Ruth's Coastal Walk (UK)

51. Bexhill to Eastbourne

Posted on June 28, 2011 by Ruth Livingstone

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.

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

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

50. Hastings to Bexhill

Posted on June 27, 2011 by Ruth Livingstone

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.

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

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

49. Rye Harbour to Hastings

Posted on May 30, 2011 by Ruth Livingstone

It is bank holiday Monday – the last weekend in May. I am looking forward to today’s walk. There is, apparently, no right of way along the sea wall, so I leave Rye Harbour following a track running just inland of the shoreline. I am walking through a nature reserve area, alongside lakes.

Unfortunately, this section of the walk proves to be not as scenic as I hoped. The nature reserve is in the process of being constructed. The lakes are hidden by tall bushes. Private signs force me to stick to the track. I see no birds, no water, no sea – this path is somewhat boring.

I approach Winchelsea beach and houses appear, lining the track. The track widens into a road. I meet young girls, in brightly coloured welly boots, taking dogs for walks. The girls wear shorts and thick jackets. The wind may have dropped, but the sky is overcast and it is not warm.

Somebody has created a doggies’ ‘organic’ drink bar by the side of the road. I find the sign amusing and stop to take photographs.

The track joins the sea wall.

Here there is a wide shingle beach and a narrow walk-way along the sea bank. I look back towards Rye Harbour. I guess I could have walked along the coast after all.

Looking in a south-westerly direction, the shingle beach stretches round a point and beyond, towards distant cliffs. That must be the aptly named ‘Cliff End’, shown on my map. There is a high cliff in the distance, pale in the haze, and I wonder if this is Beachy Head.

A red flag is flying. I presume this means ‘no swimming’.

I sit for a while and have a drink, eating a snack. I remember how to take a self-portrait using my camera’s timer (I am getting better at this).

In the photo I look relaxed, despite having run across the beach to get into position.

I walk along the shingle beach – not on the shingle itself, but sticking to the path running along the sea wall.

I pass a low area where there is a green field and people playing football. An information sign tells me that this green space was the site of a New Harbour, built at great expense to replace Rye Harbour further up the coast, after the old harbour became blocked with silt and shingle. The New Harbour opened in the summer of 1787 but, after only three months of use, itself became the victim of shifting shingle and was also blocked. The New Harbour was abandoned in October 1787.

I am amazed to learn that the old Rye Harbour is still kept open, as a functioning harbour, by continual dredging to remove 55,000 tons of shingle a year.

Below the sea wall is a road. A few cars pass to and fro. Sometimes a car stops, people get up and climb the bank, look at the sea for a few moments and then return to their cars.

While I walk, a truck stops in a lay by on the road below. The front passenger door opens and three men in yellow vests fall out. Literally, they fall out. The one on the bottom starts wailing in mock protest. The others hoot with laughter. Seeing me above them, he quickly gets up. One of the men takes the bag from the bin by the road, throwing it into the back of the truck. The three men pile back into the front seat and the driver, who remained in the cab, starts the truck up again.

A few minutes later, I see them repeat the exercise, in another lay by, further down the road.

Three men to empty one bin? I wonder why. Could this have anything to do with it being a bank holiday Monday? Overtime payments, perhaps?

The clouds clear and the sun comes out. To my right, I look across Pett Level, across green fields dotted with sheep and up to a windmill on a rise. Somewhere, just before the land rises into a ridge, is the Royal Military Canal and the long distance path that runs along it.

Later I learn the Canal was built as a defensive ditch – to defend Romney Marsh from an anticipated invasion by Napoleon. This incredible project (the 28 mile ditch was dug by hand – using picks and shovels) was not completed until the Napoleon threat had passed. Embarrassed by the cost – the defensive ditch was converted into a navigation canal. Now it is used by fishermen, walkers and cyclists. Some sections are still open for boats.

I expected to find the opening of the Canal, where it joins the sea. But I never did. Instead, I find myself walking along a promenade at a place called ‘Pett / Cliff End’. The promenade ends in a dead-end.

I retrace my steps and join the road. After a short while, I find a footpath off to the left. The footpath leads upwards, steeply climbing up the slope that marks the beginning of the cliffs. I walk along the back of gardens. In some places, the path is very narrow – high garden fences on one side, bushes and a steep drop on the other.

When I reach the top, I walk along the side of fields and can see the base of the cliff at an area called Fairlight Cove. It almost looks as though the cliff has been quarried here. But, in fact, the cliff has crumbled into the sea (the coast moving 100m inland in the past 100 years) and attempts have been made to pile earth and rocks at the base to protect against further erosion.

Later, I find out there is a naturist beach at Fairlight Cove – although access to the beach is deterred due to the dangers posed by erosion. There are great fossils to be found here. And dinosaurs’ footprints.

I see no fossils, no dinosaur footprints and no nudists.

But I do meet my husband in the village. He has walked along from Hastings to meet me. He has managed to find a pub for lunch and keeps me company for the rest of my walk.

The walk from Fairlight Cove to Hastings is lovely. This is a Country Park, with free right to roam. Multiple footpaths criss cross over the top of the cliffs. And the going is not easy. We go down into dips, climb up steep banks on the other side, down again, up again.

The sky has clouded over and rain threatens to come but never actually arrives. Sadly, my photography is ruined by the poor light.

Signs tell us access to the beach below is not advised, although we do see narrow tracks leading downwards. We come to one such path and meet a family climbing up. My husband asks if we can get down to the beach below and a young man in the group says we can, if we don’t mind climbing a bit.

We head downwards, following a small stream, clambering over rocks, until we emerge on a natural ledge, 10 feet or more above the beach. The sun comes out. The beach below is invitingly sandy. It would be great to walk into Hastings along the sand. But the climb down to the beach is exactly that – a climb. In walking boots! It is impossible.

My husband is reluctant to give up the notion of getting onto the beach. Eventually I persuade him it is best not to risk broken bones. We turn back and scramble back up, the way we came, to rejoin the walk along the top of the cliffs.

When we reach Hastings, there is a lovely stretch of greenery at the top, with an ice-cream van, and people walking. From here we look down on the town and its pier. It is late afternoon. The clouds have broken. The sun is in our eyes, bouncing off the water, turning the sea silver.

We follow steps that lead down from the cliff, and emerge through a narrow alleyway onto the sea front itself. The beach here is very shingly. We see a family feeding seagulls – with much flapping and noise.

Ahead, as we walk along the promenade, we see the pier. It is a blackened ruin – broken and burnt. What a sad sight!

Just beyond the pier is our car. I am very tired, having walked many miles and up and down. My husband, much to my annoyance, is still full of energy and, even more galling, is completely and utterly blister-free.

Vital stats: miles walked = 12

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

48. Lydd to Rye to Rye Harbour

Posted on May 29, 2011 by Ruth Livingstone

This morning is wild and very, very windy. My husband drops me at a roundabout in Lydd. I am three miles from the sea and have a long inland walk ahead of me.

Before setting off this morning, I was beset with indecision. I stopped my last day of walking at Lydd and I have to start my walk today from the same place, Lydd. My mission, to walk as close to the coast as I can, would suggest I return to Dungeness and make another attempt to walk along the shingle bank to Camber. But, there is no guarantee the firing range will be open and, if I can’t make the walk along the shore, I will be forced to walk all the way back to Lydd just to get round the ‘danger area’.

Sometimes I wish I hadn’t created so many rules! But, if I am claiming to walk around the coast, then cutting out sections because it is too difficult is simply not an option.

So, I walk through Lydd, past the army camp, heading for the B2075 for Camber and Rye. There is a cycle way that runs along this road and I hope the walking will be safe and easy. I walk across a wide area of common land and notice the grass is brown with dry, bare patches – as though it was the end of a long, hot summer – not late May.

The cycle way is new, smooth and runs along the road, but separated from the traffic by a screen of bushes and tall grasses.

Out in the open, I experience the true force of the wind. I am really, really glad I haven’t tried to walk along the shingle today. If I found it difficult and tiring yesterday, it would be doubly so today.

The cycle track passes under the line of pylons, carrying electricity from the Nuclear Power Station at Dungeness. The pylons fizz and crackle with their electrical charge. I stand, buffeted by the wind, enjoying the noise and the exhilarating sensation of being close to such immense, and lethal, power.

Suddenly there is a screech of brakes and a young lad on a cycle skids and swerves to avoid me. I am irritated. Young rascal. Then he says, very politely, ‘I’m sorry. It was my fault.’

As he cycles off, I consider my instant and unfair reaction. It wasn’t really his fault. He was cycling along the cycle path, probably head down struggling with the wind, and came across a middle-aged woman standing in the middle of the path, looking up at a pylon. It was, obviously, not his fault – it was mine.

The path winds along, with the road and military range beyond on one side. On the other side is a view across windswept lakes and farmland. In the distance I see quarry works (I believe these lakes are the result of gravel extraction) and, nearer the coast, a wind farm. There are birds on the lake, including wind-blown swans, heads tucked protectively under their wings.

I pass Lydd Caravan Park, where static caravans are parked around and beneath the hissing, sizzling pylons. A sign declares units for sale, under the heading ‘Do you want the quiet life?’. I am not convinced, listening to the crackle of electricity and the whistling of the wind, that this is the best-selling point to feature.

