February 2013

[Sweder]

What a difference a week makes. Last Sunday I had the flesh flailed from my bones by winter's whip. Today was all sun-kissed golden hills with a light spring breeze to shove us gently on our way.

There was a bit of mud. Alright, a lot of mud. In fact, the first 2.4 miles were pretty much Mud City. Tom and I were joined by eminent Lewesian Rob K Read, a fellow Rooks/ Rookettes fanatic and regular scribe for the excellent local monthly, Viva Lewes. Rob is relatively new to running and this would be by some stretch his longest outing.

Having met at the Friston/ Cuckmere interchange we set off up through Friston forest. The mud trails were slippery, snaking around trees and bracken. Happily I used to be a dab hand at SEGA Rally Championship (arcade version) and I whooped as I slid sideways into a series of slick bends. We chatted (as much as we could) as we climbed, about Sussex folk of yore, running shoes, Jog Shop Sam and the like. At the exit, next to All Saints Church at Westdean, we became confused by a bewildering array of road-laying machinery and the heavy waft of fresh tar. Tom proclaimed that we should drop down to East Dean and thence Birling Gap via the Church graveyard, whereupon he set off in the opposite direction. After a hundred yards or so he stopped to admonish himself as he turned back towards the conspicuous spire.
'Hmm. The clue was in the word 'church' wasn't it?'

We slipped through the last resting place of several Sussex souls before cavorting down the lush green slopes into East Dean. I did my best Little House on The Prairie take-off which morphed, mid leap, into an ugly, heel-clicking parody of Ron Santo, celebrated Third Baseman for the Chicago Cubs.

At East Dean we hit the road to Birling Gap. Rob related a tale of some folks who use to live in the Fisherman's Cottages ahead. They now rent the property out to artists and writers, whist their neighbours recently sold theirs for a pound, so high is the insurance for houses hanging by their damp course to the eroding cliffs. Another right turn, onto the first of the Seven Sisters. I don't believe I've ever known the names of these Great Dames (Tom knew a few - easy now, Tom knew a few of the Sisters. Oh, come on ...), so I've looked them up. As you might imagine each sister has a bottom. That is to say, for each peak there is a corresponding trough, and they too have names. I've shown these in brackets after each Sister, named east to west, the order in which we ran them today:

Went Hill Brow (Michael Dean)
Bailey's Hill (Flat Hill Bottom)
Flat Hill (Flagstaff Bottom)*
Flagstaff Point/ Flagstaff Brow (Gap Bottom)
Brass Point (Rough Bottom)
Rough Brow (Limekiln Bottom)
Short Brow (Short Bottom)
Haven Brow

*Tom's tale, told as we crested Flagstaff Brow, of an aquaintance who had recently named his progeny Flagstaff Catchpole, had us chuckling through our gasps for breath. That's some handle.

Haven Brow is so-named as it offers a cracking view of Cuckmere Haven, the point at which the Cuckmere River kisses the English Channel through a series of shallow sand bars. We turned north, dropping down to run alongside the river and back to the car park.

   
I have no idea how my arms got so incredibly long

A mere 8.1 miles, but with that early slippery ascent and the considerable undulations of the Sisters I felt like I'd earned a cuppa. A cracking run and top company. Here's to a better running week and a return to some serious mileage next Sunday.

On, on!