I think that there is a line written in Stephen King’s novella, ‘The Four Seasons’ that states, “I’ve no idea what those two, young Italian ladies were singing about but it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever heard.” Up until a few nights ago that was about as close as I’d been to the world of opera. My meagre knowledge of operatic performance was condensced into knowing that Bizet wrote Carmen and that Puccini was pretty good too having composed both Madame Butterfly and La Boheme. That said, my eclecticity where music is concerned extended to always wanting to attend a night at the opera; to experience a level of culture I’d rarely attained.
Where better, then, to experience my first taste of opera than the Royal Opera House on a freezing cold evening in the heart of London’s Covent Garden. And surely the most appropriate performance to take in on a night when snow was gently covering the capital was La Boheme itself.
My fiancee had, rather fantastically, purchased tickets as a Christmas gift and so we’d decided to make a night of it and book into a hotel befitting our posh clothes. Thankfully, though England is currently gripped in the coldest Winter I can remember, we both made it safely to our digs and readied ourselves before catching a cab across Waterloo bridge to the ROH. Arriving with around 20 minutes to spare we paused to look up at the opera house itself, its columns bathed in white light, snow flakes falling gently out of a pitch dark night. Despite January’s icy fingers digging into us both of us relished the romance the vista presented and we smiled broadly as we relished the anticipation of entering the building.
Once inside, we bought the obligatory performance programme and made our way to the right to find the stairwell to our seats. Again, Father Christmas had been kind with regards the tickets we held and we made our way to the Grand Tier stopping first to purchase a glass of champagne from the bar. Whilst supping the bubbly we decided to pre-book our interval drinks too and then wandered gracefully towards our seats. There was an excitable hum inside the theatre as people found their own seats and chattered in hushed reverance as we awaited the start of the performance. Looking around the grand buildings interior we felt every bit a lord and lady propelled back in time; illuminated antique lamps hung from each balcony and crushed red material draped seats and banisters.
Both Karen and I had decided on not researching the story’s plot wanting instead to be immersed with surprise as the night unfolded. However I feel I should give you an idea of what Puccini’s opera is all about although please be warned that the following two paragraphs are a real spoiler for anyone wanting to attend!
Spread over four acts and set in Paris in the 1800′s, it is Christmas Eve in a struggling poets (Rodolfo) garret. His friend Marcello is gently goading him about poverty along with other friends until finally Rodolfo finds himself alone. A short time passes and there is a knock at the door and a young woman (Mimi) enters carrying a candle. It quickly becomes apparent that both find each other attractive and it’s not too long before they are confessing to being in love with each other. The relationship starts well, especially while revelling into the night at a Parisian restaurant with Rodolfo’s friends. However, as the months progress their feelings for each other become frayed as Rodolfo’s apparent insecurities and jealousy threatens to tear them apart. Meanwhile, a sub plot, involving Marcello and another young woman (Musetta) rumbles alongside and takes us to another location in Paris. This is where the desperate Rodolfo confesses to his friend that his jealous moods are a cover for the real reason for breaking his relationship with Mimi; that of his worry over the effect his poverty is having on the health of his love.
Eventually, such trials split the couple until they are reunited in grief toward the end of the opera. Mimi is now so ill she returns to Rodolfo’s garret and while lying on his bed awaiting death they reminisce fondly of how they first met. Rodolfo and his friends are still hopeful that Mimi can get better but while waiting for doctors medicine to arrive, she dies quietly and unnoticed.
I have to say I was quite unprepared for how emotional the story is. There were genuine tears welling at the end of the performance as Rodolfo looked out of his window awaiting the medicine as Mimi’s arm slumped from beneath the covers of the bed to hang limp and lifeless.
The opera gave us a glut of emotions; obviously, the sadness at the end is the feeling that stays with you as you leave but throughout the performance there had been reason to portray glee, happiness, shock, laughter and awe. All three of the sets were incredibly detailed on stage and each left an indelible image long after the performance had finished. Not least that of the third act. In keeping with the wintery weather outside, this act was staged outside in a courtyard and throughout the performance snow gently drifted down onto the a stage already deep with crisp flakes.
I really don’t confess to knowing too much about opera music; whether any of the baritones, sopranos and tenors etc could reach and hold their notes but to me I thought the singing was immaculate. In addition to hitting the notes and timing their vocals with the orchestra the actors acted superbly well conveying comedy and tragedy in equal measure. The whole performance was magical.