Further along, I come to a pile of old hay bales, piled into a stack. A group of sheep and their lambs are around the bales. At first I think they are eating. But the bales are old and are not there for nourishment. They are a wind break. The sheep see me approaching and begin to move away. As they leave the lee of the bales, the wind catches their fleeces and tugs their wool into wild shapes.

I come across a signpost on the cycle track and realise I am on the border of Kent, about to cross over into Sussex. Another county and another milestone on my walk.

The cycle track changes, instantly, at the junction between Kent and Sussex; smooth tarmac gives way to rough gravel.

Round the corner and I meet a couple of cyclists, heading towards me. Their tyres bounce and skid on the gravel. How do they get to Dungeness? I explain they have to go to Lydd and turn right. The girl looks fed up and remarks it will be difficult cycling back against the wind. I tell them there is a pub in Dungeness. This seems to cheer them up. Later, it occurs to me that the last leg of their trip – from Lydd to Dungeness – will be against the full force of the gale. I wonder if they make it.

As I approach the sea, the wind gets worse. The road reaches the coast, at a place on the map called Jury’s Gap, where a few windswept houses huddle together. I climb up onto the sea wall. It is great to be back on the shore, but the force of the gale takes my breath away. I am truly glad, in retrospect, not to have attempted the walk along the shingle from Dungeness to here.

I look along the bank to the East and see, beyond the firing range, the hulk of the nuclear power station looming, dully, in the distance. The sea is grey, the waves high, the surf beats and lashes at the shingle.

Looking along the coast to the West, I see a cheering sight. There are kitesurfers out. Their bright kites bob along the shore. And here are windsurfers too, scudding furiously over the waves. People are standing on the bank, watching. This area is famous for kitesurfing and people come from miles around to participate or to watch.

As I get closer to Camber, the number of kitesurfers increases. Cars are arriving and young men are unpacking equipment. Women and children huddle on the beach. The wind is ferocious.

The speed of the riders – and the height they achieve as they launch themselves off the waves – is amazing. They need skill and physical strength. I watch as a kiter tries to beach himself. He launches himself towards the unforgiving shingle, leaping off his board as he approaches shallow water, and struggling to control his kite to which his body is harnessed. As he wrestles with the lines, trying to pull the kite in, his board is caught in the undertow of the waves and begins to be dragged out to sea. He runs after it and steps onto the board – trying to pin it down – while his body is wrenched to and fro by the force of the kite above him. Eventually, with the board tucked under his arm, and with a great deal of splashing among the huge waves, he manages to force the kite down onto the beach.

There see no women kiteboarding today.

Leaving the kiteboarders behind, I approach Camber. Here the tide is going out, exposing an expanse of wide sands. There are some rather nice houses lining the beach. I head for a cafe and have lunch – overcooked fish and the ubiquitous chips.

When I emerge, the sea is far away and the exposed sand is being whipped inland by the winds. My plan was to walk along the sands until I met the mouth of the River Rother, and then to walk along the dunes, heading inland along the river and into Rye. After several eye-fulls of sand, I change my mind. Even with glasses on, I can’t walk into the wind.

So, I turn away from the beach and walk along the cycle path, once again, leading me towards Rye.

I pass a golf club, with golfers straining against the wind, before finding a footpath that runs across fields, through sheep, towards the town of Rye.

On the way, I see this pretty bird with a pink breast. It looks a bit like a robin, but has a longer tail and black head. I photograph it and, later, with the aid of the RSPB bird identifier, I find out is a stonechat.

Rye looks lovely in the afternoon sunshine, breaking through the clouds. As I approach, a fun fair is in full swing. I walk through a park and traffic-jammed roads, heading for the bridge that will take me over the river.

I find a little flower shop that doubles as a cafe. I order coffee and have a cake. When I walk in, people stare at me. I wonder if they are looking at my boots, my jaunty little rucksack, or admiring my general air of health and wellbeing. After a very good lemon curd bun (although I did order banana cake), I visit the loo and find out, by looking in the mirror, that my hair is sticking up on end and covered in sand. I look like a wild woman. Or a scarecrow.

The car park in the centre of Rye is full of motor bikes. I don’t know how they cope with the wind, but it is less obvious here, in the shelter of the town. The river is pretty and the old part of Rye has cobbled streets and historic buildings. There are a large number of tourists milling about, I hear French, German and Dutch being spoken.

But I don’t have time to linger and explore Rye. My destination today is Rye Harbour, on the west bank of the river and close to the sea.

I walk along the road to Rye Harbour, through an industrial estate. One of the many interesting things I see, is an ostrich farm. The ostriches look at me, through the mesh of tall fences. Their eyes are enormous. But their brains must be tiny.

Further along, I smell a wonderful scent – curry spices. I am passing a spice grinding facility. Bring your spices and have them ground here!

There is a huge industrial complex belonging to Solvent Resource Management Limited. I hear the sound of machinery operating, despite the fact this is a bank holiday Sunday. Later I learn this reprocesses waste, particularly organic solvents, and has close links to Ketton Cement – an industry based only a few miles away from where I live.

As I approach Rye Harbour, I note the church and the lane down which I will resume my walk tomorrow. But I carry on to the car park at the end of the road. Here is a ruined Martello Tower, surrounded by a high bank but recessed inside it – giving the impression of a castle keep surrounded by a dry moat and high bank. This is odd and I have not come across another Martello Tower with this external structure before. I wonder if the high bank is to protect against flooding.

Sitting on the bank, by the tower, waiting for my husband, I look at the boats moored in the harbour on the river. The river is very narrow and the ships are pleasure crafts, not working boats. Across the water, seemingly very close, I notice the golf course. Yes, it is the one I passed earlier. I have walked a long way to arrive back at the mouth of this river.

Despite the wind, the dark clouds, the whipping sand – today has been a great day of walking and I have made progress. Tomorrow I am heading for Hastings.

Vital stats: miles walked = 12, new blisters = 0

To get a feel for the excitement of kitesurfing, take a look at this video:

Posted in 05 Kent, 06 Sussex | Tagged coast, hiking, kitesurfing, photography, travel, walking | 11 Comments

47. Dungeness to Lydd

Posted on May 28, 2011 by Ruth Livingstone

I walk along wood planking, across the shingle and down to the beach at Lydd-on-Sea. The sky is dark and threatening. The wind is strong.

Two ladies, wrapped up against the chill of the wind, are sitting on the end of the wooden walkway. Two men (their husbands?) are out on the exposed muddy beach, digging for bait.

Nobody else is here. My footsteps are the only ones on the sand.

As I walk along the beach, the tide is down and there is a wide expanse of flat, muddy sand to walk on. I feel invigorated, full of energy, ready for the day ahead. In the distance I can see the tip of Dungeness. Behind me, hidden by haze and low cloud, is the wide sweep of the bay, back to Dymchurch and Hythe. I imagine, although I can’t see, the long promenade and Folkestone beyond.

As I walk, in the area between beach and shingle, I notice a dead fish. Then another one. Then another. Every 3 or 4 yards, I find a dead fish. And smashed up crabs.

I wonder if a fishing vessel has unloaded catch it is not allowed to keep – fish that are too small and have to be dumped overboard? But then I decide it is the power of the waves, killing the fish by pounding them in the surf against rough shingle. I don’t know for sure.

As I head south, heading towards the misty tip of Dungeness, the strip of exposed sand on which I am walking becomes narrower.

From time to time, I hear the chuffing and tooting of the little steam train. A few minutes after the toots, I get the whiff – slightly acidic in the back of my nose – of steam and coal and oil. Then the air clears again, as the wind whips around my face.

After a little while, I look back and realise the tide has come in, covering the sands up to the shingle, all along the beach I have just walked on. In less than an hour, the sea has flooded in, silently, behind me.

With no firm surface to walk on, I head inland across the shingle. As usual, walking on dry shingle is hard work. Every step I take forwards, results in a downwards slide backwards. I have to work twice as hard to make any progress. My legs ache.

Dungeness itself is a weird place. There is shingle everywhere, as though we are on one enormous, endless beach – and I suppose we are. Although this is a designated National Nature Reserve, people live and work here. The houses are, in the main, made out of wood and single story. Many of them have boats lying alongside. Some homes appear to be old railway carriages. Everything is higgledy-piggledy. Telephone cables loop between poles that criss-cross the spaces between buildings.

This is not a wealthy place. These are not luxury holiday cottages.

The road winds through the houses, heading for the power station at the tip. And along the road runs the railway track. When I walked to Lydd-on-Sea from Littlestone-on-Sea, I had heard the little steam train before and had caught a glimpse of it. So I am expecting a small engine and ‘toy’ carriages and am not taken by surprise when the tiny train passes me – with much tooting and chuffing – heading for the tip of Dungeness.

Along the shingle, close to the sea, are fishing boats, shacks, and an odd collection of rusting machinery and old railway tracks, leading out to sheds. A working place.

There are two lighthouses at the end.

The new one is enormous. I am dizzy looking up at it.

The second lighthouse is older, smaller and no longer functioning. The Old Lighthouse remains a Grade 2 listed building, open to the public and available for weddings.

