South Downs Way - Day 2

UP 'ERE FOR THINKING...

Kawwrr! Kawwrr! I had left the fly-sheet thrown back and fallen asleep watching the stars. This made the large tuneless crow nearby seem much louder. The early worm catcher was quickly appreciated though, for my worms for the day were to be miles - over 30 of them to the youth hostel at Truleigh Hill and an early start was just what I needed. My alarm was set for 5:30am, but it was barely ten past. The thin grey pall that hung in the air disguised an otherwise perfect dawn.

    An hour later, with only scattering sheep for company, I strode up the hill path with good views over Cuckmere Haven to rejoin the Way in the direction of Exceat. Some litter picking had been necessary through the Country Park - (can't be doing with litter), and I needed to find a bin. I didn't find one by the road-side nor could I see one in the car park down the hill and so made use of the large swing-lid commercial bins at the back of the Visitor Centre. By an elaborate orienteering start point, the path then headed into the trees of Friston Forest.

    I obviously need a course in this myself because within the next mile I realised I was walking in the wrong direction! But another early bird, an elderly gent with a timid Labrador, assured me that I was walking in the right direction, but it felt wrong so I turned back after a few hundred yards and asked again. "Oh, Alfriston," he said. "I thought you said Friston..."! I hope I can still be up and about when I get to his age I thought, wondering if I would make it that far.

    Back on track, I was soon entering Littlington. Here a short diversion would take me to Lullington Court, a place where my partner and I had found a garden campsite a quarter of a century before - (it had been one of those unforgettable sloping pitches that leaves you cramped up at the wrong end of the tent in the morning) - but I couldn't find it, not up there or down here, and so gave up and took the path to the bridge over the Cuckmere River. This is where the bridleway joins from Eastbourne via Jevington. To here it had been ‘walkers-only’ route, but now, cyclists and our equestrian friends had use of the route also.

    With a nod to a passing runner, deemed to be another early starter, I glanced at my watch and was alarmed to see that it was already 9am. I hadn't got 5 miles of the day's walk behind me yet! I needed a rocket...

    Irritated (and irritating!) drivers jostled for the narrow street space in Alfriston - not a place to linger on this occasion, despite the many attractions including the stump cross and half-timbered Star Inn - on the corner of which the Way turns up a side street back onto the Downs.

Alfriston Info

    With the sun getting up I was tempted to flag down the passing milkman for a pint of 'nice cold ice cold' milk but he sped past me up the hill grinning like Jaws from a Bond film and all I got was a sprinkling of chalk dust with a much reduced view of the way ahead.

    On Bostal Hill a refreshing breeze welcomed with rustling leaves. I was now carrying 2 litres of water, which conveniently equates to 2 kilos - a lot of weight to a gram counter like myself. 2000 grams. 2000 grams...? How many holes would you have to drill; how many labels you would need to cut out to save that kind of weight! It is vital to carry your water up here though. There are taps in places (Drinking water tap locations) and cattle troughs where the ball-cock can sometimes be accessed to fill a bottle. Otherwise the only available water traditionally comes from dew ponds - hollows scooped out of the chalk, lined with clay and left to collect rainwater; and to a lesser extent, I would have thought, their namesake - dew. But you wouldn't want to drink what's collected in them without a lot of careful consideration - filtering, boiling or purifying. I just hoped that the 2 litres I was carrying would be enough. One thing was turning out for sure: it was going to be much hotter than the five day forecast had predicted.

    The views began to open up - ahead and to the north over the Weald (the expanse of land between the North and South Downs), and behind to the south east the cliff tops were still in view where land and sea merged into a watercolour-wash of bluest grey.

    Passing between tumuli on Firle Beacon, I began to wonder about the life and times of our ancient ancestors... only to be jolted back to the present by a passing runner who grunted in greeting then spat - perhaps as an offering to the earth spirits. I could have caught him up with my light load, but knew that I would need to pace myself carefully through the day, needing around 12 hours to cover the distance, including stops intentional and otherwise, with allowance for repeating the effort over the next few days.

