I went out on the razzle with a bunch of reformed drunks last weekend. God, it was fun. The aim was a serious walk, eleven and a half miles, kicking off from Eastbourne, walking over Beachy Head and the Seven Sisters, before doing a sharp right for the final slog to the village of Alfriston and supper.
As I motored down to Eastbourne, listening to dear old Brian Matthew’s delightful Sounds of the Sixties on Radio Two, the sun was shining, the sky was an eggshell blue, God was in his heaven and all was right with the world.
We met up at Eastbourne station, eight of us in all, though one was a driver ready to rescue anyone incapable of finishing the route. As it turned out, this proved to be everyone. Setting off on the first long and punishing upward slope of the cliff walk, the wind began to get up, dead against us. By the time we reached the first summit there were times when it was almost impossible to advance against the great buffets of air, and the single heroic smoker in our company had the devil’s own job in sparking up.
By the time we reached the next peak, the wind was even stronger, and the effect of so much oxygen being blasted down my lungs was to make me feel light-headed and giggly. It was like being pissed on air. The formerly blue sky was now an iron grey and great columns of rain were falling out in the turbulent English Channel. On the cliff-tops, there were poignant memorials, little crosses and flowers, placed in memory of poor lost souls who had jumped. Down at the bottom, the heaving waters were milky with chalk.
Comments
Join the debate for just £1 a month
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for £3.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just £1 a monthAlready a subscriber? Log in