I am no longer the only tourist here. Cars arriving with people coming out for this bank holiday Saturday, braving the blowy weather. People walk and take photographs – of the shingle vegetation, of the lighthouses, of the sea.

And above us all, ahead, is the power station. This is a fully functioning nuclear station. It doesn’t have the charm of Sizewell – the buildings are too flat and squat. It is missing the wonderful dome. But it does irradiate a feeling of immense power.

I stop at the only pub in Dungeness, where I plan to meet my husband for lunch. The place is quiet. Then a train arrives at the little station close by. Cold, windblown people head for the shelter of the pub and the place is soon full.

After lunch, I set off, heading around the perimeter of the power station. My plan is to walk along the coast, following the shore, from here to Camber Sands and then on to Rye.

Alas, things do not go according to my plan.

When I get past the shelter of the power station, and climb up to the top of the bank, I experience the full force of the wind. It threatens to knock me off the bank. I struggle to keep my foothold in the loose shingle. Luckily someone has driven a vehicle up here, and the stones are somewhat impacted, making the going – although difficult – not impossible.

On the beach, huge waves crash and break against more shingle. There is no sand on which to walk.

Buffeted by wind, and fighting for a foothold on the shingle, I continue onwards. Only 5 miles of this, and I will reach Jury’s Gap and – if the map is correct – I will find sand to walk on. In the meantime, the only sand around is being blown at me, horizontally, getting into my eyes, my nose, my hair, even my ears.

Ahead of me is a military watchtower. I have been looking for this. I am about to enter a firing range. Apparently, the range operates 300 days a year. I am hoping it will not be used today, being bank holiday weekend.

I don’t know for sure. Hythe Community Web site provided information about the opening times of the Palmarsh ranges. But a Google search did not turn up any specific information about times for the Lydd firing ranges at Dungeness. I did find an MoD link and rang their out-of-hours telephone number the previous night. But nobody answered.

So, I am on the lookout for red flags and lights.

The watchtower appears empty and I can see no lights. But there is a flag. A red flag. A definitely red flag, fluttering madly in the wind. But is it a ‘real’ red flag? Or just an old flag left carelessly on the platform? How can I tell?

I sit down on a large rock and consider my options. If there is live firing on the range, I cannot continue along the shore. The ranges are placed so that artillery fire and rifle shots are aimed over the sea. I am nearly being blown off the bank. I don’t want to be blown up too.

Looking at my map, I cannot see a clear right-of-way inland. But there are a few footpaths and ahead, only half a mile inland, is a track that I may be able to walk on and this leads me to a circuitous road. After dithering a little longer, checking and re-checking the map in the hope that a new red dotted ‘right-of-way’ line will mysteriously appear, I set off across the strange shingled surface of the Dungeness nature reserve. The shingle here is rather ‘dirty’ looking, darker grey surfaces on the brown/grey stones. There are clumps of bushes and grasses. In some places, the shingle is covered by thick plants, like matting, creating a soft carpet to walk on.

But the shingle, undulating gently and covered in low plants, is utterly featureless. Far ahead I can see a water tower and a church. But I can’t make out, on my map, what the tower is and which church I am looking at. I feel disoriented and uneasy. I have the dangerous firing range on one side. A nuclear power plant with fierce warning signs on the other. A howling gale blowing behind me. And ahead is a protected nature reserve, across which I am not supposed to wander freely (signs advise sticking to the paths).

Reluctantly, after tramping around for a while, and getting very dusty, I retrace my steps past the nuclear power station. As I return, I notice an illuminated sign board within the nuclear site. The sign proclaims in red lights, as if it is some wonderful feat, ‘26 event free days’. Hang on! What happened 27 days ago? What do they mean by an ‘event’?

Then I trudge back to the pub, back to the lighthouse. From here, definitely marked on my map, a footpath sets off across the Nature Reserve, heading for Lydd.

I am reassured. But really my troubles have only just begun. The path is marked. But only just. Intermittently. Halfheartedly. In fact, the signposts consist of short poles, sticking up above the ground by 1-2 feet. This makes them impossible to spot from a distance. And the footpath leads to a narrow strip of land, running across a large lake. If I miss the strip of land, I will have to walk round the whole lake.

To add to my worries, the shingle here is extremely deep and very, very loose. I feel I am walking in deep mud. Or walking through a trench of soft snow. My boots slip and slide. My knees ache. Dust, tossed up by my footsteps, blows around me, coating my boots and trousers in a grey film. Part of me reassures myself – I can always turn back. But after a while, I know I can’t. I have come too far. It is 4 o’clock in the afternoon. I have already spent 3 hours trudging around Dungeness. I need to press on.

The trail seems frighteningly illusive. I keep the Old Lighthouse directly to my back. I watch for the footpath markers ahead – I can only see one at a time. I keep walking. Just as I am about to give up, and decide to strike out for the road I can see running to the north, I spot the strip of land. It crosses the lake, taking me towards Lydd. And, blessed relief, it is remarkably shingle free.

Safely across the lakes, I walk through a field full of sheep and strange dead bushes. I join the road by Boulderwall Farm. Now I have a two-mile trek into Lydd, following a road with no pavements. Luckily traffic is light and I make good progress.

I text my husband and ask him to pick me up from the roundabout in Lydd.
“Don’t you mean Rye?” he replies.
“No.” I reply, shortly.

Later, when I look at my map again, I realise I have only really travelled 3 miles today – and they were all inland, not along the coast.

But, I have spent several hours trekking through some of the weirdest scenery in England – rare plants and an exotic landscape – all in the shadow of a great nuclear reactor. What more did I want?

There is information on Wikipedia about the Dungeness Nuclear Power Station.
You can find out more about the lighthouses of Dungeness on the Trinity House website. Trinity House is the General Lighthouse Authority for England and Wales (and the Channel Islands and Gibraltar too – to be strictly accurate).

Vital stats: miles walked = 13 miles – but none in the right direction!

Posted in 05 Kent | Tagged coast, dungeness, nuclear power station, photography, travel | 10 Comments

Stage 46. Hythe to Lydd-on-Sea

Posted on May 15, 2011 by Ruth Livingstone

Today will be long and tiring. I don’t know this yet, so I set off in good spirits.

I walk along the Hythe promenade until it ends. There is a boat yard ahead. Well, not exactly a yard, more a section of beach with boats on it. Signs warn me of dangers. I can’t see a footpath, so I walk through the boats, jumping over ropes, and reach the beginning of Palmarsh Ranges. Ahead I can see a couple of Martello towers.

The way is blocked by more warning signs. This is an active, military firing range. I have checked on the Internet and there is no shooting planned today. I am relieved, all the same, to see no red flags or warning lights.

I would like to walk on the beach, but the tide is high and I am forced to walk on difficult shingle. Further along, the shingle is covered by waves and I end up climbing over groynes and over rocks. It is going to take me a very long time to get to Dymchurch at this rate. And I was hoping to get to Dungeness today.

I begin to reappraise my plans for lunch, when I see a man walking on the bank above me. I scramble up the shingle and realise there is a track running along the beach. After this, I make good progress. Apart from the one solitary walker (who passes me, heading for Hythe) I see nobody else until I reach Dymchurch Redoubt.

The firing ranges fascinate me. They are clearly positioned so that you fire from inland with the bullets whizzing out to sea. I like seeing the huge numbers ‘1’, ‘2’, ‘3’ and so on, silhouetted against the sky. Surreal.

Later on, I pass signs telling me not to take photographs. I obey. Of course.

In the distance, I see buildings reminding me of a set on a Western film; the fronts are painted to look like terraced houses in an ordinary street, the backs are just unpainted plywood. There is a SUV (I have no idea if it is real or not) in the ‘street’ and some obstructions that mimic road blocks. I also see the grey roofs of a small housing estate. But the estate is surrounded by very high walls and there are huge lights around the perimeter. I can’t work out if it is some kind of prison block, or another practice area for military training.

There is a third Martello tower on this section of coast, but the foundations have been undermined and the tower has toppled over.

I reach the end of the firing range and the end of the beach. There are a couple of fishermen, but otherwise this section of coast is deserted.

I have made good progress and wonder if I will make it to Dungeness today. For a few minutes, I rest beside a mast – probably a radio antennae – consulting my map and having a drink with a snack.

Continuing along the sea wall, making my way around a rocky outcrop, I come across a warning sign.

“Caution non-ionising radiation” and, more ominously, “Do not loiter within 2 metres of any antenna.” I look back at the mast where I have just spent 10 minutes of ‘loitering’. A bit late to tell me now! Why not have the warning sign actually on the antenna?

Later, I look up non-ionising radiation. It is not as terrifying as it sounds. I may have risked being cooked by microwave rays, but that doesn’t seem as bad as being exposed to nuclear radioactivity.

I walk round the fenced off Dymchurch Redoubt . Mistakenly, I believe this is an old WW2 defence structure. Later, I learn this was built as part of the much older Martello Tower defence system – and was completed in 1812.

Having made my way round the seaward side of the Redoubt, along the slippery concrete skirt of the sea wall, I come to a wide slope leading upwards. Signs tell me I can only use the slipway in an emergency. Since there is no other way forward, apart from swimming, I ignore the signs and go up the slipway, climbing over a low barrier at the top.

