We had spent the night in a Premier Inn just outside of town, and the beauty of this was the unlimited breakfast. But really, how much can a person put away. I started off with high hopes.
This was my plate, accompanied with 2 slices of toast and tea. Elliott fared better, demolishing 4 croissants and 2 coffees before his cooked breakfast. We waddled back to our room to grab the cases, and then drove down to Hastings beach. We then sat in the car, staring out at the spattering rain while the gales buffeted the car. Zipping my snowboard jacket up to my chin, with the hood tied tight around my face, I stepped out. I was concerned about my camera, as it's not fully weatherproof like Elliott's, but this had to be done. Chin Up! British Stiff Upper Lip! and all that. Suck it up and carry on. And we did. The waves pounded the beach and the sound of shingle being dragged back into the sea by the water was like china pebbles rolling down a pane of glass; it was so loud, but the scene was breathtakingly dramatic and exhilarating. I was happy just to stand, watch and listen for a while. My eyes began streaming with the wind, and the best way of overcoming this was to put my eyes to the viewfinder of my camera and take photos, so I did.
These small boats were often called beach punts, and were traditionally made of larch and clinker built, (overlapping boards), and using treenails, (wooden pegs). This meant it gave the hull some flexibility and caused less damage when the boat was dragged up onto the shingle beach. All these boats are pulled and pushed from and into the water by cables or the front of a bulldozer. I liked this article I found online about how the boats are put into and taken from the water.
This fisherman was unloading his container of fish offal at the bottom of the beach. The local seagulls were obviously familiar with this routine, there was quite a loud, squawking fan cloud hovering above him, and diving at their breakfast. The shingle was cleared in a few minutes.
Hastings beach is a dramatic mix of sand and shingle, with a backdrop of soaring sandstone cliffs, as shown here, looking up to East Hill Cliff where the funicular, (cable), lift runs up and down. Unfortunately we weren't able to ride on it while we were there, as it was under repair.
The Stade, (Saxon for landing place), as this part of the beach is called, is where the fishing fleet resides, and has been based here since the 11th century, with many of the fishermen able to trace their families back to their inception. It's a small fleet which keeps to local waters, not catching huge loads, and therefore with no risk of overfishing these waters, and no discarded, wasted catches. The RX on the hulls means Port of Rye, which is just down the coast.
Elliott went close to the surf. I stood behind him, trying to grab a couple of shots of the sea spray while using him as a shield, but I soon gave up. My camera lens was covered in salty grime and I was really worried about the grit getting inside my camera body. I backed off and walked back away from the water's edge, instead watching the waves as they pounded onto the beach, the water frothy and violent as it hurled itself onto the shingle. It was mesmerizing. Below is a snippet of what I was watching. Despite the treacherous weather, it was amazing. The sight, the smell and the sound, just phenomenal.
Eventually, we gave up and took sanctuary in the warm car, and after a few minutes recovering, we continued our journey, following the coast to Brighton. We had wanted to park and walk around the outside of The Brighton Pavilion, but the weather had turned even worse, the rain torrential, the winds even more fearsome, and we even saw hailstones for a few minutes. We sat in the car, looking out to the sea and waited for the blustery deluge to subside, just a little, so we could run to a small tea shop.
Which we did, and then lurched through the doors of our sanctuary to drape soggy jackets over chairs, and then indulge in a very fine cream tea, with homemade scones, which had been baked that morning, raspberry jam, and a pot of clotted cream. It was deliciously divine. The tea was very good also.
We were spending this night in an inn just outside of Chichester, a few miles from the last destination of the day. We made a quick detour to take in Arundel Castle and cathedral from the car. The castle wasn't open this late in the year, so this town is definitely on the list for a future visit. But looking up at the castle, it reminded me of a fairytale or Disney film, it was magical.
We arrived at Bosham as the light was fading, and the tide was coming in fast. Mum had brought me here 4 years ago, and I loved this little village, and the story of Canute the Great ordering back the waves in this little bay. And as well as King Canute putting Bosham on the map, it is also thought to be the birthplace of King Harold II who fought at the Battle of Hastings in 1066. The famous Bayeux Tapestry shows a scene of King Harold visiting Bosham church before setting sail on the voyage during which a storm led to him being captured by William of Normandy, and then later invading England to reclaim his throne.
We drove down to the water, noticing that we couldn't now drive along Shore Road by the pub, it was already flooding. There have been some visitors in the past who parked their cars along this road, only to return later and discover them floating. Visitors now have to park at a carpark about half a mile from the harbour.
Once again, we'd turned up at exactly the right time, as I had previously told Elliott of this little place, and wanting to eat dinner with a fine pint of beer while the sea smacked and slapped at the wall below us, slowly rising as the last light left the horizon.We sat in the cozy upstairs of the Anchor Bleu pub, peering out of steamy windows at the dark waters lapping below, and tucked away a home cooked meal of chicken, bacon and leek pie, followed by treacle tart and ice cream.
Later, I was glad of that walk back to car as I was so full up. As we neared the carpark, we heard the boats talking. There were a lot of boats in an open storage area, and the high winds were rattling and clanking the cables, and making the halyards, (ropes to the mainsails), hum. It took me back to my years of living in Conyer, when I'd walk down to the pub by the creek, on a winter's night, sniffing the coal burning in the homes I passed, and the melody of the boats jangling and clonking, ringing out their welcome as I passed by them jostling each other in the water. These boats tonight were singing the same song, it was wonderful. We stood for a bit, listening, and marveling at the orchestra of sounds, then drove back to the inn for a solid night's sleep.
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