'They persuaded me to keep on, and at last stranded me on the pebbles, exactly opposite the magnificent arch of Durdle-rock Door. Here I stood and contemplated with astonishment and pleasure this stupendous piece of Nature's work ......Here it was that a celebrated obstinate Lulworth swimmer was drowned; and here six years back, a large whale was thrown up on the beach.... on the returning tide he swam off.' John O'Keefe, 1792
History about to repeat itself? Mayhap . . .
Making good my promise of yesterday I set the alarm for 7am, intent on getting a lengthy run in before the onset of another sweltering day. Willow as ever stood ready by the door, waiting patiently as I strapped on my runners and filled my water bottle.
The climb to White Nothe, slightly under two miles, is well known to me. I usually manage one or two trips to the summit on our annual pilgrimage to Ringstead, but this would be my first adventure past the row of cottages and the WWII pillbox perched above the campsite. The sun must’ve risen early, so indecently high was it in a perfect cloudless sky. I welcomed the shade of the overgrown climb, bathing in a cool sea breeze as we paused at St Catherine’s Chapel at Holworth to pay respects to the inhabitants of the modest graveyard. The chapel, little more than a large garden shed, hosts regular services for the locals. One inscription struck me as poignant in this most tranquil place:
Treasured Memories of Donald Henry Wilkinson, Dear Husband and Dad
1932 – 2000 In Perfect Peace
He awaits us all
Beyond the tiny chapel steep slopes lay in wait, through cattle and sheep fields, leading to the perilous cliff top trail to White Nothe. Perilous due to the alarmingly close proximity of a sheer drop of several hundred feet to the sea-lashed rocks below and the heavily disguised nature of the track itself. Thick grasses the colour of pale straw did their best to hide the cracked dry earth below, and I set one foot ahead of the other often in blind faith. One errant clump of dirt or lurking boulder could turn an ankle in the blink of an eye; a man of my stature could easily convert such a tumble into catastrophic free-fall.
The coastline here appears as a series of coves and sheltered inlets, miniature beaches of perfect natural construction protected from the holiday hoards by challenging access. In the none-too-distant past smugglers and pirates stashed their ill-gotten gains in these safe havens, making use of the caves and recesses carved out by the patient summer tides and lashing winter seas. Beyond White Nothe the outcrop of Bats Head, a half-size replica of the first bluff, poked out to sea. I’d assessed the initial ascent as perhaps the most challenging in a series; how wrong can you be? Before me the dusty walkers’ path dropped away, snaking into the distance like the distorted rails of a wild rollercoaster. Some 200 metres inland a parallel track hugged the barbed farmland fence. Fearing terminal stress to the hamstrings I chose the latter route, swigging heartily from my water bottle as the morning temperature hit regulo 2. This path proved flat in more ways than one; not only were the undulations much easier on the legs, the views were bland and uninspiring. Just as I vowed to return by the tougher coastal trail we reached an intersecting fence, beyond which and for as far as the bleary sweat-filled eye could see, black-faced blank-eyed sheep dozed or chomped on wheat-coloured grass. That’ll teach me to seek the easy option. We set off due south, the fenced-off woolybacks to our left, an odd couple of lemmings hammering down the grassy slopes towards the cliff edge. Willow displayed her usual lack of fear, dancing on the edge, inches from certain death. Stories of owners lost trying to rescue their errant pets flashed through my head like so many high speed trains; I spent the next hour calling ‘Willow, come here – good girl!’ at regular intervals, unable to watch as she bounded along the precipice, her inquisitive nose twitching into the void.
The cliff top path undulated wildly here, like the hem of a dancer’s pleated skirt caught in mid-twirl. The severity of the drop, already daunting from afar, took my breath away. Which was a shame, as I’d need every cubic millimetre of available oxygen to complete this brutal journey. I had hoped to hurtle down the first descent from Bats Head to Durdle Door, but stood there faced with the impossible gradient I elected to tiptoe. Oh how the fabled fell runners of yore must’ve howled in their crag-laden heaven!
