Ruth's Coastal Walk (UK)

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.

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.

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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.

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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.

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Eastbourne station has noisy gulls that walk along the platform, bold in their approach, hoping for food. At first I think this particular gull has a piece of red meat (or blood) staining its lower beak. Later, I realise it is a coloured mark characteristic of Herring Gulls; a species in decline at the moment – although you would not guess it from their intrusive, noisy presence on this railway platform.

I catch the train to Cooden Beach, just to the west of Bexhill. The train trundles along, at a leisurely pace, past houses, lakes, countryside and then along the beach itself. Cooden Beach station is deserted and I am the only person making my way off the platform, down the gently sloping ramps, to the street. The beach is a short walk away.

I reach the beach, stumble over the shingle and head for the waterline. The tide is low, and there is a narrow band of sand close to the waves. I walk here, dodging the occasional incoming wave, where the ground is firmer and progress possible.

The beach is deserted apart from a lone dog walker. Ahead, at the top of the beach, I see a line of beach huts; empty on this Tuesday morning in June – with rain and thunderstorms forecast.

Further ahead, around a gently curving bay, I can just make out the squat shape of a Martello Tower. This is shown on my map as being the other side of Norman’s Bay. Norman’s Bay, despite its name, appears as a straight piece of coastline on the map. I have become so used to seeing curves in the coast where none exist on the map, I have given up wondering if this is my eyes playing tricks, a phenomenon to do with the earth’s curvature, or the result of a misleading straightening out of coastline curves by mapmakers.

The beach is empty, apart from the ubiquitous gulls. These are youngsters, with their mottled plumage. Will they grow up to be Herring Gulls or another sort of gull?

After a while, the strip of sand becomes covered by waves and shingle walking becomes too tiring. I move up to walk along the top of the beach, where the shingle is more impacted and the going becomes a little easier.

Here I see posts with life rings. They carry, as usual, warning signs.

For some reason, councils seem incapable of simply putting up a post without attaching bossy signs of various sorts. In Kent, I became used to seeing signs listing the dangerous things to be found on the beach (slippery rocks, hidden obstructions, deep water, mud, etc), so the simplicity of these warnings intrigues me. Apparently, the only thing I need to worry about here is the possibility of oil on the beach. And, if I find any oil, it is definitely NOT the fault of the council. Jolly good.

As I near the Martello Tower (number 55), I see that it is in the process of renovation. The external stone seems far too clean and new – so I suspect most of the tower has been rebuilt. These towers are covered by conservation orders and the outer shape has to be preserved with only a limited number of small windows allowed and, therefore, most conversions involve roof skylights to channel the light into the interior of the structure. This conversion seems to be following the usual pattern, with an intriguing top deck involving large amounts of glass. When it is finished, this will be a fantastic place to live – with wonderful panoramic views over the sea.

I see a large, hunched bird – black and brooding – perched on one of the groin markers. This must be a cormorant. There is something both magnificent and sinister about these birds.

I have no real experience of bird watching but, with the aid of photographs and the wonderful RSPB Bird Identifier page, I am learning to recognise and name the common sea birds as I meet them.

After walking through Norman’s Bay, and past its scaffolding-clad Martello Tower, I approach a place called ‘Beachlands’ on Pevensey Bay. Pevensey Bay runs from Beachlands up to the beginning of Eastbourne.

There are more people around now, walking with dogs, sitting on the shingle, and walking along the top of the beach.

Meanwhile, the sky gets darker. Storm clouds are gathering and I wonder if it is going to rain. I pull my waterproof jacket, neatly packed into a roll, out of the bottom of my rucksack and stow it on top of my water bottles, just to make sure it is easily accessible in case the promised thunderstorms start. Although I don’t mind getting wet, I worry about my iPhone and my camera.

There used to be numerous Martello Towers on this section of coast and, although only a fraction of them remain, there are another two here; number 61 and number 62. Both appear to be in use as residential dwellings. One, although unfortunately positioned in the middle of a static caravan park, has a most amazing garden – full of ornaments and statues.

As I get closer to Eastbourne, I come across a new development. Tall blocks of apartments, with large balconies and fantastic views, line the beach. Behind these are even more apartment complexes. A whole new section of Eastbourne has sprung up here. It is all neat, tidy and organised. I even spot a bus, winding through the estate.

