South Downs Way - Day 1

A KNEE TREMBLER REMEMBERED

Being unsure of the ‘official’ start, I asked the over-zealous thick-set council man who had just inadvertently binned the supper of some kids playing nearby - "How was I to know...?" he reasoned with parents who had complained, "...looked just like any other rubbish to me..."  Unfazed, he pointed with his litter picker and told me that the Way began at the foot of the Downs, not by the Pier as I had suggested.
    But as the map clearly showed Long Distance Path way-marks from about where I sat, I decided to make the Pier head my starting point anyway and screwed up the remains of my fish and chips for disposal in the nearest bin.

    At the Pier entrance I noted my start time: 19:21, and scribbled: 'chips ok, haddock tasty but small - not Proper Bo.'
    Feeling fit I strode along the front only to get a few hundred yards before a man in a booth called out that I would have to pay. Pay? What? This was the South Downs Way for goodness sake... Oh, right... I'd walked into an imminent Promenade Concert - my first obstacle in less than a quarter of a mile. More vigilance would be needed to make the hundred odd miles to Winchester!

    In about a mile the road turns uphill to the foot of the Downs and it is here, beside a refreshment cabin and car park that the Way proper begins. A short uphill pull delivers the green expanse of the Downs and with delightful springy turf underfoot I headed into a westering sun towards Beachy Head.

    From time to time I stopped to look back over Eastbourne. An elderly man on the coach from London had told me that the block of flats should never have been granted planning consent. 'It's a complete eyesore,' he had said. In his absence, I had to agree: it does stand out like a sore thumb.

    It was here among the scrub and bushes 25 summers before that we picked plump wild raspberries but none were to be seen on this balmy evening.
    Beyond the triangulation point, the problem of erosion became evident with His Grace the Duke of Devonshire losing out to the sea. Nearly 500ft feet below, the Beachy Head lighthouse stands alone - a defiant red and white pillar on the rocky shore. I wondered just how much land had been lost in the 25yrs since I had last stood there. Was I even on the same spot? or had that bit of England long been deposited somewhere on the continent?

    Many places here are roped-off for safety - more precautionary than deterrent to the determined I supposed for this area is noted for being something of a suicide alley. The cliffs overhang in places and it's a sheer drop to the beach. Not a good place for vertigo sufferers!

    Farther along the cliff top the Belle Tout light all but teeters on the edge. Next day, I met a local who told me that years before this whole structure had been jacked-up 'en masse' and moved back from the crumbling chalk. Now, he said, it was due to be moved again - giving a whole new meaning to the phrase 'moving house' as the lighthouse is now a private residence.

Beachy Head Info link http://www.eastbourne.org/tourism/beachyhead/

    With spectacular blood-orange views through misty shades of sunset, I continued onward to drop down to Birling Gap. By now it was 9pm and time to make my first call home.
   

*****

    After a swift pint (and £2.70! lighter), I took to the trail again intent on out-pacing the dark. Getting back into a steady rhythm, I was dive-bombed by some large flying insects that sounded like a cross between a wrist blood pressure monitor and a doodlebug. Were they beetles, moths or what I couldn’t tell? I had never seen anything like them. Either I was in their way or they were very curious and I wasn't sure if they either bit or stung, nor did I want to find out! They swarmed over the stiles and the monument over the next rise was given a wide berth as it was completely covered in the things.
   

    With the ups and downs of the Seven Sisters (name given to the cliff peaks, as viewed from the sea), I felt the benefit of training for this walk; more so that I had worked long and hard at getting my gear weight down, with minimalism being the key. Years before I had toiled along this cliff top walk with my girlfriend - each of us carrying nearly 3 times as much stuff - the steep downhill stretches becoming a much more mundane form of knee trembling experience than had been anticipated! Carrying only 12.5lb now though - (no water carried as yet), I ‘skipped’ along with enjoyable ease to the country park.
    At the top of the last rise the darkening Cuckmere Haven loomed as a great misty void. To the south, the cool glow of the rising moon shimmered eerily across the sea and I stood for a while just soaking up the romantic atmosphere before bearing inland for my overnight stay.
    In fast fading light I took out my tiny LED torch as a twisted or broken ankle from stumbling into an unseen rabbit hole up here would soon put paid to any swift passage plans and make a mockery of any travel light philosophy.

    The Foxhole campsite is situated up a small valley and 10pm found me reading a sign asking me to respect other users if arriving late. So, as there were two other tents already erected and in darkness, I pitched in painful silence.
    By the light of the amenity area I washed and enjoyed a supper of tea and muesli bar before stealing a quick look around the adjacent spacious yet deserted camping barn.

    Returning to my small tent I made out a shadowy figure moving suspiciously in the darkness - the gentle ‘clink’ of tent poles though quickly confirmed yet another late arriver.
   

    Snug in my sleeping bag - cosy with warm glow from the tea light, voices could be heard gradually growing louder and I soon realised that my efforts to keep quiet had been in vain. The occupants of the two tents were returning, from the Pub presumably, laughing and giggling. As I had pitched near to the stile entrance, we exchanged goodnights as they climbed over.

    With the size of their tents, the walk to the pub and back was about as far as they would be going I realised. But good luck to them, each to their own... remind yourself - you were once young too...
 

    ...they eventually quietened down sometime after midnight.

    I didn't hear so much as another ‘clink’ from the other late comer, just the occasional hoot of a hungry owl as the silent white portent moon crested the hill.