Walking in England brings with it an unavoidable —and long—discussion
about the weather. Despite this drawback, walking or hiking remains one
of the most popular outdoor activities in the country. With the
availability of detailed ordnance maps, experienced walk leaders and
marked footpaths, it’s hard to see why not.
Practicalities aside, the activity helps discover an important layer of the place—one that lies hidden from the superficial tours we subject ourselves to. London, Oxford and Cambridge are great destinations in their own right, but only a small part of a country that also has outstanding natural beauty.
In Hassocks, I meet the rest of the group and, for a few minutes, while the walk leader tells us about the path and the weather forecast for the day (clouds with some sun), we eye each other’s gear, an exercise that divides the experienced from new walkers.
We arrive at the foot of the first hill on our route and conversation stops, giving way to silent, brisk, long steps as we try to climb up in a dignified fashion. At the end of our climb, we stop, again without discussion, for a reward—a snack and a drink from our respective knapsacks, while we savour the view around us. There are some cows grazing nearby and they don’t make any movement or show any signs of being disturbed by our arrival.
The
next section of the hike is through a V-shaped valley called Devil’s
Dyke. One of the walkers tells me about the legend associated with the
place. The valley was formed when the devil dug a trench to flood all
the churches in Sussex.The story seems too gloomy to fit the
place somehow, as we pass some other walkers, and an amusing little dog.
He makes a big ceremony about walking— going a few metres, sitting down
and refusing to go any further till his owners reward him with a pat,
and carry him for a few moments; he then jumps out of their arms to
repeat the process all over again.
When we reach the end of Devil’s Dyke, we find a pub named after the place. The wind is howling and people are sitting outside, gazing at the sky as it turns blue for the first time today. In addition to this, the blueness is marked with pastel shades. We realize then that we have walked into the territory of paragliders; nameless and faceless to us, they seem to be catching air currents like they own them.
The sun is now out in all its splendour and we find a place to stop for lunch, arranging ourselves in different degrees of comfort. As we munch on our sandwiches, one of the gliders moves around. As he carries out a series of manoeuvres forming infinity shapes in the sky, I am convinced of his ownership of the wind.
We find it difficult to free ourselves from the enchanting scenes, but we do in the end. Our path goes along a large farm and for the next leg of the journey, we are accompanied by gigantic tractors that throw mounds of dust up into the air. The dust clouds stay contained around the tractors and don’t reach us, as though respecting our transience.
It happens in a slow, calculated manner, but the path eventually begins to curve and then we see it in the distance—a view of the English Channel.
As we descend the hill, we are in a lighter mood and the tone of our conversation changes—becoming more easy-going and leaning towards favourite beach holidays. After passing some more farms and a large motorway, we arrive in Shoreham-by-Sea, a small port town.
The walk leader tells us that the town’s beach, our destination, is around 5km away. We quicken our pace, till we come to a group of houseboats on the Adur river, each looking more unusual than the one next to it. One of them even has a microwave turned into a postbox. It’s a surprising scene and people stop to take photographs as wind chimes on the houseboat produce a musical sound.
When we arrive at the beach, it has become considerably colder. A few people brave the water for a moment. A few minutes later, everyone heads to a pub. After a quick drink, I decide to go back to the beach. The tide is low and I walk closer to the sea as the setting sun makes strange reflections on the silted sand.
After the sun disappears, I sit cross-legged on the pebbles, feeling a kind of peace in the solitude and anonymity that I have come to associate with travelling on foot through the glorious British countryside.
Practicalities aside, the activity helps discover an important layer of the place—one that lies hidden from the superficial tours we subject ourselves to. London, Oxford and Cambridge are great destinations in their own right, but only a small part of a country that also has outstanding natural beauty.
On the trail: Paragliders ride the air currents over Sussex.
