Posts tagged Brakes Coppice Park

Crowhurst to Rye… 20 miles across 1066 country

The longest and most challenging of our walks so far (actually, ever, for either of us), this was our “ultimate fitness test” before the Pennine Adventure begins. Our longest day’s walking will be 19 1/2 miles from Alston to Dufton, so if we could walk to Rye, we’d be okay for that yomp. (Let us, for now, gloss over the fact that the days either side of that particular walk will see us marching 16 1/2 and 13 1/2 miles respectively – not much chance of a rest-up… gulp). This walk followed the 1066 Country Walk, which we picked up just beyond Battle and which culminates in Rye.

We set off shortly before 11 on Saturday morning, a backpack between us containing a bottle of water, some of Jem’s home-made sausage rolls (with added red pepper – scrumptious), some beef jerky and a cereal bar or two, not to mention our aforementioned waterproof coats (which, in the event, we only needed to keep out the chill at the end of the night). We also decided (given my hurty knee – altogether now… “Awwwww!”) to give our new walking poles an outing. Mine are a gorgeous pink (which in my world of blue is a wonderful thing) but are sadly lacking the funky little compasses that Jem’s splendid blues ones sport in their handle.

Brakes Coppice Park to Crowhurst Park

Initially, we planned to cut out a little of our route by getting a train to Battle first but having realised that if we just walked across country from home it would make no difference to our journey, we did precisely that and it was beautiful from the outset. A little country lane took us past Brakes Coppice Park campsite, which we have not visited but can certainly advise couldn’t be in a much more secluded and beautiful spot. We walked through stunning avenues of immensely tall trees and a well-signed footpath (much of which was rather steeply uphill) brought us out past Crowhurst Park – a holiday park of pine lodges and leisure centre with stunning views, but a little crowded together for my personal taste – to the main Battle to Hastings road. Where we came a little unstuck. It has been hammered home to us on several occasions now how very much people tend to dislike maintaining a footpath (or indeed even leaving the sign up) when it passes across or very close to their land. Harumph. Grumble over. But after to-ing and fro-ing countless times, disappearing behind a Church and an abandoned pub in our hunt, we finally found several notices warning the daring rambler to close gates and keep dogs on leads and on no account to even think about bringing an unauthorised vehicle anywhere near them.

It was another beautiful lane taking us down into some woodland (where a dog sailed over a gate to get to us, thus proving it utterly ineffectual), past some of the most beautiful wild-flowered meadows (complete with rather picturesque beehive) and onward through the uncultivated countryside.

When we reached Westfield, the first place with a pub, we decided virtuously to wait until we got to Icklesham before succumbing to the temptation of a cold pint of beer on this hot and sweaty walk. We were actually to rather regret the decision as Icklesham seemed to get further away rather than closer. But it was a positive delight when we did get there (in spite of the rather rowdy clientele in the very beautiful, olde worlde Queen’s Head). Squirreled so effectively away that we managed to walk straight past it, the Queen’s Head has (I hope this description is not yet getting boring) stunning views, a play area for kids, a perfectly good looking menu and sensibly advises that it welcomes children but they should not come to the bar and adults are cordially requested to remove them before 8.30pm. All very sensible.

Feeling decidedly hazier, we crossed the busy road to rejoin our 1066. It was pointed out to us by a very friendly and keen-to-be-helpful chap driving past us and off we yomped again. This part of our walk took us past an over-laden plum tree (not on anyone’s land as such and therefore easy and delicious pickings), through extensive orchards (I am always impressed when landowners do both mark and adhere to the original footpath and this one surely did) which we surmised must be a cider orchard and at the end of which we espied a rather beautiful black windmill atop a hill. Here we stopped for a picture and, as we did, encountered said friendly, keen-t0-be-helpful gentleman walking his dog. He informed us, in his helpful way, that the windmill belongs to Sir Paul McCartney and that the ground floor is used, occasionally, as a recording studio. It was, allegedly, as a result of the land belonging to “McCartney” that the field was full of rabbits…. I’m afraid I failed to follow that logic. Nice spot, though…

McCartney's Recording Studio

And on we went. Through vast fields full of sheep, past the odd chained up sheepdog causing the lovely Jem to fair leap out of his skin, over a traditional unelectrified railway, to Winchelsea. On the approach to Winchelsea, the views were… okay, okay, you come up with another word…? Breathtaking. That’ll do. From one of the very few benches we encountered, we looked out over Pett Level to the sea. It was, all praises be to the gods of the weather, the most glorious of days and, although rather sweaty (quick drying, high wicking tee-shirts to be reviewed upon our return, when we’ve had a chance to test them) we couldn’t have asked for more.

The descent (and it really is a descent) from Winchelsea towards Rye was nothing if not painful. My knee, in spite of having worn a support which seemed to do little more than give me a rash thanks to the tightness and sweatiness of it all, was becoming excruciating on the downhill. Uphill and on the level, it was just peachy, but downhill… not. Really very not. Jem’s calves, too, by this stage were causing him some considerable discomfort, but the end was in sight. We were grateful for our walking poles, although we did only discover within two miles of Rye that we could tighten the handles and put considerably more pressure on them. Doh! Duly noted for those trekking days, huh? Jem has also just read that one walking pole is about as much use as one shoe. Daily rambles are one thing, but climbing the Fells – you need two. The last stretch to Rye was a feat of enormous effort and stamina, I have to confess, on both our parts. When we emerged blinking into the town, the signpost proclaiming one more mile to the centre almost forced a sit-in. I threatened, bottom lip wobbling, to sit and wait for beer and food, but Jolly Jem kept my smile in place and on we trekked for a pint in the Mermaid Inn, one of Rye’s oldest establishments, I believe used for smuggling in them there olden days, and also quite possibly haunted. But I might be making that up… It is situated in Mermaid Street, a picturesque cobbled street of pretty cottages covered in climbing flora and home to a very cool black cat. Truth be told, though, it was a little upmarket for two sweaty walkers and, our first drink duly consumed (they even decanted our bag of dry roasted peanuts into a little bowl for us – there’s posh!) we headed down to the waterfront where we found the much more downmarket Baileys. There we had another beer and a massive cheeseburger with chips each. Probably not the best burger we’ve ever eaten (that honour would have to go to Cafe Belge in Bexhill – I swoon salivating just thinking of it) it was from. the. gods. on that particular evening. We engendered much curiosity with our walking poles slung through the straps of our backpack and utter disbelief that we could, would or might even have wanted to walk so far in one afternoon.

Mermaid Street

Sore and aching, and just one more beer for the road from the Old Bell Inn – much more spit ‘n’ sawdust and rather full of unutterably bored-looking teens – we headed for the station. Once on the train we were informed that we couldn’t get as far as home that night. Trains run till all hours in the opposite direction, but who wants to get from Hastings to London after 10 on a Saturday night? We did. Or at least part way. Sigh. So we hopped out into the middle of a very scary Hastings night, with drunken arguments and much chip-consumption going on all around us, and found a very affable and affordable taxi driver to take us home where we tumbled with gratitude and relief into our bed for a very well-earned sleep.

On Sunday, we did nothing. I mean, nothing. At all.

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