    Wheeling gulls and the unmistakable smell of rotting refuse signalled a landfill site ahead and to the north. What shameful use of our planet - taking out what we want and putting back what we don't?

    I have a photograph of my partner, in her prime, reclining on the west slope of Itford Hill. She looks across the valley of the Ouse, with Southease and the gently rising slopes of the Downs behind. I tried to reframe that same picture. This would be my coffee stop, a time to let my feet breathe; time to rest and contemplate. Off with the boots (I had decided against running shoes for this route), out with the stove, on with coffee - instant, but always tastes better than at home.

    As I lay back on the cool grass waiting for the pan to boil - the only sound above the gas stove came from the larks... literally. Little critters... you can hear 'em but not so easily see 'em - unless they are ascending or vice versa.

    During idyllic moments like this you almost get closer to understanding what it is that makes you want to do this kind of thing in the first place. But it's a dangerous preoccupation that usually ends in some minor disaster - like knocking the stove over, or being unable to light it in the first place, or suddenly discovering that that small container, you know, the one you bought especially for the small coffee packs you've assembled, is still at home in the cupboard and all you've got to drink is hot water. One example is when I'd taken along a new gas cartridge only to discover that the valve was faulty and wouldn't allow gas out. Then all I’d got to drink was cold water! You can check and double check, but I guarantee that something will confound you, sooner or later... somewhere.

    I don't carry a mug, and I don't drink out of the pan - too easy to burn your lips on that first eager slurp. An instant snack pot type bowl doubles as mug. A gas cartridge sits snugly inside when packing and they have convenient moulded handles, and you can make your snack pot meal (resealed separately of course), with the water fill mark clearly indicating how much water to add. 'Up 'ere for thinking...'     

    As I packed up a day walker passed. I'll catch him up I thought, have a chat... Picking up a bit of somebody else's chewing gum wrapper (litter grade: accidental?), I shouldered up and strode off after him. An erosion control notice reminded me to keep to the path, as it swept down and round the hill, rather than cut across, straight down. I picked my way round a herd of cows chewing cud on the path ahead - amazing that cows convert bits of well chewed grass into that cold stuff we take for granted in the fridge. Grass on the whole, being green... All looks very relaxing this cud-chewing, tell thi'.

    I caught my fellow pedestrian up at the gate, but it became evident that conversation was not on his agenda though. Perhaps I should have bellowed in his ear: 'The Word: If we don't use it, we lose it!' - soft drinks ad-wise.

    Beyond the A26 I continued down the lane to find the first water point, installed, it appears, by courtesy of the house nearby which had a sign announcing B&B and camping. As I made a note on the map the other walker passed, again without a word. I waited at the level crossing deciding whether the moving train at the station was stopping or just setting off - wouldn't like to get the wrong side of a train now.

    After the downy grass, the hot tarmac of the narrow road to Southease seemed uncomfortably hard, but after crossing the River Ouse, I was soon at the village green again trying to reframe another photograph from years before, with she, long hair plaited, sitting on a grass bank in front of a delightful thatched cottage. This involved my being at 'the wrong end' of the green, perhaps 100mtrs off the main route, and as I walked by the church - (obligatory scaffolding attached), a voice called out: "Yes it's that way up to the road at the top and straight across... can't miss it." The word, eh? Not wishing to explain my nostalgic meanderings, I bade the lunching rambler thanks and continued up to the road at the top of the village, but the rebel in me shone through and I felt a sudden compulsion to cross at an angle.

    A safe short cut has been established for walkers to keep them off the busy road and as I joined the rough track leading to the farm towards Fore Hill two farmhands were filling holes in the track with flinty rubble. In reply to me asking if they were being kept busy they replied in a friendly manner. Farther on a tractor rumbled along - a ‘working’ sheepdog barked like a mental dervish from the open cab door, worryingly just about level with my jugular. As it passed, the farmer shouted out: "Shadddaaapp, ya blaaddy thing!" - reminding me of those signs:

NEVER MIND THE DOG -

BEWARE THE OWNER


    On Mill Hill above Rodmell the last house on the lane distrusted walkers with an obvious double-barrelled barrier of barbed wire and chain link fence, and after edging a field of crop I came upon the dreaded mile long concreted section up Iford Hill. I say dreaded, because I remembered it as just that 25 yrs ago. But travelling light, it quickly passed.

