On the crest we see the sea. Crepuscular rays strike down and patches
of water glow with religious intensity. We argue whether our band will be
called “The Crepuscular Rays” or “Restricted Byways”. We follow gliders, and
one comes excitingly, frighteningly close. Massive birds of prey hang in the
sky, suspicious of our colourful party.
We stop to eat and quickly go from comfortable to numb-fingered. All of
us try and give our food away, we’ve all bought enough to share, and everybody
wants to reduce the weight of their backpacks. Alas, nobody wants M’s brunch
biscuits!
We go through a beech-capped hill fort, with views for many miles. Wet
blue toadstools and Dead Men’s fingers claw out of the ground. We wee behind
trees and P and L debate whether or not the tower in
the distance is the Brighton Donut.
For a while we impose a quiet on ourselves and walk in our separate
worlds. Flowers are still out; Scabious and Granny-Pop-Out-Of-Beds grow alongside
rose hips and spindle berries and melony blackberries. Butterflies unseasonably
flitter in the late sunshine.
We meander back to civilisation. The silhouette
of Bramber Castle is startlingly phallic. The sun goldens us on top of the
motte and we decide who we might sacrifice. M charades a ridiculous sunset. O dreams of bathtubs. Clouds
pinken as we walk to the church, which is tiny and charming and dark. It smells
of warmth and candles. Outside is fresh white confetti, a pretty place to
marry, fittingly fertile in the shadow of the castle.
We find our Inn, then it’s drinks and bunk bed debates and a quest for
vegetarian food. We go to the Indian, and learn that Patillas are not kneecaps.
We see a few fireworks, but not quite enough. We oo and aar, but realistically
I’m not sure we could all stand for the length of a display. We are weary and achy and
conserving what we have for tomorrow. So, time for story-telling and hot
chocolate in room four. I have unsettling dreams and wonder if the Inn is
haunted; nothing to do with curry and wine.
We wake to sparkling frost. Scrambled Egg and Salmon starts me well and
I decide I’ll never need to eat again. Because of the cold I put on all my
clothes. A takes a photograph of us being velociraptors. We wiggle through
the village, twisted cottages and a river running through and then we are
climbing again, staggering, steep and sweltering. I decant as many clothes as
is decent but as soon as we reach the ridge I am buttoning and zipping back up.
On one edge of the seascape is the Brighton Donut, clear now, and at the other
the Isle of Wight. Closer is the tower of the old concrete factory. We wave
over at the North Downs, where several of us grew up. Breakfast and sunshine have
replenished us and we settle at a happy pace.
Brighton seems near and far simultaneously. Before we realise it we are
already at Devil’s Dyke, waiting impatiently for hang gliders to take off. Finally
at the viewing point we identify what each hill is. We slip-slide around demonic
folds and very gradually countryside is replaced with golf courses and tarmac
and Skeleton Hove and then real Hove and then the Dials. We walk once familiar
streets that I can now barely navigate. We have a beer and a final “Ho! Ho!” to
mark the end of our weekend. What friends! What walking! I travel home happy.