I am standing at the end of a long promenade. Ahead of me, stretching into the distance, is a wide, new-looking, concrete walkway. This looks like easy walking. But also rather boring. And so it is.

I pass – and am passed by – a few dog walkers. Otherwise, not much happens. For mile after mile.

After a while, I walk on the landward edge. At least here there is something to look at. If I walk close to the wall, I can see over it. There are occasional steps up from the road beneath, and I notice the steps either start above the wall, or have flood gates in front of them. This promenade is part of newly competed sea defences. Further along, I discover some parts are still under construction.

The land seems very flat and low. Is it my imagination, or is it even lower than the sea? I look over a large caravan park. Beyond are flat marshes (Romney Marshes) and beyond that I see the ground rising up to form a ridge. At the base of the ridge, invisible from here, runs the Royal Military Canal, leading from Hythe to Rye. Along the ridge itself, runs The Saxon Shore Way.

For a moment, I wish I had stayed on the high ground and followed The Saxon Shore Way. The view up there must be more interesting than down here.

The walkway is punctuated by benches, on which I see nobody sitting. But I do notice signs fluttering. Taking a moment to look at one, I realise these are ‘lost dog’ signs. I wonder how long they have been here?

Then another thought strikes me. All these signs (and I pass 10 or more of them) are hand written. Immediately, I picture an elderly person (clearly not a computer owner), laboriously writing out these signs and then pinning them, one by one, to the benches. How sad and desperate they must have been. I wonder if the dog has been found.

Further along, I pass more Martello towers. One tower has been converted into a private house. Apart from the lack of windows, I imagine this is a fine place to live. Later, I see a tower that actually has a large gun on top, as it was originally designed to have. I don’t know if this an original, or not.

At this point, I am forced to detour off the sea wall, due to ongoing construction projects. I walk down a road, before finding another footpath to rejoin the coast again.

The promenade here is gleaming new, so bright it almost hurts my eyes.

The defences are impressive. There are groynes in the sea – the tips of the wooden structures just visible below the waves. The stepped base of the wall leads up to a lower walkway with a high, curved wall (designed to reflect back the waves and minimise undermining of the structure) and a higher walkway above this, with a further wall beyond. This is part of our ongoing battle to contain the sea and preserve the shore.

I remember the twisted remains of sea defences in Norfolk – particularly poor, sad Happisburg. I wonder how long these will last.

The sea front is beginning to liven up. The weather is fine, although the sun pops in and out of clouds. People are arriving for a day at the beach.

I notice a trailer parked on a slipway, with donkeys patiently waiting alongside the vehicle. The tide is still high, too high for the trailer to get down to the beach. They have to wait for the tide to go out. Later, I suppose, there will be donkey rides along the sand.

A woman on a motorised disabled scooter is moaning to one of the women in charge of the donkeys. She, too, is waiting for the tide to go out, so she can take her scooter down the slipway and onto the sand.

I walk faster now. I realise I am not going to make Dungeness today. My feet are aching and I am growing tired.

Ahead of me, across a bay, I see the outlines of the structures of the nuclear power station. So tantalising close. But just too far away to get there today.

I am walking through a place called St Mary’s Bay. I hoped to stop here for lunch, but there are no pubs (or anything else much) on the sea front. I don’t want to walk through village streets, searching for a pub, so I decided to carry on to Littlestone-on-Sea.

Ahead I can see a tower and, looking on the map, I realise the tower is on the outskirts of Littlestone. This acts as a marker – a beacon – for the next part of my walk.

The sea wall grows narrow. Nobody is walking here. A mother and son pass me on their bicycles. They turn round and come back. I walk. And walk.

I see signs for a hotel and am hopeful for lunch. The wall runs alongside a private road – a track really. After a long while, I pass a grand house. It has a sign advertising functions, such as weddings, and cream teas. This must be the ‘hotel’. How disappointing. No lunch yet!

Further on, and I pass large houses in various stages of decay or renovation. There is run-down feel to this area.

Then I spot the tower. It looks like an old Victorian water tower. (Later I read a post on the Kent History Forum site, indicating the tower was an expensive mistake, as the water was too salty for use. In any case, plans to develop the area into a thriving seaside resort were never fulfilled.) The tower is being used as a residential house. How wonderful!

Further on, I am growing very tired. The beach is shingled. There is a motley collection of beach huts and small boats. The sea wall becomes a rough bank and my feet hurt on the uneven ground. I see no sign of a pub. My heart sinks. It is after 2 pm and I don’t want to walk any further.

Then my husband texts me. He is on his bike and has found a pub ahead. It is a little run down, practically empty, but sells food all day. And I can get to it from the sea wall.

After a good lunch, and a couple of glasses of cider, Littlestone-on-Sea looks much more attractive. And I have my energy back. I decide to walk on to Lydd-on-Sea, where my husband will pick me up from the car park.

The tide is going out. I walk along the shore, close to the waves. A steep shingle bank rises to my right.

Throughout this section of the walk, I hear the sound of the trains running on the small railway track and see the occasional puff of black smoke above the shingle. At one point, in Greatstone-on-Sea, I make my way back off the beach, up to the road and watch for the train to cross over a nearby level crossing. There is a great noise of steam and approaching machinery. When the train finally whizzes over the crossing, it turns out to be a tiny little train, a toy train really. I am amused. In my mind, I was expecting a big steam monster of a train.

I walk along a sand bank, cutting across the bay, making good time.

Down here, below the shingle bank, it is hard to tell where I am. I check my iPhone app and take GPS readings. When I am parallel to Lydd-on-Sea, I fight my way up the shingle bank and find the car park.

This is the edge of the Dungeness nature reserve – Europe’s largest area of shingle beach – a rare and fragile habitat, home to many unusual plants and insects. The next section of my walk will take me into the heart of this unique landscape. I can hardly wait.

To see some great photos of Dymchurch Redoubt, visit the Underground Kent Website.

Vital stats: Miles travelled = 11

Posted in 05 Kent | Tagged coast, hiking, photography, travel, walking | 2 Comments

Stage 45 Dover to Folkestone to Hythe

Posted on May 14, 2011 by Ruth Livingstone

I said my last walk was ‘the best day of walking, ever’. I was wrong. Today is the best day of walking, ever. As we drive along the motorway, approaching Dover, the sun is shining and the air is clear. First thing I notice, when I see the sea, is the firm, definite line of the horizon.

“I wonder if we will be able to see France today?” I remark. “There is no haze.”
“Maybe,” says my husband, “but there is that island in the way.”
“What island?”

Then we realise. It’s not an island. We can see France. How many times have we driven to Dover to catch the ferry? And only once did we catch a glimpse of France. That was very early in the morning and my husband is convinced I dreamt it.

I am very excited by a prospect of walking over the white cliffs of Dover, with France in view. How perfect!

I start from Dover seafront. Looking out, across the little beach, through the mouth of the harbour, I can see the outline of France. It looks so close. You could sail across and be there is a few minutes, or so it seems.

Walking along the promenade, I pass the end of the pier, over a bridge across the marina, and walk up the busy access road heading west.

This part of the walk is tedious, as cars and lorries roar past. I am relieved to find the footpath, branching away from the road, to the left. I walk in a tunnel of greenery. The traffic trundles past below. The path takes me steadily upwards and away from the road.

Below me are great views of Dover and I can see the harbour spread out, with the white cliffs of South Foreland (my route for the previous section of the walk) beyond. The sky is blue with great, fluffy clouds. The sea, multicoloured, sparkles below me. In the distance, I can see the blue outline of the French coast, with ferries and boats heading back and forth. I try to imagine what this area was like, thousands of years ago, when we were physically connected to France by dry land.

As the path climbs higher, I can see the motorway below me. But I have a view that is invisible to the passing traffic, a fantastic view of the white face of Shakespeare Cliff, with a little beach and railway line far below. As I watch, I see people swimming in the sea (although they don’t linger long) and a little train hurtles along the line, disappearing into a tunnel through the cliff.

The path is steeper and I begin to puff. I pass allotments, perched on the side of the cliff. Apart from one cyclist, heading for the beach below, I meet nobody.

When I get to the top, the path has been diverted – away from the eroding cliff edge. Part of a fence sticks out, almost into the abyss. A broken sign warns me of the edge, rather unnecessarily I think.

The path I am following is both the Saxon Shore Way and the North Downs Way.

Interestingly, as I continue walking, I come across little signs, each one indicating that there are poems written with this specific location in mind. I could listen to the poems by telephoning the numbers given on the signs. I don’t. I could be here all day.

But what a great idea! The Chalk Line Poems, by Ros Barber, can be read here or listened to here.

This is the highest section of my walk today. I can see the path ahead, stretching out across the cliff top. And beyond I can see Folkestone, below.

Dotted along the route are strange round pillar constructions. Later, I learn they are ventilation shafts for the railway tunnel, passing below. Further along, I meet a handful of other walkers, but surprisingly few people out and about on this beautiful day. I pass over a newish park area, called Samphire Hoe.

Over the top of the next rise (after a scramble up a steep hill and a divergence away from the cliff because of crumbling edges), I pass remains of war defences. There is a marvellous view back towards Dover and the harbour.

