The Boats of the Stade and Bosham

 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.

We do Like to be Beside the Seaside

 The next morning we were up early again, and back to the same cafe for breakfast, but this time to meet my dear old friend, Cathy, and her fella, Phil. I've known Cathy since I was 16 years old, and lived with her when I left home. We've always stayed in touch and her whole family are amazing. 

Once again, we had a huge plate of everything that goes into a full English breakfast, proper bacon, eggs, beans, tomato, mushrooms, sausage, black pudding and toast. And of course, this has to be accompanied by tea, although Elliott always had coffee. Only the Brits can really appreciate the good ole cuppa, and that's fine, it's our heritage. But I did have a coffee later when we left the cafe and went across the road to a pub to finish chatting over coffees and cokes. We had so much to say to each other we couldn't stay at the cafe, not when they were wanting the table for other customers, we'd definitely outstayed our welcome.

After a couple of hours, it was time for Elliott and I to leave. We met with Sally for a tearful farewell, and more hugs, and then hit the road, heading towards the coast. We were staying the night in an Airbnb that I'd booked overlooking the sea. What hadn't been in the description was a flight of 63 stairs that we had to drag our cases up. But it made a pleasant change from a hotel room and the exercise was needed. We arrived just before dusk, and the beach I'd wanted to show Elliott was only a 10 minute drive away, so as soon as we'd dumped our cases in the flat, we dashed out again, with our cameras.

Botany Bay is the most northern of the 7 bays in Broadstairs, Kent, and had somehow eluded my travels in all the years I'd lived there. It has white chalk cliffs, with sandy beaches, and at this time of the year, only a few locals were walking along the sands. Once famous for smuggling, including a bloody battle, the small caves where contraband was hidden can still be seen.

The sun was setting as we trudged down steps and then waded through loose sand to get onto the beach, and the tide was coming in, but we were grateful to be here so we could scope it out for the next morning, when we'd be arriving at dawn. It was getting chilly and the wind was brisk, but we enjoyed watching the cliffs become pale ghosts in the disappearing light. Afterwards, we popped into a pub by the car, where we ravenously devoured a delicious meal and a couple of pints of bitter before heading back to the flat for an early night.

The next morning, we dragged our cases back down the 63 stairs and drove back to Botany Bay, wasting no time, since we knew exactly where to park, and how to access the beach quickly. We were so lucky that the tide was going out, and the sun reached out to greet us with warm rays as we set up our cameras for a couple of hours of photos and exploring. There were only a couple of locals here this morning, so we were almost alone, and I didn't know what to do first, explore or take photos. This is an unusual beach, the sand scattered with round, white, chalk pebbles, smooth from being so easily eroded, and many with holes in them. A few went into my pockets. I was grateful for my snowboarding jacket, the wind was piercing, but we were too excited to take much heed.

In the distance can be seen a building up on the cliffs, which used to be Kingsgate Castle, built in 1650, and then converted to a hotel in 1913. Sir John Mills and Peggy Ashcroft, plus other celebrities, used to stay here, but it's now flats. What a great view they have! I was fascinated with the seaweed clinging to the chalk cliffs, the gorgeous shades of greens: lime, emerald and forest green. We walked along to the next bay, examining cliff faces and rock pools, and after a couple of hours, I had to call Elliott so we could move on. We had many places to see and my tummy was growling; we'd left that morning with no breakfast or even a hot hot drink. I'd been chatting with a Hungarian photographer on the beach who'd moved here 10 years ago, and he recommended a tea room, called Corby's, in Ramsgate, a few miles down the road.

We arrived at the tea room, starving, and were soon devouring another full English breakfast, which I followed with toast and marmalade, washed down with cups of tea. I noticed that the cakes in the shop window were knitted! Feeling full and nicely warmed up, we had a quick stroll along the street, where we found a novel armchair and sofa, cleverly built from bricks.

Further down the coastline is Dungeness, a headland which juts out from the east coast. The wind was howling when we got there, so we opted not to get out of the car. I used to come down here on my motorbike, with a friend late at night, in the rain, just for the fun of it. We'd stop and look up at the lighthouse, watch the fisherman, silhouettes on the beach in the night, feel the wind thrusting against our leather jackets, look at eachother, then hop back on our bikes and ride back to Maidstone. Can't say I'd do that now!

From the warmth of our car, Elliott and I looked at the power station, checked out the lighthouse, and the new additional lighthouse, the miniature railway line, the scrappy weeds that were the only plants growing in this hell forsaken environment, and the small shacks, some of which looked as though they were leaning into the wind in valiant efforts to stay upright. We took a couple of photos with the window rolled down a few inches, and then continued our journey. But, for me, it's a place I love to visit. As well as the memories it holds, there's a daunting and bleak beauty in the almost apocalyptic atmosphere of the place. It's so different from the surrounding countryside, that it has to be seen, and felt.

We then drove on to Rye, still regarded as a seaside town although it's 2 miles inland, where we wandered the famous Mermaid Street, one of the cobbled lanes here. This little town is also famous for smuggling, and raids from the French, including them burning the whole town in 1377. Rye was also made a Cinque Port in 1336, one of a group of ports on the south coast, which received certain privileges, such as tax exemption, in return for maintaining ships for defense. This was a scheme introduced by Edward the Confessor in the 11th century. We browsed the shops and then stopped in a cafe, where I had the best cherry and marzipan cake I'd ever tasted, washed down with a big pot of tea. Then it was time for the last leg of the day, driving along the coast to Hastings.

We arrived at Hastings as the last of the daylight dimmed. The wind had picked up and was now gales, laced with icy drops of rain. We parked and then walked quickly to the only fish and chip shop I knew would be decent and was open. Sadly, although edible, it wasn't the best fish and chips I'd had, and was an unfortunate introduction for Elliott, but there would be plenty of future opportunities. After yet more hot tea for me, we braved the now dark and stormy night to wander along a small part of old town Hastings on Halloween night. Surprisingly, the residents weren't letting the weather upset their plans, and were determined to party, many in costumes. I struck lucky, spotting and quickly grabbing a tenner blowing down the street. I looked about to see if anyone was missing it, and not noticing any disappointed faces, we went in the nearest pub for a couple of free pints. Walking back to the car, we spent a few minutes on the beach, sneaking a quick peak at the old fishing boats resting on the shingle. We'd be back at first light.