A Day at the Beach

I have come to discover, quite recently, that I am a creature of habit. I find a dish I love at my favorite restaurant and even though I always look through the same menu, my eyes lingering over different gastronomic delights I would like to try, I ultimately order the same thing over and over again. 

On my most recent trip to London, I did not want the same-old same-old of Westminster Abbey, Buckingham Palace, Big Ben, The British Museum-- been there, done that... numerous times. I wanted to try something different from the vast menu of the United Kingdom, something unusual and something truly local. I knew I needed to get out of the city for the day so with the help of my ever trusty Google search engine, I researched "Country Walks Outside of London." The selection of different treks was like a whisky list at a Scottish pub.

As much as the "Jane Austen" hike lured me with visions of a soaking wet, brooding Mr. Darcy meeting me somewhere along the hilly journey, it's the 21 km part that killed the romance for me. I only had one afternoon so I chose the 9.5 km "Hastings Circular Walk" that runs along the coast of the English Channel in East Sussex.

"Oh, hello Mr. Darcy…"

I had heard of "The Battle of Hastings" but knew none of the details of this decisive, 11th century Game of Thrones like battle between crowned Anglo-Saxon King Harold and the Norman usurper of Viking descent Duke William (the Conqueror). All I knew was that there was a crumbling 1000 year old castle and I was sold.

My Medieval journey back in time began at Victoria Station where I easily purchased a Southern Railway round trip ticket from one of the numerous self serve kiosks located in this busy hub of the London railway system. I made my way through the hundreds of stressed out Brits coming into the city for the weekend and boarded my East Sussex time capsule. I had already made my typical thematic playlist for the journey (Celtic selections sung in Gaelic this time) so I settled into my seat and pressed play as we departed-- Altan's "Gleanntain Ghlas Ghaoth Dobhair" moaning wistfully in my ears. (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fGqvZTIcMBI)

I love trains. Of all the different types of land travel, trains are the one of the only kind that take you through parts of the countryside one would miss on the painfully dull highways that cars and busses occupy. The Southern Railway is not your great grandmother's train: it is smooth and fast. I found myself transfixed with the endless greens of the English countryside. Sheep, horses and nonplussed, cud chewing cows zoomed past me as I struggled to snap a picture. The food cart clinked through the aisle as I crossed my fingers for some chocolate frogs but alas, Harry Potter and his every-flavour beans were nowhere to be found.

Interior of a Southern Railway car

Stunning countrysides zoom past

Country paragliders

1 hour and 35 minutes later we arrived at our destination. The doors slid open and the cozy interior of the car was flooded with the salty chill of the English Channel in October. The lamenting calls of ever hungry seagulls was a welcome change from the clatter and rumble of London traffic.

I made my way out of the station and began the long downhill path to the main village. I referred to my map several times trying desperately to figure out where I was but the layout of the town looked like a mass of veins and arteries of the human body. Some streets were so small they were just left out altogether. I decided to just wing it. I knew if I walked far enough, I would eventually get to the heart of the sleepy costal town, Hastings Castle.

My kingdom for a Google map!

As I strolled through the ancient hamlet, worn smooth 13th century cobblestone paths fought for their lives as modern asphalt roads encroached on their 900 year old territory. Every alley had its own distinct charm-- like the ivy lined walls of Cobourg place where a weather beaten fisherman repaired his nets and called out "Afternoon darlin!" to me as if I'd known him all of my life.

It was a pleasure to get lost here

One must not Foul the Footway...

Colorful wooden beach houses take up every scrap of land along the steep paths of endless steps carved into the existing rock. A rusty sign warns residents of the price they will pay if their dog "fouls the footway."  I came to a fork in the path, took the left steps and ended up at the bottom a cave like enclosure of homes with a 15th century iron door barring my further exploration. I was then met with a mixture of wondrous smells. Sweet sugar covered apples, hearty fish and chips and the ever present odor of ale reminded me that I had not eaten yet so I followed my nose through more vine choked lanes until I reached the main thoroughfare of George Street.

I was truly transported back in time at this point. Shopkeepers shouted over one another for the patronage of the outlanders that don't know which way to look first. We were all dazzled by the Pirates of the Caribbean like quality of this place. There are no "chain" businesses here. Small, family owned shops rule the road. Pubs, sweet shops, fishmongers, antiques, tobacconists, perfumeries and restaurants are all doing brisk weekend business even in the "shoulder season" of mid-October. The Hasting accent of the locals is a clipped mixture of cockney and pirate and everyone knows each other. Groups of chain smoking teenagers bemoan their fate of being trapped in a small town while older generations know how lucky they are to be a part of a seaside clan such as this.

George Street

The lure of ale and pub grub was just about to take me over when I spotted the crumbling facade of Hastings Castle high on a cliff just beyond George street. Like a siren who beckons a sailor to follow her into the briny deep, the castle called me to pay my respects first. It seemed so lonely perched precariously high on it's hill as it watched over it's descendants.

I made my way to the West Hill Lift entrance. 

