Tag Archives: walking


I like dogs. If circumstances allowed, I’d like to have a dog again. But since that isn’t practical I have to limit myself to admiring them from afar.

The route to work passes through a park (one of the few things the local council does well) which is understandably popular with two- and four-legged walkers.

An owner stands, tossing a well-chewed tennis ball from hand to hand. A black labrador watches, tail wagging expectantly. It’s obvious what’s going to happen next. Or is it?

The ball is hurled off into the distance. The tail wags a little faster. The labrador’s head moves slightly, following the ball’s arc through the air, looking for the exact spot it will land.

The ball bounces. Once, twice. Still the dog does not set off in pursuit. The ball trickles to a halt and at last the labrador moves. By all of a couple of steps to settle itself in the sun, stretching out to gnaw on the stick it had been carrying.

The owner looks bemused and then trudges off to retrieve the ball. This time it’s their turn to fetch.

Silver lining

If I walk to work it takes about 15 minutes longer than getting the train. It’s time well spent. Not only do I avoid the charms of commuting in a crowd, it also helps to keep me reasonably fit.

The only slight drawback is when, like last night, a sudden shower catches you mid-journey. It was fierce enough to force me to take shelter for a while. But the delay brought its own reward. Sighting a double rainbow made getting a little damp around the edges more than worthwhile.

And as the squall cleared as fast as it had arrived, the sunset was quite impressive as well. What’s that clich√© about every cloud…

The pictures were taken on my phone, so aren’t brilliant. But they’re a pleasant reminder that I must get into the habit of keeping my little digital camera in my jacket pocket.

Ten miles

Beaulieu, Buckler’s Hard, Boldre, Hatchet Pond, Frame Heath Inclosure, Brockenhurst.

Two deer (a pleasant surprise since I expected them to be deep in the thickets in this weather), a swan fussing over her brood of six (growing nicely but still in the fluffy cotton-wool ball stage) while her mate gave a dog that dared to paddle in the shallows very short shrift (wonders idly if swans and geese were the originators of hissy fits?). A pony with a still spindly foal at heel. Assorted wabbits…

And did you know that Hythe Pier (a novel way to arrive in the New Forest) is the seventh longest in Britain? No nor did I before today. Which makes me think that there must be a lot of piddling piers dotted around the country.

I was going to use part of this weekend to catch up on the backlog of mails and replies I owe people. But you’ll have to forgive me if your mailbox remains empty. Because if I don’t get too stiff overnight (no sniggering at the back please) I’m tempted by more of the same tomorrow. Exbury Gardens then along the coast to Lepe and Calshot perhaps.

A wise old bird (she’ll probably hate me for the “old” bit but it scans better that way) said something this week that made me think. It was actually in connection with something else, but the key thought was: it’s important to make the time and the space to discover what you want and need.

That, and a subsequent conversation down the pub, set me thinking. And, as I think I’ve said before, I always seem to do my best thinking when I go walking. Which sounds like rather a good reason (if any were needed) to go walking again tomorrow.

And what did I think about while walking today? Apart from the above, bugger all! It was too nice a day to do anything other than kick back and enjoy. There’s a lot to be said for chilling in the sun.

A tale of two cities, part two

An acquaintance remarked: “Walking in the rain holds little appeal apart from the coffee stops in some sheltered area.”

Nor for me as a rule (and I prefer tea to coffee). If it had been raining when I got up I wouldn’t have bothered. I’m not inclined to be a masochist.

The rain didn’t start until I got to the seafront in Eastbourne. It was no more than a few drops in the wind at that stage so it seemed a good excuse to put the new ultra-lightweight anorak to the test. I’d bought it for exactly that sort of situation; to be stuffed in a corner of the rucksack in case of unexpected summer showers.

By the time I’d gone the length of the beach the weather wasn’t getting any worse, so I thought: “Sod it, I’ve come all this way. I might as well at least do Beachy Head. If it gets seriously worse I can always get the bus back from there.”

And by the time I got there my mood had changed. Not only because I’d left Eastbourne behind (there was something more than faintly depressing about the place) but also becasue although the weather wasn’t wonderful I was enjoying myself.

If you don’t go walking it’s hard to explain. But there’s something wonderfully elemental about standing in the wind under a glowering sky. The turf had that soft spring in it, the jacket was holding up (I didn’t get much more than a bit damp around the edges all day) and it just seemed too good an opportunity to waste.

The sun is shining and my legs don’t feel too bad, so I think another stretch of the Thames beckons.

A tale of two cities

I know that London isn’t perfect. But sometimes it’s not until you leave it (however briefly) that you start to appreciate it.

