes brief appearances between short breaks in the cloud and lights up sections of the Sisters. I manage to take a few great photographs of this dramatic view.

The remainder of the walk is tiring but very satisfying. The sun slants across the landscape, flitting in and out of the clouds. The weather is warm. The scenery is beautiful.

Finally, I reach the crest of a slope and see Seaford spread out below me. In the distance, the shore line curves around to gap marking the entrance to Newhaven. Beyond that, barely visible as I look into the glare of the late afternoon haze, must be Brighton.

Seaford has a wide, empty promenade. There are ordinary houses, a few hotels, some restaurants. There is nothing pretentious about this town. It seems an ordinary place where people live and work, but with a great sea front. I find the station and catch a train back to Eastbourne, via Lewes.

“Which platform is the train leaving from?” I ask the young man at the ticket office.
He smiles.
“There is only one platform here.”
And he kindly tells me which platform I need to go to when I reach Lewes.

Original artwork, by Tim Baynes, derived from my Photo of Beachy Head.

This wonderful picture was painted by my ‘artist in residence’ – Tim Baynes. Please visit his website. timbaynesart.co.uk.

Vital stats: miles walked = 13 miles, 1 new blister.

More information:
Beachy Head and Seven Sisters Country Park.
Beachy Head Chaplaincy Team with their tally of ‘despondent’ people rescued, week by week.

Posted in 06 Sussex | Tagged coast, hiking, photography, travel, walking | 7 Comments

Ruth's Coastal Walk (UK)

61. Prinsted, Thorney Island, Emsworth and Langstone

60. Bosham to Prinsted, Southbourne

59. East Wittering to Bosham

58. Pagham to Selsey Bill to East Wittering

57. Littlehampton to Bognor Regis and Pagham

56. Ferring to Littlehampton

55. Shoreham to Worthing To Ferring

54. Brighton to Hove to Southwick

53. Seaford to Brighton

52. Eastbourne to Seaford

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