The Hill Lifts are funicular (also known as inclined plane) railways that transport people up and down steep slopes. Hastings is one giant slalom course of hills and cliffs. Just my luck, it was closed. I had spent so much time in town pressing my nose against the gleaming store windows, I had missed the last cable car by 10 minutes. So I chose the old fashioned by foot method. By the time I reached the entrance of the castle, sweating, panting and making deals with the Almighty I would get to the gym if She/He just let me live to see the top, my legs were on fire. I now understood why most of the locals looked so fit.

The Cliff Railway

Getting to the entrance of the castle takes you through a packed sand and dirt road lined with pine trees, vines and sea grass. A hush falls over the entire area as you enter through the spiked, medieval iron gate. A sign on the gate says, "Choose to be happy." It is this kind of whimsy that is prevalent throughout Hastings.

Main entrance

As I reach the small wooden admission booth I am met with a Zen like young man hunkered down with a pint and a footie game on the telly. "Afternoon, miss. Here for the castle?" I pay my 8 pound admission fee and am told I have the run of the place. I am the only customer. I am in heaven.

Hastings castle began it's life as a motte-and-bailey fortification. A wooden keep situated on raised earthwork called a "motte" with an enclosed courtyard or "bailey" surrounded by a protective ditch. After the Battle of Hastings (1066), William the Conqueror ordered the castle to be rebuilt in stone (1070). 

As I explore every brick and dungeon, information boards explain the original layout. The current remains of the castle are a part of a once larger collection of towers, bridges, cathedral and dungeons that once stood there. In 1287, violent storms battered the coast for many months and eventually large sections of the castle fell into the sea. Though it was now a shell of it's former glory, the sections that had survived 1000 years of occupations, 2 world wars and nasty weather were still impressive and with the aid of Enya's "Boadicea" humming in my ears, I began to imagine a fully functional castle with all of it's politics and intrigue of the day. (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JKQwgpaLR6o)

After 2 hours of paying homage to the ghosts of the castle, it was time for me to get back to the living. The best part about climbing a steep, seemingly never ending cliff is the journey down hill.

The plethora of pubs to choose from made me dizzy with delight and a little pissed off that I didn't book a room for a longer stay. I was now in the grips of mild anxiety as I tried to choose which establishment to wet my whistle in so I let my gut do the choosing. To my right was an ancient looking hulk of a building whose foundations were made of old bricks and bottles. The main structure was a tan and black half timber beauty with large faded skull and crossbone flags that flap in the sea breeze as if they are beckoning me to patronize their establishment. "Aaarrr... It's a sign," I whispered to myself in my best Bluebeard accent and I ducked into the 300 year old Ye Olde Pumphouse for a pint.

Ye Olde Pumphouse

A lovely dread locked barkeep met me just inside the dark and cozy tavern. She was surrounded by nautical themed artifacts: fishing nets, skull and crossbones flags, snap and crackle fireplaces, lime encrusted buoys that hung from the darkened wooden beams in their rope covered cradles. I stayed for an hour in my cushioned corner observing locals that wandered in. I listened with great curiosity to their exchanges regarding footie matches, "Bollocks!! CFC not Man-Ure!" Other tourists were not amused by this and left, off to find the real pirates they came for.

Interior of the Pumphouse

Before I get too sloshed, I make my way out and make a b-line for the large glass jars of sugar mice that filled the window of the C.& S. Chamberlen Sweet Shop. The pleasant young man behind the counter, I discover, is the son of the current owners. He was born in Hastings, grew up in London and came back to his hometown 5 years prior to help run his family business. Upon further investigation of the various businesses around town, this seemed to be the norm: they all came back for family.

C. & S. Chamberlen Sweet Shop

My pink and white sugar mice in hand, I then made my way towards the beach. Seabirds glided and hovered over gleeful children who taunted them with bits of food. Just then, a delicious fried fish smell beckoned me into The Old Town Fish Bar. "Evenin' luv, what's your fancy?" I ordered Cod and Chips take away and made my way to the shore.

The beach itself is difficult to walk. It is not the standard soft sand of my hometown of Hawaii, instead it is made up of millions of tumbled pebbles that crunch and give way with every step one takes. I almost dropped my fish'n'chips 4 times as I tried to find a soft spot to eat. I finally settled on a mound of large wet pebbles and happily munched away as I watched children run and shout, chasing the starving seagulls into the lemon yellow sunset.

Sunset in Hastings

Fully satiated, I made my way back up the steep climb to the small train station. At the top I purchased a cold beer to take on the train back to "civilization."

As I boarded the train, a lone seagull followed me. His eyes never leaving my leftovers for a second. "Arrrr... sorry mate!" I call to him as the doors close, "Maybe next time!"

Mr. Seagull waiting for my fish & chips

As I took my seat, I realized there will most certainly be a next time. Hastings had put a spell on me and I was the happiest of victims of this siren of the English Channel.

Further info:

Southern Railway: www.southernrailway.com

Day Hikes out side of London: http://www.timeout.com/london/things-to-do/country-walks-outside-london

Day Hikes outside of London: http://www.walkingclub.org.uk/book_1/

Official site for Hastings: http://www.visit1066country.com/