Today I found myself in Eastbourne. Before going any further I suppose I’d better point out that:

A) Before pedants pick on my choice of title, I know that Eastbourne isn’t a city.

B) I have nothing against Eastbourne per se. I’m not picking on the place for any reason.

I just happened to find myself in that particular part of East Sussex because I had an urge to go walking. By the coast. Along cliff tops. And Eastbourne happens to be a rather convenient starting point for Beachy Head and the South Downs Way. And I hadn’t been there since I was a kid.

So what does Eastbourne conjure up in your mind’s eye. Edwardian? Elegant but a little elderly now? Faded gentility? An echo of an era past? The 50s perhaps?

On the walk from the station to the promenade I was left with the distinct impression of chavs by the coast. Not quite as bad as, say, Clacton, but very noticeable. And a gaggle of goths in the vicinity of McDs.

If you want to size up anywhere by the coast then study the gulls. In Brighton they are brash. Hovering, just waiting to pounce when some unsuspecting visitor leaves their lunch or ice-cream unguarded for a moment. In Eastbourne the birds skulked and sulked, giving the distinct impression that they’d really rather be somewhere else. Suddenly, London didn’t seem quite so bad. And that was before the weather took a turn for the worse.

It was only serendipity (perhaps a desire to walk in the direction that would mean I was facing the sunset) that I hadn’t started at Seaford. So at least I had the wind and rain at my back most of the day. People I met coming the other way seemed to be suffering much more having to walk into it.

The climb from Cow Gap up to Beachy Head is a bit of a haul, but with some throaty panting like a steam-train tackling an incline I did it without a pause. The top seemed like a good place for a chocolate break (blueberries coated in Belgian white) and to take a look back over Eastbourne.

I read somewhere that back in the 19th century Eastbourne was planned to be a pleasant place. So what did I see? The sweep of the coast? The pier? No, the only thing that poked through the mist was a bloody great tower block. So much for town planning.

Beachy Head and Belle Tout lighthouse beyond are both easily accessible by car. A few tourists had obviously decided that, despite the weather, they’d venture out into the countryside. So how do you tell the difference between a walker and a tourist? No, it has nothing to do with anoraks. Just about everyone (apart from the really foolhardy) were hunkered down in shapeless, sensible clothes. But walking across a muddy field in white trainers, or trying to cling on to a brolly while the wind whirled and eddied is a dead giveaway.

You also get a better class of dog out in the wilds. None of those whiny snappy little rat-like things. Ones that look like their coat was designed to repel the damp, and their paws were meant to get muddy, and they were meant to be chasing rabbits rather than on a leash.

Birling Gap provided welcome shelter for a brief refuelling stop (cheese, chorizo and ciabatta should you care). After which the Seven Sisters were a pushover. The wind was backing, the rain wasn’t easing, and there was no sign of a break in the clouds.

A brief respite as I gazed over Cuckmere Haven from the top of the cliff. The shingle scrunching underfoot along the beach. Watching the run-off rainwater rip down the river and out to sea.

A warm welcoming pub at Exceat Bridge. Just over 16km according to the GPS, so let’s call it an even 10 miles for those of you who don’t do metric maps.

As a rule, I’m a fair-weather walker. But there was something about today. Soft suffused mist. Wind, rain, and a sense of achievement. A day spent doing nothing other than having a great day. Triumph out of adversity. Who would have thought that a rainy Easter in Eastbourne could have turned out so well.

So what did you do today? Because life is there to be lived.

Dog sitting

I have fond memories of Lils (but not of Hils).

Getting up at the crack of dawn (or, more often, being woken up by a barking bundle of energy who didn’t want to be cooped up a moment longer).

The way she looked at me excitedly: “Please Sir, can we go out NOW?”

The way she knew that when I reached for my trainers her wish was about to be granted

She strained at the leash. She was still a little girl at heart. But she was growing up fast; learning to obey and understanding what the rules were. Until we had crossed the road and walked through the churchyard she had to behave.

Then I would set her free. To bound across the fields. And chase birds and rabbits. All of the time having fun. While keeping half an eye on me so she knew just how far she could go as she raced hither and thither.

When it was time to head for home she would sit while I hooked the rope back on to her collar. Because, back on the path, rules had to be obeyed.

But she’d still pull like a train on the road back home through the village. Because she knew we would return to bacon butties or sausage sandwiches. And she’d sit at the end of the kitchen counter with her wonderful liquid eyes.

“Please Sir. Dry biscuit is so dull. Tomato ketchup is so much more tasty…”

She was adorable. And trusting. And loyal. Unlike the person I was dog-sitting with.

The moral of the tale? Man’s best friend is…