I can see Folkestone waiting below. Beyond is a flat spit of land, leading out to sea. On the end of this spit (not visible in the photo above) are some large rectangular blocks. I know this must be the nuclear power station at Dungeness. Further beyond, at the limit of my vision, I see more white cliffs, rising up above the flatness of Dungeness. Is this Beachy Head? I think it must be.

There are lots of interesting ruins here – left over from World War II. I meet a group of young men who seem intent on climbing down a dark shaft and into a tunnel, that they believe lies below. They have a large flashlight but no ropes. I doubt whether they will get far.

Further on, the ground opens out into a swathe of green grass. Somewhere below me, at the bottom of the cliffs, is a nudist beach.

The path becomes a track. This is Abbot’s Cliff. Here I come across a little plaque, telling me about the spider orchid. I have seen a lot of wild flowers on my walk today (the warm weather has caused premature flowering of plants), but I have no idea if I have seen a spider orchid or not. The plaque, being uncoloured, does not give me many clues.

In this area I see a large concrete structure with a tree growing out of it and covered in graffiti. It looks fairly new. I take little notice of it, but later realise it was one of the concave, concrete listening devices – a ‘sound mirror’, – used in the war to give early warning of the approach of enemy planes.

After Abbot’s Cliff, I pass a wonderful white house in need of renovation, set in a huge garden, that forces me to turn inland. I meet a road, but a footpath takes me up to the cliff edge again. Now the path winds behind gardens and along an area of cliff that has slipped and is open to the public as a rather wild country park – called The Warren.

I am very high up. I see the pub at which I planned to have lunch. It appears derelict and some of the roof appear to be missing. Has there been a fire? I walk on.

My husband phones me. He has found a cafe, perched on the top of the cliff. We sit outside and have lunch – burgers and a cup of tea for me, soup and sandwich for him. The views are staggering. This is perfect. Much better than a pub.

After lunch, I have a choice. Stay up on the cliff top, following the official coast path, or take a winding path down the cliff, to the beach below. A railway line separates the cliff from the beach, but I can see a bridge across the line. Hopefully, I can cross over. It will mean doubling back the way I have come.

I talk over the choices with a couple of fellow walkers, chance encounters on the cafe terrace. They elect to stay on the official path. I decide to head down to the sea.

The path winds down the slope, steep steps that zig zag down beneath a leafy canopy. I am alone. I soon lose sight of the cafe above. Bushes and trees arch across the path. It takes far longer to descend than I anticipated. Near the bottom I hear sounds, children are playing somewhere – I can see a rope swing in a clearing below. Further down still, and there are some tents, hidden in bushes. Young lads are breaking twigs, somewhere in the undergrowth. I don’t know if this is an official or an unofficial camp.

I reach the railway line and follow the path, heading back eastwards, along the line, towards the footbridge. I hope this is accessible. As I approach, the path rises up a steep bank, away from the line and my heart sinks. Must I climb back up to the cafe?

But it is a false alarm. I can get onto the bridge after all.

As I cross, I stop to take photos of the railway line. To the east is the mouth of a tunnel. Strange, I think to myself, the tunnel appears to be lit up or I can see right through to the other side. There is light. Then, with a ‘whoosh’, a train emerges and rattles along the line, passing beneath my bridge and heading towards Folkestone.

The beach here is empty and wild. There is a huge expanse of concrete at the foot of the cliffs – a large flat area that appears, superficially, to be a wide promenade – but is too unkempt. Later, I surmise this is part of the coastal defences to try to protect the base of the cliffs. The top has already slipped (forming ‘The Warren’ area above).

I head west, towards Folkestone. The concrete gives way to a beach. People are out, enjoying the late afternoon sunshine. There is sand here – mixed with shingle – but still sandy enough for children to build castles and dig for crabs.

At the end of the beach there is no way forward. The waves splash up against the rocks of Copt Point. A small path winds up the cliff and I head up, puffing slightly. Luckily the cliff is much lower here and I soon reach the top.

I am on the edge of a putting green, perched above the sea. There is, incongruously, a Martello Tower in the middle of the green. I wonder if it is being used as a residential house.

I walk up the green, around the tower, and come across a proper promenade, bordering the sea, leading me down into Folkestone itself.

Folkestone is very pleasant. People are out, walking. I hear English, French, Spanish and other languages. There is a harbour with sailing boats, lots of mud (the tide is out now) and a strong smell of fish.

On the other side of Folkestone, is a wide shingle beach. The promenade stretches, unbroken, towards Hythe. Just above the prom, a new park has been created, Lower Leas Coastal Park. There are flowers, bushes, trees, children’s play equipment, chess boards, picnic tables and barbeque sites. I come across a large Spanish family, setting out tables and chairs for an evening meal.

This is a perfect evening. The air is warm. There is no wind.

The park ends and I follow the promenade as it passes through Sandgate and on towards Hythe. Leaving Sandgate behind, there is nothing now but shingle. The light is growing dim, clouds cover the fading sky. The path stretches ahead. Hythe looks distant and I have the illusion that I am making no progress towards it. A few cyclists and joggers over take me.

In the distance, at the end of low-lying headland, I can see the large bulk of the power station. This is Dungeness. I am heading there tomorrow. The land looks flat. The cliffs have gone.

As I approach Hythe, the light is too bad for photography. But I can’t resist this sign – warning us not to touch Dave the Dophin, who turns out to be a ‘she’. Although I keep my eyes peeled, I don’t see her.

Vital stats:
Miles travelled = 12 miles
Blisters = 2
Dolphins seen = 0

Posted in 05 Kent | Tagged coast, hiking, photography, travel, walking | 16 Comments

Stage 44. St Margaret’s to Dover

Posted on April 25, 2011 by Ruth Livingstone

It is Bank Holiday Monday. What is wrong with the British weather? It should be raining. Instead the sun is shining and it is unseasonably warm.

This is the best day of walking, ever.

I start off from St Margaret’s Bay, down in the little cove, where the light, coming from the East, lights up the chalky cliff.

Following the road upwards and then along a track, past a beautiful garden, where I walk behind a French family – a mix of adults of various ages and children, including a toddler in a push chair. At first I think they are heading my way – up the cliff, but they stop at a field where a camper van is parked. They are over from France to spend Easter weekend in the UK – and what a fabulous weekend they have chosen.

Now my walk becomes more difficult. The footpath branches off from the track and I scramble up a steep field to the top.

The view is somewhat disappointing. I cannot get close to the edge – warning signs deter me and an overgrowth of shrubs conceal the cliff and bay below me.

I am forced to walk on the landward side of private property. There are houses up here. I wonder how long they will survive (this cliff must slowly be eroding) and I am envious of their wonderful position and the great views the householders must enjoy. Views, at the moment, denied to me.

I am following a lane lined with trees. Ahead, I see a lighthouse.

Emerging by the Lighthouse, I lose my momentary bad humour. The landscape opens up and there are stunning views across the sea – the morning sunlight bounces off the water, far beneath.

There is a car park by the lighthouse – this is National Trust property – and a car park means people. People are out, walking across the open land or standing, staring out at the sparkling sea. A group of cyclists have stopped on the cliff edge, drinking from their water bottles and enjoying a rest.

I later learn this is the South Foreland Lighthouse, one of two lighthouses designed to help ships avoid the treacherous Goodwin Sands. Unfortunately, with the shifting of the sands, the lighthouses became unreliable and the second lighthouse was decommissioned in 1910 and is now part of a private garden.

The remainder of the walk, towards Dover, is truly wonderful.

I walk across rolling green countryside, keeping as close to the cliff edge as I dare. The path twists and turns. Every turn brings another fantastic view – towering white cliffs above dark rocks, framing the sea of sparkling blue. In the distance, a hazy horizon where the sea joins, seamlessly, with the huge, blue, cloudless sky.

Ahead, growing closer in the haze, I begin to see glimpses of the Port of Dover, stretching out from under the cliffs.

I come to an area where the ground drops down, forming a steep bowl. I believe this is called Fan Bay. It is possible to stick to high ground and walk around the edge of the bowl. This is what everybody else is doing. But I feel the urge to stick closer to the cliff edge, going down into the bowl and up the footpath I can see, climbing steeply, up the other side.

It will be a bit of an effort, but it looks fairly easy. I am encouraged by an older couple, making their way down ahead of me. And further encouraged by the sight of a man with a push chair coming up towards me. If they can do it, so can I.

The walk down is relatively easy. But the climb back up is, to be blunt, hard and exhausting. The other side of the bowl is much steeper than it looks. The ‘path’ turns out to consist of footholds in a grassy bank. There is nowhere to rest. The slope is too steep to sit down. I am scrambling on all fours – looking for footholds and hand holds. The steep drop below, and the glimpses of bright sea even further below, add to a vertiginous sense of anxiety. I am reminded of skiing and that black slope moment of terror when you realise that you don’t want to go on, but you know you can’t stop.

The older couple ahead of me are finding it difficult. The woman stops, clinging to the slope like a limpet. For one moment, I think she is frozen with apprehension and unable to move.

“Come on,” her husband calls. “There is a woman behind you.”
She flattens herself against the slope before looking down, nervously, at me.
“Don’t worry,” I call up. “I’m enjoying a breather.”