    Previously I had read with interest that farmers can now claim grants to help return the Downs to more traditional methods of farming, sheep and cattle grazing being the most likely - (hence the many dew ponds to provide water for the stock). Hopefully this will help to reduce the amount of arable usage on higher ground.

    Near Kingston a mother and daughter coming the other way asked how to get to Rodmell. I explained the mile long concreted stretch and chain link fence, noticing that Mum carried a map of her own... It then occurred to me that they might have been intent on visiting the former home of the author Virginia Wolf near Rodmell village.

    Above Kingston near Lewes, where many walkers divert for the night, the main track swings SE, and, lost in thought, I completely missed my turn down the hill for the A27 crossing and arrived at the Castle Hill Nature Reserve bemused. A quick study of the map revealed two linking bridleways that would take me back on course - '...down there for walking'.

    Let’s just say that I ended up in a wooded dell, well and truly nettled, the path having petered out - lending weight to the theory of alien abduction - it was well trodden on the way in. Had previous pedestrians reversed, diversed or simply disappeared for eternity? I stood wondering why I had opted for photocopied 1:50 000 scale maps that revealed little in the way of detail, and broke forth into the sunlight once again even more nettled and ego bashed searching for dock leaves as antidote. But if I climbed that fence over there, I realised, I could be back on course and have covered a quarter of the entire route already.

    At the bottom of the hill, after the railway underpass, the busy A27 roared with stark lion-like realism. Hmm, though. Garages - coolers, cold drinks..? Steady on son. I wanted to see if the pub was still there anyway. Here we had met two lads doing the way back in 1978 - one evening in the pub after we had camped at nearby Ashcombe House Farm. One of the lads had broken his glasses - they had fallen off and he had stood on them. Well, it's easy done...

    I felt like Alan Partridge walking beside the dual carriageway and couldn't resist singing aloud at the raging traffic: "Gold finger... Dat Dah Dah."

    Chaos reigned on the forecourt: drivers who had pulled in for cold drinks blocking in the fuel purchasers. Total mayhem. Pun intended. Having become so absorbed in the walk I was forgetting how hot it had become in the early afternoon. Next door, the pub was still there but now a chain-owned eating house and of no use to me.

    After queuing to buy some chilled lunch items, I refilled my water bottle and risked mortality once more.  "Such a cold finger... "

    An hour in the shade restocking on energy and I was on my way again passing Housedean Farm. Cyclists appear out of nowhere I discovered beside a bush under the cover of Bunkershill Plantation! In the open again on Balmer Down I realised that I needed to cover myself up more in the searing heat, and using my waterproof as makeshift cape-come-parasol I continued the gentle climb in the direction of Plumpton Plain.

    At Blackcap the Way turns sharply westward and it was here that I came on a party of teenagers - Duke of Edinburgh Awards participants. I always feel sorry for these heavily laden kids. They have a certain don't care air about them.
    "Where are you heading," I asked.
    "Don't know," one lad replied, pointing: "But he does."
    "Well be sure to stick with him then," I said, offering them a packet of glucose tablets.
    Poor kids it's enough to put them off for life. Walking I mean, not glucose. Pay attention at the back!
    The leaders made a good effort in keeping up for the next mile, and I didn't object to a bit of company, but on reaching the next farm lane they said that they would have to wait for the rest of the party to catch up. I wished 'em well and pressed on towards Beacon Hill.

    Now, there are times on long walks when the mind plays tricks on you, from sightings of angels, to footprints in the snow, and this was no exception: was that the white roof of an ice cream van in the distance..? was it a caravan? a camper..? A New Age traveller's love nest maybe? Chances are, even if it were an ice cream van it would be long gone by the time I got there. Looking at the map I made it to be only a mile off though. Come on son. Hope it's not a furniture van... no, too small. It's got to be an ice cream van. Come on... light that blue touch paper.

