June 20, 1992: Chilver Bridge to Eastbourne Youth Hostel

Our group approaches the famous Long Man of Wilmington

The day after ASL’s commencement Tosh and I began our long summer holiday with the final stretch of the Wealdway. It had taken almost three years. We were accompanied by Dorothy, Harold, and Toby. This was the twelfth time I had finished a British footpath, but Tosh and Harold were completing only their third walk and Toby his first.

I had tried to obtain accurate train information all day Friday, getting only a busy signal at British Rail. We decided therefore to take the 8:51 train to Lewes, the same departure as the previous trip, and to this end I had agreed to meet the Lees at Victoria at about 8:30. When I finally got through to BR early on the morning of the walk, I was told there wasn’t an 8:51 connection and we would have to take the 8:32 to Brighton! I quickly called Tosh and a bit of a scramble ensued. We made a wrong turning at Oxford Circus and had to retrace our steps in a rush in order to reach the Victoria line. We got to the station with about ten minutes to spare, whereupon I noticed that the 8:51 was available after all and we started to relax. Dorothy got us coffee and doughnuts and Toby, freshly trimmed at Peter’s Posh Pets, received a lot of attention from passersby. I went to an information kiosk to confirm return times and was startled to see that the clerk was looking up train times in the same ABC rail guide I use at home. If only the chap on the phone had owned one.

We ploughed through the ASL gossip as we sped south, reaching Lewes at about 10:00. There was only a twenty-minute wait for our connection and everyone had a go at the loos. Two stops put us out at Berwick, where I was surprised to see a cab waiting. “Let’s grab it,” I ordered. We saved only about a mile’s walk thanks to this £1.70 ride to the Chilver Bridge but I argued this would give us a more relaxing time at the midday pub. We were able to unleash the dog, having a good look round for cow pies, at 10.30.

Our route paralleled the Cuckmere. The fields had been harvested recently and walking along the edge of the boundary hedges was easy. I was testing a gimpy knee but it hurt only a little at stiles and I knew there would not be many of these today. It was breezy and cool enough to wear a sweatshirt. For a while I worried that the grey skies might turn to rain but they soon cleared away.

We turned away from the river and followed a hedge to a double stile, climbed a little hill and descended to the railway. I was a bit concerned to have Toby on his own at this time but there was no holding him when the challenge of squeezing under a new stile was presented. In fact we were in quite open country and it was easy to see that no train was approaching. Unfortunately the view ahead was not as reassuring. The guidebooks agreed that we were to press ahead but after a while we completely ran out of any semblance of path and had to make our way forward along a ditch, climbing through knee high foot-twisting oilseed rape. Poor Toby appeared to be doing the breaststroke. He would take two little leaps forward, then surface for a giant jump in order to see the way ahead. His legs, beard, and stomach were soon embedded with seeds and caked with vines.

I was looking for a way across the culvert and finally I found a spot I could jump over. I reached out my arm and gave everyone a tug and in this fashion we reached the more solid footing of a farm road. We paused to catch our breath. We were still discussion varieties of religious experience when we crossed the busy A27 and entered the Milton Street road next to a field full of llamas.

A turn off brought us along a shady path behind some houses. I could see cows ahead but when I bent over to attach the dog I felt quite lightheaded. The cows were slow to move off the footpath; some came very close to have a look at Toby. There were several stiles to be negotiated as we crossed small fields to emerge on the street at Wilmington. This was a lovely place, with many substantial old cottages decorated in spring flowers. We made our way south, examining each with particular care and Dorothy and I also wandered into the grounds of the Wilmington priory at the top end of town. Here we found Tosh in conversation with the sponsor or a large group of kids out on an orienteering expedition.

A fenced path now lead us to the foot of the famous Wilmington Long Man, an ancient chalk figure of a man standing between two tall poles; at 226 feet high it is the largest such figure in England. We decided to have a rest and a snack while sitting here. I had half a Bounty Bar and Toby had some biscuits. The views back over the Weald were spectacular; the sun was coming out and the visibility was excellent. While we ate we discussed the health of our dentist.

As we started forward there was a gate in a barbed wire fence separating us from more cows. Tosh began to climb it, not having noticed that it opened quite easily. Harold sprang the lock while she was aboard and she was soon swinging in the wind. This gave all of us a chuckle but Harold paid for his fun because coming up behind us was a horsewoman who also needed to use the gate. When he opened it for her (as she nattered on about her nag being nervous today) Harold backed into a cow pie. We followed this woman at some distance (when are the nags not nervous? I want to know) as we headed north on a chalky track on the open hillside. This was quite easy walking, though we were heading into a very stiff breeze – and there wasn’t much elevation rise. We were on the South Downs at last.