I intend this to sound confident. In reality, I am part grateful and part worried that she is above me. Grateful that I can use her as an excuse for stopping every two minutes. But worried because if she loses her grip and starts sliding down the slope, she will surely take me with her.

We are nearly at the top. The man is there already. Then his wife joins him. Encouraged, I scramble madly up the last bit and arrive on the path beside them, trying not to look as hot and flustered as I feel.

“We thought it would be easy,” he explained. “We saw the man with the push chair coming up. But he must have turned back. He couldn’t possibly have come down this way.”

No, he couldn’t. I don’t know how anyone could come down this way, you would need to be as agile and fearless as a mountain goat, or do it backwards – like coming down a ladder. And today the ground is hard and dry. In slippery, muddy conditions, this ascent would be truly dangerous.

From now on, the going is easy. I stick to the path.

As I draw nearer to Dover, the paths along the top of the cliffs become surprisingly crowded with a large number of walkers – enjoying the Easter sunshine. There is an absence of dog walkers. Perhaps the steep cliffs deter people from bringing their pets here.

Listening to people, I hear English accents, along with French, German, Eastern European and Asian languages.

I used to feel ashamed of Dover – such a horrible port with brutal infrastructure and access roads, carved into the white cliffs, with no attempt to showcase the iconic countryside. What a horrible introduction to England for new arrivals! Now this area has been opened up and access to the cliffs encouraged, this is a welcome change and a great way to greet tourists and visitors.

Ahead I see a groups of young Japanese people. They are lining up in front of a view-point, where the path curves and allows for photography against a back drop of the white cliffs. Next to them and, incongruous among this lively crowd, sitting in camouflage gear, is a lone figure. A bird watcher.

She has a huge telephoto lens attached to her camera and is scanning the cliffs opposite. Unfortunately, the tourists (and as I watch, the crowd of Japanese disappear but are quickly replaced by a group of young Russians) must be deterring the birds. She ignores them all, fixing her attention on the cliffs.

The land drops away again, forming another bowl on the cliff top – Langdon Bay. This is National Trust property.

You would think I had learned from my previous experience. Everyone else sticks to the high land around the edge of the bowl. But, no, I feel the urge to go down. This bowl is bigger and has sheep tracks running through it.

On the way down, my mobile phone rings. It is my husband, with his mother, who have arrived at the view-point above Dover and are looking across the cliffs, hoping to see me. Looking up, I spot them.

“Well, I am hard to miss,” I say.
“There are a lot of people out today.”
“Yes, but I am the idiot below you.”
Two distant heads swivel round.
“What are you doing down there?”
“It seemed a good idea at the time.”

The climb back up is more gentle but still leaves me puffing and panting before I reach the top.

We pose for photographs together, then part company. My husband is going back to the car with this mother. I am walking on into Dover.

I start off heading the wrong way. A wide ledge in the cliff (was this a roadway at some stage?) leads me downwards, running alongside the vehicle approach to the Port, but ends in a narrow path that becomes progressively more overgrown. After forcing my way through bushes and crawling under branches, I come to the conclusion that this path is not the official public right-of-way. I emerge dusty, scratched and hot, retrace my steps up the ledge and find the correct route.

The footpath takes me down towards the town of Dover.

I pass under the access road to the Ferry Port.

How many times have we crossed over here – my husband and our family – dashing across and into the Port – on our way to some skiing trip or holiday in Europe?

I linger under the bridge – hearing the thunder of lorries above me and enjoying the surreal experience of being here with the huge concrete structure above my head, standing quiet and still in the midst of all this frenetic, noisy activity.

I walk along the busy road, by the waterfront, through Dover. There are signs for bike routes and footpaths, everywhere. So many, and pointing in such diverse direction, I find it difficult to know which route to take.

I meet a fellow walker, rucksack on his back. He started from Deal and plans to have lunch on the beach at Dover, where he took his grandchildren to play while waiting for the ferry. I can remember waiting for the ferry with our children, but can’t remember a beach.

Sticking to the coast, I reach an area of Dover that appears to be renovated and is an oasis of ‘seaside’ in the heart of the bustling port area. I didn’t realise Dover was so lovely.
There is a promenade, some rather fine terraces of houses, and a wonderful sculpture.

This sculpture, officially called ‘Crest of a Wave’ and unofficially called ‘Channel Swimmers’, features on the front of my OS map of Dover. Unfortunately, it was really hard to find out anything about the sculpture – shame, because its wonderful and I’m glad to see it in real life.

Here, by the sculpture, is where I end my walk today. I meet my husband and mother-in-law. We have lunch in a newly renovated hotel, overlooking the promenade and beach. What do we eat? Fish and chips, of course.

Vital stats: miles walked = 4 (but felt like more!)

Posted in 05 Kent | Tagged coast, hiking, photography, walking, white cliffs of Dover | 5 Comments

Stage 43. Sandwich to Deal to St Margaret’s at Cliffe

Posted on April 24, 2011 by Ruth Livingstone

This morning is warm and the sky clear, with a low haze. I leave Sandwich and head through a pleasant park, crossing the river and walking along the bank towards Sandwich Marina.

Joggers pass me. A couple are out walking a dog. Otherwise all is peaceful, despite the nearby Industrial Estate.

Everything is closed. Today is Easter Sunday.

Past the marina, I follow a footpath that heads across farmer’s fields towards the shore, passing over land grazed by sheep and then following a track through a golf course.

In the distance I have a great view of the Richborough Power Station, now defunct but, I have heard there is a move to consider designating it a listed building.

As I approach the sea, ahead of me are some buildings in the process of renovation, possibly something to do with the golf course.

Here is the obligatory warning sign.

Beyond the buildings with their scaffolding is a rough road and a car park. On this beautiful Easter morning, the car park is filling up and people are arriving for a walk along the beach. The beach is shingle, large stones, leading down to muddy sands. People are out collecting bait. The light is wonderful (although hazy) and shimmers off bright sands, muddy flats and blue sea.

I look right across Sandwich Bay – to the route I walked yesterday; the cliffs of Pegwell and Ramsgate beyond.

The tide is low and I walk on the muddy shore, below the shingle, heading southwards. Few people make it down to this part of the beach. I enjoy the open expanse of sky, water and muddy sand. I am filled with energy and a sense of freedom.

I reach an area where the shingle extends to the water’s edge, making progress very difficult. I head up the beach, joining a road and noticing there are houses here.

This is marked on my map as ‘Sandwich Bay Estate’. Before I set off, I anticipated this Estate might be a caravan park or holiday complex. But no. Here are huge houses with impressive facades. Some of the houses are being renovated. But the layout is odd. There is an ‘institutional’ feel to the place. There are no private gardens. The surrounding lawns are neatly mown but the place seems strangely impersonal, people have not made their mark on these properties. How odd.

I reach the end of the housing estate. A group of youngsters are winching a motor boat up from the water, along a concrete jetty. The girls are doing the winching. The boys are guiding the boat.

Beyond the boat is a security man, chatting with the young people. Obviously this is a private Estate of some sort.

The road comes to an end and, from here to Deal, the path is a wide gravel track, raised slightly above the surrounding land. To the left is dunes, shingle and sea. To my right is mile after mile of golf course.

Now, the path is getting busier – lots of cyclists, some grimacing joggers and a few walkers.

And I am about to meet a man who knows how to rant. (I like a good rant from time to time, usually on the subject of obscured public rights of way, but this guy is the best ranter I have met so far.) If you look at the photo below, you can see him approaching. That’s him – on the bicycle.

I stop to take a photograph of the golf warning signs. I am intrigued, amused and somewhat irritated by the pointlessness of these signs. “Danger, flying golf balls.” So what? What do I do? Get ready to duck? Surely the signs are aimed at the wrong party; they should read “Danger, people walking. Don’t hit them.”

Anyway, as I stand taking the photo and contemplating who the sign is designed to protect (‘Don’t sue me for causing your brain injury. You were warned. Didn’t you see the sign?’), the man on the bike comes to a halt, beside me.

“Do you have any wire cutters?”
“No. Sorry. Have you got a problem with your bike?”
“I meant for the sign.”

Then he starts. The golfers are nasty people. They deliberately target him every time he comes this way, and that is nearly every day.

“Have you been hit by a golf ball,” I ask, wondering what the chances are of hitting somebody deliberately and how good a golfer you would have to be to hit a man on a bicycle. I am not a golfer myself, so the sport is a mystery to me.

He neatly ducks that question and continues, “They are all toffs, all stuck up snobs.” They make his life hell. They hate all walkers and cyclists – and they hate him in particular – and in return he hates all golfers. They have taken over this section of the coast. There used to be sand dunes here and water ponds and wild life. He talks of nesting birds, slow worms and other creatures – all fled. Golfers are trying to take over the path and are encroaching further on the shore (and he may be right about this, there are some well maintained green patches on the coastal side of the path). They spray the grass with chemicals and kill all the wild life.

To distract him from the golfers, I ask about the estate I have just walked through.

He tells me this belongs to Lady Astor. (I haven’t tried very hard to verify this, there is remarkably little information about Sandwich Bay Estate on the Internet. I did find something out about Lady Astor though – she is Samantha Cameron’s mother.) And he follows this up with a heartfelt, and very enjoyable, rant about toffs, the class system, the haves and have-nots.

