Beachy Head and Lighthouse

Nr Eastbourne, East Sussex.

A busy day spent touring about. The best of the weather was forecast for the morning, so we began at Birling Gap with a view west to the Seven Sisters, and then headed east to Beachy Head.

After our sea-air battering, we travelled inland. Cath wanted to look around Alfriston, a place she promoted as worthy and had obviously read about. We parked on the narrow lane at the edge of the large green by the parish church and then made our way to the High Street for a cuppa. The first tea shop we came to, with three or four steps down to the floor and low, hand cut beams to the roof, was in empty silence. So we returned to the road in search of another. The next one we passed was judged busy since it had people sat at every window. At the third, the Singing Kettle, we weren't welcome. 'We are closed' we were told. With only half their available tables occupied, it seemed a little peculiar to be turning people away at around noon. After an unsuccesful search the length of the street, we re-visited Moonraker's the first one we had looked at. It's back garden drops down to the green and was close to where we'd parked. It was as empty as before, but this time I heard the clink of cuttlery, and further inside, saw a man at a table with little to do. He did not notice me and it struck me this was his private room. So I retreated. But a few steps later, this man was at his feet, his white hair brushing the beams, and speaking to me, stumbling whether to say good morning or good afternoon until he had checked the clock. As I was mid-sentence, asking him whether he was a customer or proprietor and was the shop open, a younger man appeared behind him, circling his ear with a finger in a gesture indicating the elder man was deaf. Yes they were open said the younger, who bade us to sit in their back garden, a place we were told was pleasant when the sun did shine and where we would enjoy a view of the church. Cath decided on a cheese sandwich on granary and uncannily, I asked for beans on toast on white.

It was not at all warm in the garden, more like a wind tunnel, where flimsy things flapped about. I tapped the kitchen window, pointed a thumb in the direction of indoors and received the younger man's nod of recognition. We sat at a table beneath the clock and whiled away the next few moments as I studied the route from Alfriston onto Windover Hill.

First to arrive was the tea, then the beans, then the sandwich. The sandwich was so jaw droppingly unbelievable, it took a few seconds to register that I had been asked if I wanted any sauce to go with the beans. The sandwich was undoubtedly 'cheesy', on lifeless 'brown bread' cut at right angles. Presented on a tiny saucer, its corners drooped over the rim. It smacked of something usually found in a box decorated with baloons along with a yoghurt and a small carton of orange juice.

To be fair, the menu, mauve type face on cream notepaper, made no mention of mixed salad leaves, garnish and so forth, nor of the inclusion of tortilla chips and such like. But then again some 30 years ago, when I didn't live where I live today, when the pub was run by the twins, the beer was dispensed by gravity, and the gents was outside by the coalshed, I called in one lunchtime, most peckish. Sheepishly, I asked if they might do a sandwich and was asked if I would prefer ham or cheese. I said ham. I shall never forget. On delivery that sandwich consisted of two crusty rolls brimming with thick-sliced ham, an apple, a fat wedge of cream and jam sponge cake, and three chocolate digestive biscuits. All for 30p! Alas, Cath's two slices of bread plus cheese weighed in at £6.00.

From the green I plotted a course to take us to Windover Hill where I hoped I might meet the Long Man. As we set off, the wind was picking up, bringing the occasional flick of rain across the face. A white timber bridge took us over the River Cuckmere, now broad and lapping level to its banks. A waymarker showed us a path through a field of young, rapeseed rosettes, and at the far end we joined the South Downs Way. From here we ascended east along the wide, chalk-white path, crossing the Exceat to Wilmington road, gently climbing upwards. The north facing slopes of Windover Hill present a wide view across the Weald. To the west lies the slopes of the Downs and where, at Firle Beacon, the contrast of Downland and Weald is perhaps at its most obvious.

We did see the Long Man of Wilmington, but we didn't linger. The rain was enough to send anyone one scattering, but disappointingly, the Long Man had aged to look very scraggy. His outline was rather feeble and he was plainly in need of new clothing. I might add that, as I looked towards him from perhaps 100 yards away, I had wrongly imagined he was gouged from the earth by mammoth tusk or similar. Turns out I couldn't be further from the truth and what I was actually looking at was breeze block painted in whitwash, now of course weather worn.

Back in the car, wet and soggy, de-mist on full blast, our touring list showed our next port-o'call was Monk's House in  Rodmell, a village about 3 miles south-east of Lewes, the former home of Virginia Woolf and now in the care of the National Trust. We visited I am sure because Cath teaches literature and admires whatever VW wrote, and as some sort of homage to an early feminist. Available for inspection there is a sitting room, a kitchen, and Virginia's bedroom, and in the garden, a posh girl's den where VW had her desk. VW's cremated remains are buried in the garden, but being horrid and fashioned from beer and beans, any healing vibes went over my head.

From Monk's House we called in at Lewes for an overdue sitdown and cuppa, and then back to the hotel for an hour in front of the telly. The rest of the evening was spent noshing (what a triff steak burger) and slurping Long Man Brewery's American IPA at the Cricketers Arms.

The extras are
Firle Beacon from Windover Hill
Virginia's bedroom is the West Pier, Brighton, and
West Pier, Brighton