And in the middle of this high-rise modernity is a lone Martello Tower (number 64), sad, dilapidated and falling into ruin. I imagine there is some grand plan for it. But at the moment, it looks very out-of-place with the modern buildings alongside.

At this moment, I hear a rumble of thunder and the heavens open. I pull out my rain jacket and seek shelter under one of the balconies. The rain thuds down with satisfying vigour. There is that wonderful smell of newly wet dusty earth. The world turns grey. The sky grumbles. My path becomes a giant puddle.

During this wait, under the dripping balcony, something surreal happens. I see another walker coming towards me. He is young, tanned and muscular, wearing shorts and proper walking boots, enveloped completely in a transparent plastic raincoat, which covers not only his upper torso but is stretched over his rucksack as well. So he has a strange appearance as if his upper body is swathed in clingfilm. I turn away for a moment and, when I look back, he has disappeared.

The rain lessens slightly and I continue walking. Passing a recess in the buildings I discover the young walker. He appears to be lying face down on the ground. Slightly alarmed, I begin walking towards him. Maybe he has been struck by lightning? Then I realise – he is doing press ups. He is using his knuckles (not the flat of his hands) to push up with. The ground is soaking wet, it is still raining, he is wrapped in his plastic rain jacket with his rucksack on his back. What an odd sight.

The path takes me round a rectangular harbour area, lined with the new buildings. It is very pleasant.

And there, in the midst of this modern developement, I see another cormorant at the water’s edge. It is standing with its wings outstretched, drying them. I can’t resist taking my camera out (despite the rain still falling) to catch a few shots.

Another mystery occurs to me. Earlier on, I saw a few boats pass passing into the harbour, heading for shelter from the weather. Although I saw them moving into the harbour, now I have a clear view of the harbour itself, I can’t see the boats. Where have they gone?

A few minutes later the mystery is solved. There is an inner marina, crammed full of boats; mainly yachts and small motor craft. To access this inner waterway, you pass through a lock. In fact there are two locks. One of them is currently in operation, with a ship being slowly raised as water pours in, getting ready to dock in the safety of the protected marina.

I was anticipating a trudge around the marina area to reach the coast on the other side and to continue my walk into Eastbourne. This turns out to be unneccessary, as I can cross over the mouth of the marina using pedestrian walkways that run across the locks. A system of traffic lights controls where and when these walkways can be used. I linger here for a while, watching the locks in action and marvelling at the mechanical means by which large masses of water can be raised and lowered.

Amazingly, in this newly developed area, I see a small white egret on the edge of the water, seemingly oblivious to the high rise apartments, the cyclists, joggers and walkers who have emerged as the rain subsides. I wonder how long this area will continue to be attractive to the cormorant and the egret.

On the other side is Langney Point and here, in a dilapidated state, is another Martello Tower (number 66). Again it looks as though this is in the process of renovation, surrounded by scaffolding and draped in plastic.

By now the dark skies are lighter and the rain has cleared. We were promised huge thunderstorms but the whole event has lasted less than an hour.

(Later I learn some local houses were hit by lightning strikes and, in retrospect, I was lucky to have experienced little bad weather during this walk.)

As I round Langney Point, I can see Eastbourne ahead and Beachy Head rising beyond. My legs are tired and I am looking forward to ending my walk for today.

Now I find I am walking past a large building with a modern design and nice, flowing shapes. A sign tells me it is water treatment centre. Really? It looks far too imposing to be a sewage works. But that is what it is. And I gather, according to the local news, all has not been smelling sweet in the locality. But today there is no whiff of sewage in the air.

I head towards Eastbourne along a lovely wide promenade, with a cycle track and a pedestrian walkway. On my left is a patch of shingle with natural plants growing, including flowers and the shingle beach beyond. There are also fishing boats and tackle, sailing dinghies and windsurfers. It is a wonderful amble and, despite the grey skies, I enjoy it thoroughly.

Unfortunately, it is too dull for good photography and I am too tired to linger and struggle with the finer points of camera control. But I do snap these colourful deck chairs. How could you resist advertising your local business here?

Beyond the pier, at the Western end of Eastbourne, is another Martello Tower (number 73 according to the classification)

I am very impressed by Eastbourne. I expected a run down seaside resort, full of old people. Yes, there were many elderly people, but there were also middle-aged and young people with families. Due to the shingle beach, this will never be a bucket-and-spade resort for young children, but I found it attractive and pleasant.

Finally, here are two photos of the lovely pier. One is taken in the morning light and the second in the evening.

