A squally, hostile 5K plod along a desolate seafront yesterday, the bad-tempered sea giving it large every squelchy step of the way. Quite exhilarating.
The first human I encountered was Josh Babarinde, the local MP, being interviewed by an earnest-looking young guy whose tie was flapping around his ears. The MP was more rustically, and appropriately, attired in waxed jacket and brown cords. As a backdrop, they’d chosen the gritty end of the seafront, the bit with the stacked lobster pots and lines of rusty old fishing boats moored on the beach. “We’ve got to help our fishermen”, he was saying. Beyond that, like most of those local fishermen on a day like yesterday, I caught very little.
The seagulls were looking even more irritated than usual by the lack of humans, or more specifically, the lack of human luncheons to aim for. Ooops. I’ve been advised by an old friend and noted bird enthusiast, that there is no such thing as a seagull. These are herring gulls.
I shambled on through the heavy rain, as happy as a pig in shit, as my late father used to say. At about 15℃, the rain has no rough edges but there weren’t many people around to enjoy it. One or two couples, and a few bare-chested (male) runners. Is this a thing now, I wonder. On I trotted for two and a half kilometres, past the pier and bandstand and the RNLI Museum by the Wish Tower. Then I stopped for a stretch and a short walk before turning round and heading back. It’s the only walk I did.
So, another 5K under the belt. As with the parkrun, it took around 40 minutes. Come on, I mean, what’s the hurry? I’ve now done the two lengthier sessions mandated by my physio last week. Tomorrow I see her for the last scheduled session. I’m guessing she will be pleased, and set me free.
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On another note entirely, as part of the National Garden Scheme, we made a fascinating visit to a neighbour this afternoon. Ocklynge Manor is the former home of Mabel Lucie Attwell, the celebrated illustrator, who lived there in the 1930s. The half-acre garden is an absolute delight and filled with intriguing historical artefacts like the wooden turret and viewing platform, built in 1700, which offers commanding views across the English Channel in one direction, and the High Weald, stretching into Kent, in another. It was used as a lookout for distant mail coaches hurrying along the road from Hastings, giving the watcher time to rush down the hill to the Lamb Inn on the High Street to warn them to prepare fresh horses for the onward journey. 
Even more interesting, there’s evidence of an ancient Roman settlement here on our doorstep, and the lofyt ridge on which we live is thought to have been used as a handy lookout point to keep an eye out for intruders. After the Romans departed in the 5th Century, the Anglo-Saxons continued to use it as a vantage point, though merely spotting William the Conqueror checking in at Pevensey in 1066 evidently wasn’t enough to prevent the fellow gatecrashing the nation.
Anyway, the long-time owners of the house gave us a splendid tour of the garden, and filled me with guilt about spending time plodding along the seafront when I should be finishing digging my pond and tending to my brassicas. Tomorrow perhaps. Always tomorrow.
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