   

    Laying back on cool grass sucking a half melted Calippo is probably better than the best lager in the world... probably. I was looking out for the Duke of Ed's to appear on the horizon, but there was no sign until I was draining my second tapered tube. The ice cream man had departed with a cheery wave and in this heat I hoped for their sake that they hadn't seen him leave. That could finish them.

    A man from the council arrived with some leaflets. His van advertised the web site vic.org. I told him I'd used it and thought it helpful. He seemed pleased. I told him I hadn't paid at the SSCP site. He said not to worry as the warden was on his honeymoon. I said I'd post it on. He shrugged. When he'd gone I searched the car park for a litter bin, but could I find one? I walked on wondering about this shortage of litter bins in Sussex...

   

    Within 2 miles I was at the Jack and Jill windmills. If you were really into windmills you could venture down the hill as far as the car park for a closer look. But... well, see one windmill...

    The Way proper bears due South past the riding stables of New Barn Farm and before long I was crossing the road into Pyecombe. Beyond the church and down the hill, a bridge took me over the busy A23. With senses tightened from walking alone you become keenly aware of just how mad road life has become and I was happy to be in my own little world toddling up the quiet lane over West Hill in the direction of Saddlescombe knowing I'd covered 25miles since breakfast.

    Before the next road crossing the farmer had installed a tap with a rusty enamel mug on a chain - probably fed up to the back teeth with requests for water from tired walkers, and possibly, at some later stage, of the same folk nicking his mugs... Although to be honest, apart from the DoE's, I hadn't seen many of them myself. I tipped out my remaining water, now warm, and refilled my solid bottle, unable to resist a swig from the cold metal of the mug also, which, for some reason - like wine from a glass, tasted better. Ahh, water... a simple yet most precious commodity. When taking water, re-hydrating in modern parlance, a little and often is the key.

    Over the road the steady climb to the top of the Devil's Dyke began and around halfway up the aroma of barbequed food drifted out from behind bushes. Chase me! chase me! it said. Food, glorious food... Seems hunger was taking hold.

    Reaching the road at the top I took the decision to call at the pub. Pub grub? It would add a half-hour but I had made good time, especially considering the heat. Planning to use the youth hostel, meant carrying 3 fewer meals, well 2 because I had brought along 1 emergency main meal in the form of a snack pot rice curry. So dinner, or supper as it was turning out to be - now 7pm - was going to be bought at either the pub, or out of a tin at the hostel.

    From the short road stretch up to the pub is a good view down the Dyke - the deepest dry valley in the world. Reputedly carved by that old n’er do well, the Devil. The aim being to flood Sussex as punishment against newly founded Christendom... but anyway someone lit a candle and old Nick thought it was the sun coming up and downed tools and legged it.

        Sitting barefoot outside the busy pub - wonderful view across the Weald, I hoped no one down wind of my airing socks was being put off their over-priced ‘fayre’. As the food at some of these chain-owned brewery establishments can be poor to say the least, I decided hostel on principal. Sipping my iced lemonade and lime, I watched fascinated as par-ascenders tried their hand at ascending and hang gliders already aloft circled like more proficient breeds of predator. A 'place to be' on such a balmy evening and has been since Victorian times when a railway came up here. As if to confirm my thoughts an open-topped tour bus arrived from Brighton and disgorged thirsty passengers only to return minutes later facing the other way and suddenly the queue at the stop was gone.

 

    As it turned out, if I'd looked at the map, I could have just crossed the road and walked along by the ramparts of the hill fort that crested the hill top, but I'd walked back down the road to rejoin the way where I'd left it. I was just getting back into my stride when an approaching cyclist pulled up.

    "Ah, you're doing what I've always wanted to do," he said excitedly, "...walk it all from one end to the other."