The
walk my group is on today is only 24km of the 160km-long South Downs
Way, which covers the entire length of the South Downs National Park,
one of south-east England’s newest national parks spanning the chalk
ridges of the South Downs and acres of woodland.Our walk
starts in a village called Hassocks. To get there, I take a train from
London. The journey is a nice appetizer before the walk, with the train
chugging away in a reassuring manner. All its passengers conduct
conversations in hushed tones—a curious behaviour trait that I haven’t
seen anywhere else. Even the children are quiet. My thoughts flow in a
happy and silent hum, following the mysterious lives of people who seem
to thrive in the middle of nowhere. I have no concern for the adventure,
or lack of it, that the day might have in store for me.In Hassocks, I meet the rest of the group and, for a few minutes, while the walk leader tells us about the path and the weather forecast for the day (clouds with some sun), we eye each other’s gear, an exercise that divides the experienced from new walkers.
Legend has it that the devil dug this valley. Photographs by Sneha Nagesh
Everyone
has the essentials— sturdy walking boots, waterproof windcheater and
waterproof trousers—for without them, battling England’s moody weather
would be a weary and damp affair. Some seasoned walkers are equipped
with handier extras—well-fitted knapsacks that double as water bottles
with tubes hanging out so you don’t have to break your pace even for a
drink, trousers with extra back pockets that are full of nutritional
energy titbits and small GPS devices that fit into a pocket on your
shoulder. Following this necessary ritual, we set off, and a
few minutes from the main road, we are surrounded by trees. The sun
offers us patches of light from time to time but the trees catch them
with more ease than us. Some of us are with this particular group for
the first time (the group is specifically for people in their 20s and
30s) and the air is thick with introductory conversations. After some
stories of different professions, lifestyles and varying fitness levels,
initial conversations establish one thing in common—everyone in the
group has an insatiable love for the outdoors.We arrive at the foot of the first hill on our route and conversation stops, giving way to silent, brisk, long steps as we try to climb up in a dignified fashion. At the end of our climb, we stop, again without discussion, for a reward—a snack and a drink from our respective knapsacks, while we savour the view around us. There are some cows grazing nearby and they don’t make any movement or show any signs of being disturbed by our arrival.
When we reach the end of Devil’s Dyke, we find a pub named after the place. The wind is howling and people are sitting outside, gazing at the sky as it turns blue for the first time today. In addition to this, the blueness is marked with pastel shades. We realize then that we have walked into the territory of paragliders; nameless and faceless to us, they seem to be catching air currents like they own them.
The sun is now out in all its splendour and we find a place to stop for lunch, arranging ourselves in different degrees of comfort. As we munch on our sandwiches, one of the gliders moves around. As he carries out a series of manoeuvres forming infinity shapes in the sky, I am convinced of his ownership of the wind.
We find it difficult to free ourselves from the enchanting scenes, but we do in the end. Our path goes along a large farm and for the next leg of the journey, we are accompanied by gigantic tractors that throw mounds of dust up into the air. The dust clouds stay contained around the tractors and don’t reach us, as though respecting our transience.
It happens in a slow, calculated manner, but the path eventually begins to curve and then we see it in the distance—a view of the English Channel.
As we descend the hill, we are in a lighter mood and the tone of our conversation changes—becoming more easy-going and leaning towards favourite beach holidays. After passing some more farms and a large motorway, we arrive in Shoreham-by-Sea, a small port town.
The walk leader tells us that the town’s beach, our destination, is around 5km away. We quicken our pace, till we come to a group of houseboats on the Adur river, each looking more unusual than the one next to it. One of them even has a microwave turned into a postbox. It’s a surprising scene and people stop to take photographs as wind chimes on the houseboat produce a musical sound.
When we arrive at the beach, it has become considerably colder. A few people brave the water for a moment. A few minutes later, everyone heads to a pub. After a quick drink, I decide to go back to the beach. The tide is low and I walk closer to the sea as the setting sun makes strange reflections on the silted sand.
After the sun disappears, I sit cross-legged on the pebbles, feeling a kind of peace in the solitude and anonymity that I have come to associate with travelling on foot through the glorious British countryside.
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