A specific kind of exhaustion lingers in the bones on a Monday morning after a three-day weekend. This time it is the price paid for coastal paths and the exploration of ancient maritime streets, beneath a welcomed blazing sun. It’s a good ache and I like it. It reminds me I am still alive.
This past weekend, we took “Rick” the campervan down to the edges of the map, near Hastings. A small camp of just 40 pitches nestled in the woods in Fairlight, this camp had all the essentials, but no frills. We arrived on Friday after collecting the children directly from school and felt the wall between us and work rise like a dam.
On Saturday morning we stepped into Hastings old town, straight into the heart of the Jack in the Green festival. It had taken hold of the town! A profound and deeply right satisfaction filled me to see ancient traditions erupt in the modern world. It wasn’t a performance for tourists; it was a survival of culture rooted deep in our flesh (for those who still follow). Beneath our digital veneers we are still people of the earth, bound to the seasons and the physical weight of our own bodies and this festival sang about that from the top of its lungs.
The festival never was an "event", but more an invasion, and Hastings had quickly and happily surrendered. Unlike the plastic bunting of a summer fete, the decorations of the town were something older. Every inch of town window frame, every iron railing, every shop-front or salt-worn doorway had been dressed in ribbons and heavy bundles of laurel leaves. It felt as though the woods had reclaimed the pavement and at the same time, possessed everyone present to come clad in as nymphs of old, in green silks, velvets, with hair dressed in ribbons and feathers, faces marked with green and red paints and not a whit of self-consciousness. A visceral reminder that the ancient culture isn’t just something to watch; it is something to dive into, to wear and more importantly, to feel.
The Foliage and the Flesh
So, what was it? The "Jack" is a towering figure of greenery, celebrated all through the weekend until it is walked to the top of the hill and slain to release the spirit of summer. In my last blog I spoke of the fire festival, Beltane, and this festival is very much linked to that. It marks the definitive transition from the waking spring to the full bloom of summer and our experience on this weekend very much aligned with that!
Ancient Trails
Sunday morning, starting at Pett Level, we tracked the military canal; a straight, stoic line through a flat expanse of fields nestled against the sea defence. To our right as we walked the towpath, the fields sprawled for miles, clad in a mist carried in on the high tide. This cloak of creeping whisps clambered over this concrete wall and advanced across the fields to where we walked.
Our route led to Winchelsea, but before we reached it the land heaved upwards and we passed through the New Gate. The road from here tracked beside the defensive ditch, many feet below. We lunched in the one pub Winchelsea has and then headed back to the coast via the roads before picking up the beach again. The walk was a slow, rhythmic grind over the stones, with the salt air filling our lungs as a strong wind lashed us, banishing that early mist and masking the strength of the sun above.
My wife and two children moved with that same steady pace; a family unit reduced to the simple, honest task of putting one foot in front of the other (which teenage boys are not always so fond of). A round trip of almost 10 miles that deserved the ice-cream procured before returning to the van.
Back on our base in Fairlight, we took a short walk (on already tired legs) through the bluebell wood surrounding it. Trees had been marked with white paint to identify the route and we delighted in the shock of violet of the flowers against the dark soil in the ethereal light of a dying day.
We reached the Two Sawyers pub ready for a drink. Sat outside, we didn't reach for phones but instead dealt out from a deck of Uno. With the sun setting the sky ablaze behind the trees we had just emerged from, light fading and shadows stretching across the table, the world felt remarkably small and perfectly sized.
The Energized Soul
Some wouldn’t think a weekend of physical endurance hiking coastal walks and exploring cobble streets under a baking sun would leave you feeling refreshed, but the soul works on a different currency to the body. Recognition of a time of accidental balance flushed my heart with peace and renewal. Having been immersed in the balance of the ancient and the modern, the bustle of a town in full swing and then the empty, misty fields beside a canal, knees felt tired, but the spirit was refueled.
I write these weekly blogs and often urge for people to go out into the wild to remember that we aren't just observers of life, but sometimes, if we look closely, we spot the wild coming instead for us.
We are the ones who walk the woods, play the cards and stand in the surf until the cold makes us feel whole again. And even where concrete has gained a hold, the woods may well (and still do) creep in to share it with us and to leave a leaf or two in our pocket for next time.
Bones
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