    He had been a marathon runner he told me, and still looked very fit for the 57 year old plumber he described himself as: "See that house just down the bottom of the hill... that one, just next to that bush... Sally Gunnell lived there." He swung his arm to the South, "...and there's the oldest golf club in Sussex... and see that chimney? that's where the gas power station is... only two of those in the country. And see that building just there? There's a race from there up here along here down over there... ten miles it is, exactly... Steve Ovett still holds the record for that... Well I won't detain you further." He drew a pedal up with the top of his foot and detained me further, but a pleasant and unexpected detention. "...See that bush there... no not that one... that one down there... if you walk down there and just over the crest of the hill you'll see the orchids... beautiful they are. You're doing what I always wanted to do."

    "Well you can do it," I encouraged, adding in true spirit: "Just keep your weight to a minimum. Get it done."

    "One day maybe, one day." And he was off.

    I watched him go, bumping up and down on the rough grassy track. He still liked to cycle up onto the Downs he had said, get away from everything and all that. Good man, I thought as I surveyed the view until he was out of sight. I could understand where he was coming from, the very essence of England in all directions. I must admit though, I would liked to have picked his brains about my dodgy central heating boiler back home.

    After 30 miles food had more of an edge of urgency than orchids, wild or dancing naked even. See one orchid dancing naked...

    The springy turf soon gave way to unforgiving loose stony track, harsh upon what were by now tired and sore feet. Difficult to imagine that these sharp flints were formed from sponges originally on a sea bed that was destined to become the Downs! The radio masts beyond Edburton Hill seemed a long time coming.

   

    9 pm saw me clomping up the wooden hill to Bedfordshire. Well, to the hostel reception to be precise, and it took another hour to actually join - I hadn't been a member for well over twenty years. 'You can join on arrival', I was told with enthusiasm, '...not a problem.' I'd telephoned a week earlier to book and confirmed from Birling Gap the previous night. The girl on reception seemed to be picking it up as she went along: "Now, lets see, all I have to do is click here... no, that's not it..."

    I noticed a sign about removing boots at all times... 'should not be worn' etc. I took them off and signed 'here and here', apologising for my pongy socks - they were rank by now. 'No problem,' she said cheerily, 'can't smell them from this side of the counter'. She must've had a cold!

    I bought 2 rashers of bacon, an egg and a tin of... well the only tin she'd got - still not sure what it was, with two slices of bread - all very civilised, and some of that cold white cow juice, in a nice big cold aluminium jug. After ten I was preparing my bacon and egg sandwich, and heating my tin of something - it turned out to be sliced potatoes in a tomatoey sauce: Fabrique en Francais - Bon Appetite! A couple in the self catering kitchen, (whisper: I think they'd arrived by car... I think most people do nowadays as the YHA as had to rethink it's perspective), had cooked Spaghetti Bolognese, and there was an awful lot of it left and I looked at it wistfully as I fried my bacon. They discussed what to do with the left-overs. I thought she said to him: "Put it in the bin..." I was about to - well you would wouldn't you, half starved - suggest the more fitting alternative of my stomach, when I realised she'd said: "... in the fridge."

    From the dining area I had a distant but distinct romantic view of the English Channel, skimmed once again with crinkly white moon beams.

    It was good to shower after such a long hot day - here for the shower. Shower power. The hot water hissed and burned my arms and chest. I realised just how much I'd caught the sun despite trying not to. A towel would have been nice. I'd opted to pack wring-able re-useable kitchen towel (6 sheets - 19grams). Honest.

    Just time to wash socks and shorts for the morrow, hang anything damp. The down sleeping bag would need to air and the tent was still wet from that morning's dew - (this is bad for the lightweighter as damp things are much heavier that dry ones!). Normally it would get pegged out in the sun, but the sun hadn't come over the hill as I’d set off that morning and ‘cracking on’ had been the order of the day. Time enough for another pint of that cold milk though to wash down some crunchy biscuits as I went over the next day's route before turning in.

    I shared a room with a father and young son: 'It's only a daddy long legs', urged Dad as I crept in, thinking they would be abed, '...it won't hurt you.' I joined the search - we couldn't put the light out until he was sure that anything living other than the three of us had been banished to the cooler night air, bless his cotton socks.

    As I settled in my bunk I hoped for their sakes that I didn't snore.

    I needn't have worried; it was the other way round... outnumbered two to one.