As the slope evened out – for a mere fifty yards or so – I allowed myself to be lulled into an easy lope. In no time at all the hardened trail took an upward turn. I tried to run it, bouncing manfully on the balls of my feet, hamstrings pinging, calves screaming. It’s just like Windmill Hill on the Sunday run, I told myself; only this single climb would be four times that in length and at least equal in rate of ascent.
Ping, boing, bound, bounce . . . leap, stretch . . . step, walk . . . shuffle, puff, pant . . . no more than half way up I gave up the struggle and walked.
The views from the summit were stunning. Below, the crystal clear sea lapped gently against the stony shore, fields of kelp wafting easily in the lazy current. Ahead lay Man o’ War Cove, a crescent bay flanked by the twin outcrops of Durdle Door and the unfortunately (and, in an olfactory sense, inappropriately) named Dungy Head. Beyond the larger recess of Lulworth Cove. I recalled winter trips to Worth Matravers (on the Lulworth road, from my then home near Wareham) and visits to the Square and Compass, a tiny pub with a suitably sized landlord, serving up hot pies and foaming ale to huddled bands of rain-soaked, windswept walkers. Those snow-blown days seemed light-years away as I gazed down upon the sparkling waves, the heat of the rising sun already burning my exposed legs and hands.
My homeward journey would hug the shoreline, albeit far above the sea, at times no more than fifty feet, at others several hundred. I managed to run at some speed down the west face and reasoned that I’d adjusted to the severity of the slopes. Clambering into the footholds of the eastern canopy of Bats Head I realised the folly of such arrogance. Each step here, a well-worn plate edged with a wispy white grass beard, appeared at knee height to the last. I’ve yet to experience the joy of the Stairmaster but I suspect those one hundred and fifty or so steps bare comparison with the harshest setting. Once more atop the canopy crest, the glaring rock face of White Nothe before me, I shed the soaking skin formerly known as my Climbacool vest, shamelessly unleashing my flab. High above and to seaward a large bird of prey circled silently, riding the thermals building over the ocean, seeking the perfect vantage point from which to spy breakfast. I felt more in danger from passing Japanese Whalers than from this deft arial killer, much as he might like to spend a week or two feasting on my ample carcass.
I blundered on through the thick blanched grass heads. The thick clumps of yellow waving at the sky reminded me of something - or someone; Boris Becker. It’s like running through Boris Beckers’ hair, I thought, chuckling then laughing out loud at the bizarre imagery. A slightly more humane climb (which I managed to run all the way) to the houses at the Nothe's summit left me confident of a strong two mile finish. I set up my phonecam to record the sight of my unfettered flesh wobbling along the trail, at first from the east and then off to the west. I hoped the shots would offer some perspective on the run, if not put readers off their next meal or two. As I did so I spied the eagle once more, now drifting overland on the sea breeze. As I watched he folded his wings to plummet, silent death from above, dropping inexorably on some unsuspecting field mouse or perhaps a young rabbit. The scorched earth and blonde fields offered less protection than usual; my winged accomplice would no doubt fill his boots. Or his talons.
The run home was a joy. Overwhelmingly downhill yet far from vertical, my hammered legs revelling in their new freedom. Willow bounded alongside, preraphaelite ears flying, tongue lolling, relieved no doubt that The Master wasn’t actually going to keel over as had seemed likely an hour ago, but would in fact return home to dish out some welcome breakfast.
Another dash to and from the caravan for a swift change of togs and once more into the cooling sea dear friends, once more! It would have come as no surprise had there been a loud ‘Hissssssssssssss’ as I plunged my broiled girth into the surf. Can there be a finer feeling after a hard-fought run in the sun than to float on the sea listening to one’s heart rate slowing under clear blue skies, the keening of gulls squabbling over the tide line jetsam a distant, muffled soundtrack? I doubt it.
Next week it’s home to the Sussex hills; they’ll seem a shade tamer after this.
Somewhere around 8 miles in around 1:45.
Part run, part walk, part rock-climb. All extremely warm.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
