September 16, 2001: Winchelsea to Hastings

The Lees and I, thwarted in our attempts to complete the last stage of the Saxon Shore Way in June, were by now convinced that we had been driven off the route by an outdated foot and mouth sign and that, if we wanted to complete the route this year, we had better get cracking while there was still available daylight. Saturday was a bit blustery and showers were predicted, so it was Sunday that we would select as our next marching day.

On the previous Tuesday terrorists had killed three thousand humans in New York and Washington and we had all spent a week in shock and disgust. Mine had been a rather lonely week, since Dorothy had just flown to France for a six-day holiday with the Factors – only hours before the outrage took place. I needed some human company, therefore, and was eager to see my friends and finish a route we had been working on for several years.

I was up very early, my usual pattern these days, and had packed up, taken my shower, gotten baby powder all over the bathroom and wrapped a dodgy toenail before 7:55 – when I left for Victoria. In its boot the toe in question did not seem to be too bothersome and I was soon down in the bowels of the Maida Vale tube stop, where I just missed a train. They were running very infrequently on the Bakerloo Line this morning and I had to wait almost ten minutes for a second. I just missed a connection to the Victoria Line at Oxford Circus too, but here the wait was far briefer and I had reached the train station at 8:40, five minutes before my rendezvous time.

The Lees were sitting at coffee near the ticket lines, having already purchased their pasteboards, and I had only a short wait to get mine, a return to Hastings, which, with my senior rail card, cost £12.15. There was time to buy a cappuccino as we waited for a platform and then we stood in line with a lot of other expectant travelers waiting for a number to appear above us. In fact it was a few minutes after the announced departure time that we were at last sent to platform four. Soon we were off for Ashford International, a long journey. We gossiped about school matters and the events of the week – it was impossible to go for more than a few minutes before one of us started up all over again.

There was a train waiting for us at Ashford, a 10:22, and at 10:40 we were back in Rye – where I intended to get a cab to take us back to the Bridge pub in Winchelsea. There were no cabs. The station was deserted (the northbound train passes through at the same time as the southbound one on a Sunday – so we would have to wait an hour before the next bit of activity).Tosh and Harold each tried some local cab numbers, but no one could promise a taxi for another half an hour. There were several options. We could wait for the next southbound train, 50 minutes later, and get off at Winchelsea, some distance off the map and our route, or we could continue to wait, or we could use an alternative, shorter walk back to the Bridge Hotel. We had just decided to do the latter and had left the front of the station when a cabbie towing a load of wood, came sailing by and Tosh waved her arms. He was off duty but took pity on us and in five minutes we were back at our pub. It was now 11:20 and we had lost about half an hour – a slow start that caused some problems at the end of the day.

Tosh wanted to go into the Bridge but it was closed. There were a couple of kids waiting for a bus at our old bus stop and a young girl was standing by the roadside with an eager black puppy who was anxious to greet everybody. There was no foot and mouth sign next to the stile by the bus hut – and Tosh began to climb it, even though we needed to get to the opposite side of the Royal Military Canal, which is where our route continued.

There was no Saxon Shore Way sign here but nonetheless we turned right and followed a very rough track among the canalside rushes. The opposite field was full of sheep and the canal itself was full of swan bottoms. These were attached to birds who were diving head first beneath the surface in search of something to eat. On our left we had level bare fields and we were all longing for such a smooth surface after the ankle twisting we were getting among the rushes.

After about a mile of this we did reach field edges and even greensward and the route became very much more comfortable. We were very fortunate in the weather – for we had sun much of the day. It was warm, there weren’t many breezes and only occasionally did the scene darken with a passing cloud. We continued forward with the canal on our right for another two miles, approaching at last a coastal road beneath a sea wall. Tosh made a direct assault up this while Harold and I retreated to use some steps.

On top we had a wonderful view of a shingle beach and the sparkling ocean beyond. We turned right here and continued forward to the beach houses of Pett Level, soon descending to the road again to enter the lunchtime scene of The Smuggler Inn. It was 12:45.

We disdained the restaurant half and its carvery and took seats next to a pool table. Tosh had cold ham, fried eggs and chips, Harold had fish and chips, and I had a tuna salad. This was all well cooked. The place was becoming quite crowded and there were many dogs about. Once a young chap on his way to the pool table knocked over the last of my Diet Coke but I declined his offer to buy me another one. The bar girl arrived with a cloth but I had sponged off our knapsacks, which had taken the brunt of the brown assault. I had taken my boots off under our table but at 1:30, with only three of our nine miles complete, it was time to continue.

We crossed the street, finding a little space on the verge as we rounded a corner and began looking for a turn off to our left. I told the Lees that we were soon to experience something we hadn’t had for quite some time, a bit of uphill. Indeed the afternoon would be dominated by valleys and peaks but the initial climb, on a hedged lane up to the NT property, Fairlight, was gentle enough. At the top we got the first of the afternoon’s great views, as much inland as out to sea, and continued in a southwesterly direction along the heathland on the top.