“There is one rule for them and another for the likes of us.” I am glad, at this moment, to be included among the ‘likes of us’.

I wish him well and walk on.

Now, along the edge of the path, are small red pieces of paper, held down by stones, flapping madly in the breeze. Each piece of paper has a number on it. It takes me a moment to work out that these are likely to be markers for fishermen.

At the end of the path I reach the outskirts of Deal. My map indicates a ruined castle and I look around, failing to spot the ruin, until I realise I am standing on it. A pleasant little garden has been created.

After a number of failed attempts, I manage to take a self-portrait.

The sun is very hot. I feel a little sunburnt. Lunch beckons.

The northern end of Deal consists of a road, lined by houses on one side with a concrete sea wall on the other, bordering the shingle beach, and acting as a promenade. Families are arriving. This is not a bucket and spade resort, but the narrow promenade is filling up with people and families, in typical British fashion, are erecting chairs, tables and windbreaks on the shingle below.

Further along, I walk past the pier and stop at a hotel for a snack in the bar. The restaurant is full – I hear the waiter turning people without reservations away – but the bar is empty. I have an excellent meal of fish and chips. Next to me a couple and a toddler arrive and order champagne. I am amazed by the serene good-behaviour of the little toddler, who sits contentedly in her push chair while her parents toast the glorious Easter weather.

The next section of the walk, southwards from Deal, is very pleasant indeed. There is a wide walkway, running along beside the beach and this has become crowded – with cyclists, walkers, joggers, dogs and mobility scooters.

I am entertained by some strange sights, including these pieces of – well, what exactly – ‘art work’ on the shingle. I don’t stop to see if they are for sale.

There is no visible harbour area in Deal, but I reach a section of the beach that acts as a working harbour. Small boats are drawn up, with sheds, fishing gear, lobster pots and beach huts – all tangled up together. I take lots of photos of boats and huts. I could linger here all day and have to force myself to walk on.

I pass another castle, in better condition than the ruined one – castellated wall and big gates. Unknown to me, my husband and mother-in-law are visiting the same castle at around the same time. But I don’t stop. I have walking to do.

I am amused by a boy flying a kite in the shape of a shark. There is little wind today and he has to run across the pebble beach to keep the kite flying. It looks like the shark is chasing him.

There is vegetation taking hold on the shingle, small clumps of greenery and some wonderful trees that droop their branches around their trunks, forming little leafy tents. A group of families walk by and the children run, shrieking with delight, into the heart of one of these tree tents and begin climbing the twisted branches, while their parents attempt to call them away.

The path joins a narrow, unkept roadway. Houses line the landward side – real houses, not just holiday homes. On the shingle beach, sheds and huts appear, with a collection of small boats. There is an old-world, un-renovated feel to this area – Kingsdown on my map. I love it.

The road widens into a car park area. Cars are parked haphazardly with no apparent restrictions. Families are sitting outside on benches. There is a small pub, the Zetland Arms, where I stop for a drink. It is very hot. I can’t believe it is Easter Sunday.

Continuing along the beach, along a road with parked cars, I walk around lovely bay (Oldstairs Bay) until I reach a point where the way ahead is marked by a gate and MOD warning signs. This used to be a rifle range and the signs warn against picking up debris. I notice the sign has been peppered by pellets of some sort – maybe an air rifle?

I ask a man if I can get around the coast to St Margaret’s at Cliffe. He tells me this is only possible at very low tide. So, I climb a flight of steep steps and continue the path along the top of the cliffs.

This is, possibly, the loveliest part of my walk today.

I climb upwards, along a path running through green spaces at the top of the cliffs. Below me is blue sea, stretching to a hazy blue horizon. Behind me is a fantastic view of Oldstairs Bay. Ahead the path loops along the top of white cliffs, towards St Margaret’s and Dover beyond.

On the crest of the rise, ahead of me, I see a white building and a tower. As I draw nearer, I realise the building is an old coastguard station and the tower is a monument.

This is The Dover War Memorial, originally raised in honour of the men who lost their lives as members of the Dover Patrol during the 1st World War. An additional inscription commemorates the many service men and merchant seamen who lost their lives in the Dover waters during the 2nd World War.

(I am always moved by memorials to seamen. The only member of my immediate family who died in WW2 was my Uncle Peter, aged only 16 at the time, who joined the merchant navy and whose ship was sunk by a German U-boat. He died in the Atlantic, somewhere off the coast of North Africa, we think.)

Leaving the memorial, I follow the path through a nature reserve. Trees and bushes obscure the view as I head downhill until, through a gap, I see St Margaret’s Bay below.

It is beautiful. The late afternoon sun is lighting up the greenery on the top of the cliff, while the chalky walls of the cliff opposite take on a soft grey hue in the fading light.

I find a steep flight of steps, turning and twisting down through the greenery on the sloping face of the cliff, taking me down to the bay itself.

Half way down, I pass a couple climbing up. The man is laughing and showing off, running up the steps – two at a time. His girlfriend trails behind, puffing and panting.

“Nearly there,” I say.
“Thank goodness,” she gasps, as I pass.
“Not really,” I call back.

At the bottom I emerge, suddenly, into a car park, beyond which is the beach and sea. And, somewhat to my surprise, I find my husband is already there and waiting for me.

Vital stats: miles walked = 12
Highlights: hearing an excellent rant and walking on the cliffs.
Lowlights: none – this was a great day.

If you are interested, you can see some great photos taken inside Richborough Power Station on the Derelict Places web site.

Posted in 05 Kent | Tagged coast, hiking, photography, travel, walking | 8 Comments

Stage 42. North Foreland, Broadstairs, Ramsgate to Sandwich

Posted on April 23, 2011 by Ruth Livingstone

Joss Bay looks lovely this morning. It is still early and there are only a few people on the sands.

Although the tide is out, I doubt if I can make much headway walking on the shore itself. So I set off walking along the top of the cliff and heading southwards. There is an unsigned footpath leading from the far end of the car park, winding along the side of a farmer’s field and joining a road farther along the coast.

From up here I have a great view of the sea, the white cliffs and the rocky shoreline. Hardly daring to get too near the edge, and feeling dizzy as I look down, I manage to spot sea gulls nesting in a hole in the chalky cliff face.

After a while, I am forced to leave the coast and head inland. Yet again, private property has forced a detour. I follow a road and, just as I am beginning to wonder if I will ever regain the coast, find a footpath leading down a flight of steps, towards the beach below.

As I walk down the steps I meet a couple of police officers, in full uniform and sweating heavily, coming up from the beach. I wonder what they have been up to. Continuing down, I reach the shore and find myself on a narrow promenade, lined with beach huts on one side, a drop to the beach on the other. The promenade stretches ahead, winding round the bottom of the cliffs and following the curve of the bay.

Ahead I see two men. They look scruffy and have rucksacks on their back. They are talking in an Eastern European language and look confused at finding themselves on this promenade. They stand and argue. I wonder if they are recent arrivals and I also wonder if they are the reason for the police presence. If so, they are not illegal immigrants – I assume – or they would be accompanying the policemen back up the cliff steps.

This part of the walk is very pleasant. It is warm and people are arriving on the promenade, opening up their beach huts and assembling chairs, tables and barbeques. Short ladders are propped up against the concrete of the promenade, giving access to the beach. People (this is an odd English custom) are erecting windbreaks – despite the fact there is no wind. I realise this is more to do with staking claim to a patch of sand, then it is to do with erecting shelter from the non-existent wind.

I witness a few territorial skirmishes.

“I’ll need more room than that,” a woman says, eyeing her neighbour hammering a striped wind break into the sand, just beneath the promenade. “My whole family is coming.”
“Well, you can spread onto the other side,” replies the woman with the hammer. “That hut is empty today.”

After following the promenade for a couple of miles – sea on one side, cliffs on the other – some sections lined with beach huts, and other sections bare and empty – I arrive at a promontory and find myself in Broadstairs.

Broadstairs is lovely in the sun, with the bay curving round and the town rising up above it. There is an old-fashioned air to the place. The beach huts are old and slightly shabby, the houses are Victorian. But I like Broadstairs. Very much.

There is a mix of boats and people on the beach. A few sailing dinghies are being launched. Excited children, arriving for a day on the beach, run down towards the sea and then stop, shrieking, as cold water splashes against their ankles.

Above the bay, a large house sits perched on an outcrop of high ground. This is ‘Bleak House’ – of Dickens’ fame.

The chalky cliffs provide plenty of material for graffiti writing and this has kept me entertained during my walk. Some of the messages are crude, there are the usual declarations of love and, among the dross, the occasional clever bit of humour. At the entrance to the harbour, somebody has scrawled, “Jesus loves you. But I’m his faveourite.” Another hand has added “No preaching”.

I am impressed by the official sign warning of the dangers of jumping off the harbour jetty: “Don’t jump into the unknown”. This is a great design and a clear message.

An information board gives info about Broadstairs and the connection with Charles Dickens’ Bleak House. As I love Dickens (although I can’t remember ever reading Bleak House), this adds to the attraction of the place for me.

Our B&B landlord told us that his favourite coast walk was the walk between Broadstairs and Ramsgate.