Harold and I took advantage of some discrete trees when there was a moment of quiet following the passage of some orienteering youths and a herd of pensioners on a crossing track. We began a wooded descent to Folkington and on the way Harold pointed out a snake, sunning itself on the path. Ahead Tosh was laying claim to a large chunk of chalk, one that she proposed to lug home. Harold demurred but the stubborn lady insisted; moreover she was planning to use it as a paperweight on his desk. I climbed up a wall in order to peak over into the churchyard of the Folkington Church, an ancient building with a weather-boarded bell tower.

There was now about a mile and a half to go to our pub. The route followed a path enclosed in hedges; this did not prevent us from obtaining fine views of the hills ahead but there was more protection from the elements than I had imagined. There was some climbing at last but this did not seem too severe. I waited for Dorothy to catch up and we tried to figure out when we had reached the summit of the path, which now gradually descended toward the Jevington road. Here we turned right to reach the Eight Bells at 1:15.

Tosh went inside and returned with drinks, spilling a good deal at the door, which was not easy to negotiate. Then we had a look at menus and Dorothy went inside to order. The special of the day, crab salad, was finished and Tosh had to order all over again (and the boy who brought the food to our outside table forgot her chips). Dorothy got some more drinks and noted how no one in the crowded pub helped her with the door either. Harold complained that two of the bar staff ignored him so they could smoke and talk and a third, who was doing all the work, had to take his coffee order.

I never actually made it into the Eight Bells. I was a bit tired from general end-of-term exhaustion and from sitting with my head in the sun. I gave Toby a hard-boiled egg and some water. I stripped down to my Harvard (“team of the nineties”) t-shirt and told everyone I wanted a nap. A chap, claiming he had been at Harvard, wanted to know if I wasn’t too old to have played football there in the nineties. So I had to take my pack off to show him (on the back of the shirt) that the nineties in question were the 1890′s.

After about an hour we climbed through the hedge opposite the pub and began a steep climb up to a stile, with wonderful views of Jevington church  There then followed a long climb up to the top of Coombe Hill. I fell well behind here and the others pressed on and several times Toby had to race back to see what was keeping me. There were a lot of other strollers and their dogs descending the hill. As we neared the top the wind became really fierce and it was hard to keep going in a straight line against it. I found the others sprawled in the grass in the lee of a clump. It seems that my idea of a nap was catching on. We all had a nice dozy time lying on our backs, protected from the wind, but not bothered too much by the direct sun. Toby kept guard, greeting all other walkers and offering to hump one bitch into the bargain.

We descended a little to the Butts Brow car park, with views of Eastbourne and the channel now opening up ahead of us, and followed a track as it gently climbed to the summit of Willingdon Hill. The country was quite open now and I was glad we had not waited for a scorcher to complete this last stretch. At the summit we encountered the South Downs Way, which we took for a mile or so in the direction of Eastbourne. I was retracing the steps I had taken in the other direction on March 17, 1980 – a chilly, drizzly day featuring very high winds.

As we neared a golf course there were signs directing the Wealdway across a green and onto a woodland path that dropped steeply down the hill, passing a quarry and emerging on the A259 at the Eastbourne Youth Hostel. This was the southern terminus of the Wealdway and there was a post indicating that Gravesend was 80 miles behind us. In fact, we had covered 95.5 miles in completing the route. Dorothy took a picture of the three path conquerors next to the sign.

It was 4:40. There was about a mile and half to go on pavement to reach the Eastbourne train station, but I had suggested that we could take a cab or a bus. A bus stop was only a few feet away but there was no schedule. Dorothy decided to enter the Youth Hostel to see about cabs. She was just coming back to report that there was a phone and a phonebook here when the bus from Seaford came barreling down the hill. Five minutes later we were at McDonalds in litter-strewn, crowded downtown Eastbourne. In this way we were able to take the 5:05, slurping the last of our strawberry shakes and root beers as we headed toward London.

It had been a delightful nine-mile day and Dorothy had enjoyed it more than many a recent walk. We reached Victoria at 6:28 and Maida Vale shortly past 7:00. We had Chinese takeaway to celebrate the end of the expedition and then I set to work picking seeds from the fur of my dog.

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