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Vital stats: miles walked = 9 miles, rainstorms = 1, Martello Towers = 6.

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I am staying in Eastbourne and I take the local train to Hastings to continue my walk. After stopping for lunch (fish and chips, of course), I walk through Hastings towards the beach and emerge by the pier.

What a sad sight this pier is!

Burnt buildings, roofless wrecks, timbers showing, seagulls perching on shattered planking – a blackened and rusting structure. Warning signs advise people on the beach to stay away and not to walk beneath the pier, in case timbers fall on your head.

But attempts are being made to save it. Although the entrance to the pier is closed and barred, bunting hangs across the gate and signs proudly declare that the pier is loved and can be saved. I am not so sure.

Leaving the sad pier behind, I walk along the wide promenade, heading westwards. I sit in one of the shelters, in the shade, and have a drink. The sun is hot. I apply sun block before continuing.

A hundred yards further along, I stop to check my phone and realise it is not in my pocket. With a sinking feeling, I empty out my rucksack and search through the maps, tissues, plaster, drinks bottles and various spare bits of clothing I have crammed inside. No sign of my phone. I must have left it on the seat when I stopped in the shelter. Surely someone will have picked it up and taken it. Who could resist a free iPhone?

It is hard to run in walking boots, but run I do – back to the shelter. On the black painted seat is my black iPhone – barely visible, black on black. What a relief!

Leaving Hastings behind, I walk along a gravel path that runs along the side of the railway line, parallel to the beach and behind a jumble of huts, boats, fishing tackle, and sheds. I would prefer to walk on the beach itself, but the tide is in and there is no sand; I would be walking on rough shingle, too much like hard work, especially in this heat.

This track is not marked as a footpath on my map and I am not clear if I can make it from here to Bexhill without detouring inland. Knowing my route inland is barred by the railway line, I am hoping I don’t reach a dead-end. I don’t want to have to retrace my steps.

I reach an area called Glyne Gap on my map. The tide has retreated and I can walk across wet sands. There is a great view across to Hastings. I stop and take photographs. Unfortunately, I don’t manage a self-portrait – I fail to get to the right place in the 12 seconds I am allowed. So I end up with a number of photos of an empty beach.

Apart from a dog walker and a cyclist (who has wobbled his way across the beach), there is nobody close by.

Now a mass of rocks bars my way. The arrangement of the rocks doesn’t look natural. I guess they have been placed here to prevent erosion. I am forced to turn inland. Luckily, I find a path leading up from the beach to a hill (Galley Hill on my map, where I stop for a rest on a bench and admire some great view). Then I follow a path along a low cliff, heading towards Bexhill.

I see Bexhill ahead of me and the path slopes gently downwards, running alongside a quiet road.

Here I come across a plaque commemorating the ‘First International Motor Race Meeting’, which took place in Bexhill-on-Sea in 1903. This quiet road must have been part of the race track.

I imagine a time, years ago, when racing cars were quieter, slower and you could race along a winding beach road. How exciting, and daring, such a race must have seemed.

The beach in Bexhill is a mix of sand and rocks – creating an exciting playground of rock pools and beach for children to play in. This is a great beach for families – and a nice change from the shingle beaches at Hastings.

I walk along the promenade, that narrows as I leave the busier part of Bexhill behind and I find I am walking alongside some very nice seaside properties. These houses have gardens that open directly onto the promenade.

I have a train to catch from one of the little stations that are dotted along the railway track. The station I am heading for is called Cooden Beach and, when I arrive, I find it is unmanned and deserted. I buy my ticket from a machine and walk up a long, covered slope to the platform. I find myself alone.

While I wait, a recorded message booms out over the announcement system. It tells me it is hot and I shouldn’t travel without a bottle of water – and then kindly informs me my train is about to arrive. I wonder where I should buy my water from, on this deserted station. And is it possible to buy water in the 30 seconds I am given between the announcement and the train arriving? For whose benefit is this announcement being made?

Later, I learn that trains broke down in North Kent earlier today. Passengers, overcome by the heat, forced their way out of hot railway carriages. The authorities shut off the power to the ‘live’ rail, causing further disruption. Sounds like a miserable time was had by many commuters trying to make their way home.

My train arrives on time. I am glad to rest my feet during the short journey back to Eastbourne.

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Vital stats:
miles walked = 8
blisters = 0
sunburn = 0
lost phone = 1, found phone = 1

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