The descent from this height did not seem to conform in all details to the guidebook, which had warned of rerouting due to erosion. We never used any steps to descend to Sea Road and our way forward on this street was soon blocked by a sign warning that the road was closed because of subsidence. I had a close look at the map now and decided that we needn’t have bothered with Sea Road in the first place; we were to descend just a little to pick up a parallel lane, Lower Waites. There were no SSW signs in evidence.

We continued forward on this traffic-free suburban street for some distance – with the Lees having a look into everyone’s gardens. After a long time on this street we reached Smugglers Way, where we turned left and climbed a hill. I told the Lees we were lucky we had the guidebook, since there were no clues on the ground; nevertheless we knew to take the first right and the second left. At the end of the latter we had rejoined the cliff top lane, Channel Way – no doubt the original path.

Here we turned right and continued among an increasing number of Sunday strollers, using a narrowly fenced path to gain access to Hastings Country Park and the Fire Hills. There were a number of rival paths about but eventually I chose the uphill option and we climbed slowly up to a nest of masts and a coast guard house at the top. There was a footpath sign here and it directed us steeply downhill to the sea (we hated to lose the elevation) and forward well below the summit equipment. Then we had to climb back up again to reach the end of the summit plateau.

Our path now turned down a second time and also inland as we contoured above the first of three deep glens, Warren Glen, with a very steep, step-assisted descent down to its stream and a severe climb up the other side. I found the Lees having a rest on the greensward and I joined them for a gasp on my back before telling them that we hadn’t reached the summit yet.

This required us to turn right at bollard number 13 (the park’s attractions were well-marked) and enter a woodland for more steps up to the top of our next hill. Here I found the Lees sitting on a large stone, Lovers Seat. We drank some water and continued on a level plateau only for a short distance before plunging down into Fairlight Glen. Here we encountered a large school party of Germans, some of whom were eager to climb down to the beach on paths that were closed because of erosion.

Most of them gave up but we had them as company for the next mile and a half, and we were not charmed. They were a pretty sullen lot and the girls were smoking as they walked. Tosh tried to get them to talk but they didn’t seem to have much English and they were really not interested.

We now had a steep ascent up to the top of East Hill, though I was able to tell the Lees that we were on the last page of the guidebook and that Bea Cowan, the author (who curiously makes no mention of this “black arrow” terrain) did promise that this was the last climb of the SSW.

There were wonderful views forward now, with Beachy Head on the horizon and the old town of Hastings, on our right, in its own valley. There was a mob of trippers about, some descending on their scooters over the grass, and we escaped them only when we took to the steps at the spot where most of them took the cable car. So we had our last descent (there was a Saxon helmet on a sign pointing back uphill but nothing to memorialize the end of a 160-mile route).

We made our way out to the coast road where there was some discussion about the possibility of making the 5:15, but it was just going 5:00, there were no taxis about and so we just began a leisurely stroll along the promenade, repeating the walk that had ended our abortive outing in June. The place was much more lively, though the sea front architecture was pretty garish and seedy. The Lees each had a soft ice.

We reached Hastings Train Station at about 5:30, with almost 40 minutes to wait for the next train. I bought the Sunday papers for Dorothy, a muffin and a Diet Pepsi and the Lees bought beers. We sat at a table outside the cafe and began to relax. My toe had been bothering me only on descents but my back was acting up a bit. Other diners crowded into nearby tables, including one chap with a belly hanging to his knees (or hiding them) who inhaled a sandwich before heading for the tracks.

This we did at 6:00, noting the oddity that there are only two London trains an hour and on Sunday they leave within four minutes of one another – though using different routes. Our “fast” train, the one that left at 6:11, took almost two hours to reach Victoria and it was not a pleasant ride. I dozed for the first half hour but it was too drafty for comfort. The Lees were clucking over a series of 9/11 editorials in The Observer, ones calling for reflection rather than revenge, and by the time we had reached a darkened London you could tell that my friends had more of less convinced themselves of the necessity of doing absolutely nothing about terrorism.

I took the tube home, arriving back at our empty flat at 8:40 – glad to have at last concluded our adventures on the Saxon Shore Way.

Footpath Index:

England: A Chilterns Hundred | The Chiltern Way | The Cleveland Way | The Coast-to-Coast Path | The Coleridge Way | The Cotswold Way | The Cumberland Way | The Cumbria Way | The Dales Way | The Furness Way | The Green London Way | The Greensand Way | The Isle of Wight Coast Path | The London Countryway | The London Outer Orbital Path | The Norfolk Coast Path | The North Downs Way | The Northumberland Coast Path | The Peddars Way | The Pennine Way | The Ridgeway Path | The Roman Way | The Saxon Shore Way | The South Downs Way | The South West Coast Path | The Thames Path | The Two Moors Way | The Vanguard Way | The Wealdway | The Westmorland Way | The White Peak Way | The Yorkshire Wolds Way