He is right. This is a lovely walk.

For some sections there is no promenade and, I imagine, if the tide was high it might be difficult to walk this way, following the shore. But today the tide is out and the walk is lovely. On this bank holiday Saturday, lots of people are out and, although I enjoy the company, this must be an awe-inspiring walk if you are alone – with rocky shoreline, cliffs above, and no development to spoil the view.

The approach to Ramsgate is not exactly pretty. The cliffs are high and fortified with bricks and concrete. Along the shore, there are some derelict shelters – with murals painted on them – with peeling paint and no sign of the seats they once contained. The beach is covered in shingle, and although some hardy folks are out for the day, it is not a bucket and spade resort.

But, as I draw closer to the port, I notice that the wooden hoarding surrounding a plot of derelict land have been painted. For hundreds of yards, the paintings stretch along the sea front – made by school children, artists, commercial ventures – there are dozens of contributions in all sorts of different styles, but with one constant theme. The theme of all the paintings is ‘Ramsgate’.

I spend some time here, taking photographs and enjoying the colour and the imagination of the paintings.

This is the ‘Great Wall of Ramsgate‘ project. A great idea. And, unknown to me, today was its official opening.

Ramsgate harbour is crammed with boats. The place is bustling. Everyone has decided to come to the seaside today.

I stop at a cafe and sit outside for lunch, enjoying fish cakes and dry cider.

After lunch, I head for the opposite side of the port and walk up the roadway, to reach a long patch of open green space.

Continuing along by the edge of the cliff, this path takes me above the ferry port, past a large, impressive modern sculpture – Hands and Molecule by David Barnes – commissioned by Pfizer.

(This generosity on the part of Pfizer almost makes up for the detour they force on me – but that comes later.)

I leave the port behind and now walk along the high ground, above a beach. I am tempted to go down to the promenade, but it comes to an end and I turn away from the coast, following a road, past the Pegwell Bay Hotel.

Checking my map, I am looking for a footpath that leads from the road, heading to Cliff End and then Sandwich beyond. This is the official Thanet Coastal Path and you would think it would be well-marked.

I pass a track. Is this the path? A sign tells me this is ‘Private Property’ and is not a bridleway or a cycle route. I continue, looking for the path and eventually realise I have passed the turn off. Heading back, I also realise this track with its forbidding signs is the official coastal path and a public right of way. The signs are, strictly speaking, accurate – this is not a bridle way or a cycle route and is private property -but make no mention of the fact that this is also a public path.

The track narrows and becomes a path. There is a steep drop down to the sea on my left, fields to my right and, through the haze, I see a wide, open bay ahead with, beyond, the ghostly outlines of an industrial power station.

The bay is Pegwell Bay and, to begin with, I see plenty of unmarked brown mud. Later, as the tide comes in, this turns into an expanse of gleaming water.

What really interests me is the power station; a tall chimney and three tall, curvaceous towers. I see no sign of smoke.

As I stop to take photographs, a man out walking pauses and asks me why I am taking photos of the power station. I find this hard to answer. To me, the structures are beautiful and powerful, towering above the natural contours of the bay.

“I know I am a little odd, but I like industrial structures,” I reply. I am about to find the words I need to explain this. I am about to tell him that I love the shapes – the tall, narrow chimney and the thicker, curving elegance of the cooling towers (taller than any I have seen before). I could tell him I am interested in the contrast between the thrusting male and curving female shapes. I could tell him that I love the juxtaposition of these powerful, man-made structures – signifying our technical knowledge and our ability to harness the energy of fossil fuels – and the wide, open sweep of the bay, carved by the equally powerful, but entirely natural, energy of the tides.

But I don’t have time to assemble my words to explain any of this.

“Well, we all have our quirks,” he says, smiles at me, and moves on.

I walk down, heading for Pegwell Bay. There is derelict land along the bay, with concrete footings. Maybe there was a caravan park here? Or a large car park? There is also the remains of a railway.

I look back across the bay, to the white cliffs marking the edge of Ramsgate with the Pegwell Bay Hotel perched on top.

At the end of the wasteland is an area of reeds. There appears to be a path through the reeds. I ask a man, sunbathing on a patch of concrete, if I can walk this way. He says you can, but is not sure of the state of the path. I attempt it – but soon find I am splashing through water. This is the first time I have met mud since I was defeated by the stuff in Allhallows-on-Sea back at the beginning of March. As the water becomes deeper, and the ground more treacherous, I abandon the attempt.

I feel oddly embarrassed as I confess to the sunbathing man – I can’t find a way through. He tells me there are steps leading up to the road. I walk back, across the waste land and find, near an old railway footbridge, leading upwards, a flight of steps.

At the top of the steps I find a viking ship. Not a real one. Just a replica.

In fact, this is a replica of a Viking ship, The Hugin that landed here from Denmark, in 1949, to mark the 1500 year anniversary of another Viking landing – that led to the establishment of a Saxon kingdom in Kent. So this is replica of a replica.

I walk along a path, following the road, then take a detour through an area of nature reserve, called Pegwell Bay Country Park. This is very pleasant and I stop to sit on the bank, have a snack, and enjoy the view over Pegwell Bay. The tide is now in and the mud is covered. I can see the entrance to Richborough Port, where an estuary joins the bay and through which an occasional motorboat passes.

As I approach the end of the nature reserve, I see some posts in a curving line. They look a bit odd – like bollards you get in a roadway to deter traffic. I wonder what they are doing here. Are they some weird kind of concrete fencepost? But with no fence attached?

Then I find a sign that explains the mystery. They form a line of anti-tank defences, leftover from the second world war. If the Germans landed in this accessible bay (invading like the Vikings before them) their tanks would be obstructed by this concrete line. Armed with this information, the line of posts looks incredibly fragile – a somewhat optimistic display of defiance.

After I leave the nature reserve, the rest of my walk is pretty unpleasant. I follow the A256, heading for Sandwich. This is a busy road. Most of the way I walk next to heavy traffic. It is very hot and very noisy.

I pass Richborough Power Station. The large structure is derelict.

Four asian boys on bikes screech to a halt beside me. They are aged around 12 or 13, sweating and in a state of high excitement.

Do I know the way to Dover?
Do I know how long it will take to get to Dover?
Have I any spare water?
Did I know there was a caterpillar on my hat?

I answer “No, no, no and no.”

Then I get out my map and try to help them. They can’t stand still long enough to pay much attention to the map and cycle off, pedalling madly. A few minutes later they pass me again, coming back. A few minutes more, and here they are again, whizzing past me, heading back in the original direction.

Later, I walk past a garage and see them emerging, drinks in their hands. They get back on their bikes and pass me – yet again – wobbling dangerously as they drink and steer at the same time. A few minutes later, they come heading back down the pavement, towards me, back the way they have come.

Did they ever get to Dover? I don’t know. But a few minutes after my last sighting of them, I began to worry about them. They seemed very young, very excitable and very lost. Did they live in Dover? Or were they running away from home? Were they in difficulties?

I wish I had taken more time and made them stop and found out who they were and where they were from. But by the time I thought all this through, it was too late. I didn’t meet them again.

At the end of a very long, very straight, very hot, very noisy and very boring walk, I reached the outskirts of Sandwich. I was desperate to turn off the main road and hesitated at the first road leading to the left. Was this the turn?

There were big signs saying this was the Pfizer factory and showing a large map of the Pfizer complex.

Foolishly, I believed the signs indicated this was a private industrial complex and a private road. So I continued straight ahead. And walked around three sides of a huge circle, circling around fenced off green spaces belonging to Pfizer – with trees and water and shade – and ‘keep out’ notices of course.

Later, I realised I could have taken the quiet road. It led straight through the complex to Sandwich. My circular detour added another mile to my route and prolonged the unpleasantness of the roadside walking.

Damn Pfizer! I should have trusted my map.

Sandwich was lovely. I wasn’t expecting much, after the grim walk through the outskirts, but Sandwich was beautiful.

The bridge across the river was raised, to allow a boat through. Then I crossed into the heart of the old town of Sandwich, with narrow winding roads, quaint houses and a pretty riverside area.

Tired and hungry, I saw an ice-cream van.

As I approached the van, an old lady intercepted me and tried to have a chat. She told me she was 90 years old and came out every day to buy an ice-cream as a treat. I was too tired to make conversation and she moved off to accost a couple of Japanese tourists. They were more gracious than I was and I saw a lot of bowing going on.

I bought a large ice-cream and sat in the park, waiting for my husband.

Vital statistics:
Miles walked = 12
Power stations encountered = 1
Lost boys seen = 4
Lonely old ladies ignored = 1

Posted in 05 Kent | Tagged beach, hiking, photography, travel | 20 Comments

Ruth's Coastal Walk (UK)

51. Bexhill to Eastbourne

50. Hastings to Bexhill

49. Rye Harbour to Hastings

48. Lydd to Rye to Rye Harbour

47. Dungeness to Lydd

Stage 46. Hythe to Lydd-on-Sea

Stage 45 Dover to Folkestone to Hythe

Stage 44. St Margaret’s to Dover

Stage 43. Sandwich to Deal to St Margaret’s at Cliffe

Stage 42. North Foreland, Broadstairs, Ramsgate to Sandwich

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