Seeing La Boheme is inspiring and I’m sure that both Karen and I will seek out other operatic performances to attend together and enjoy.
Following the performance we stepped out of the building to find more snow falling in the streets outside solidifying the images of the night. After hailing a cab we were driven back to our hotel which was on the banks of the Thames overlooking the Houses of Parliament. It seemed only right to retire to the hotel bar and order cocktails before sipping champagne in the room to close the evening down in the opulence that it had began!
The first thing you notice about entering Yosemite National Park for the very first time is its beauty. I’m not just talking about the beauty you find in everyday things like chewing on a Charbonnel and Walker dark chocolate caramel (I finished one about 10 minutes ago and am still plucking toffee from my teeth)or, when as a young child, finding out that your school is closed because of snow and you have the afternoon to build snowmen or throw balls of ice at girls. No, I’m talking about a beauty so intense it literally takes your breath away.
In fact as I write this I find myself thinking of the line from the Nick Cage movie, “Con Air,” in which Agent Duncan Malloy (played by Colm Meaney) is purring over his new convertible to Vince Larkin (John Cusack) who has just suggested it is beautiful.
Malloy replies sardonically, “Beautiful? Sunsets are beautiful. Newborn babies are beautiful. This…this is fucking spectacular.”
That’s pretty much how I would describe Yosemite Park the first time you lay eyes on it. It’s immense. It’s stunning. It’s wondrous. It’s beautiful on a grand scale. I could actually go on and on about this until the cows came home but I fear your interest in this post would wan so I’ll shut up and guide you through the first trek that Karen and I attempted.
On thumbing through the excellently written and detailed Lonely Planet guide we’d decided to have a bash at two waterfalls; Vernal and Nevada. Our decision was based on the fact that our adrenalin was pumping at the excitement of being in the park and that the sun was already beating ferociously hard and the Mist Trail sounded refreshingly attractive. With hindsight we’d have perhaps gone for a more sedate opening trek but, that said, it set the standard and we didn’t look back.
We’d read quite a lot about this particular hike online before we ventured to California but simply reading about the “mind blowing” scenery and experiencing it with your own eyes are two entirely separate experiences. As a kid, I’d been blown away by the magnificence of the Lake District in North West England, always remembering how the fells made my stomach flutter with excitement as you bent round a road leaving the mountains to swim into view beside a still lake. Hiking along the Mist Trail in Yosemite National Park, however, makes you re-evaluate your perspective a little. Whilst the lakes are stunningly attractive, Yosemite seems to offer wondrous vistas at almost every turn. The Mist Trail is simply littered with jaw-dropping moments and it was just as well both Karen and I took along our cameras for the amount of photographic opportunities it affords.
You begin the trail by wandering along the river past a collection of rather sturdy looking tents and eventually start climbing a well laid trail. It’s deceptively steep at the start and keeping an eye on the river to your right provides ample evidence that the gradient is severe. There is a pretty wall accompanying you along this stretch of the trail and is used often by numerous hikers as a bench to regain their breaths either from the climb or the views. On a trail dotted with incredible sights the first one could pass you by without you noticing. As the trail begins to steepen you will need to stop and look back in order to catch a lovely glimpse of Illilouette Fall.
The falls themselves fall some 370 feet over a cliff in the distance and a zoom lens is a distinct advantage if you wish to photograph them for prosperity. Also, toward the beginning of the climb, you will find a clutch of people tripping over themselves and their digital equipment staring out to the West to view Yosemite Falls. I’ve written more about these sumptuous falls in an earlier post so I won’t go into their majesty too much here, suffice to say that they’re astoundingly beautiful from whatever distance you manage to appraise them.
Following some additional trekking you will eventually see Vernal Fall further upstream and this should encourage you to quicken your pace.
We followed the trail happily until finding a footbridge across the river which led to the first pretty demanding section of the hike. There are a series of granite steps that, on their own, would provide a reasonable workout for most, but accompanied by the thick mist of water that spirals off the falls we found the going to be trickier than we thought and although exhilarating it was quite a relief to finally reach the summit of these falls. The guide books that we had read had talked of, “getting drenched,” and it became pertinently clear that we’d attempted our first hike painfully underprepared. We climbed the slippery steps steadily. There was a conundrum to solve here though; did we try and keep our heads bowed to stop water drowning our faces or did we raise our heads and, through squinted eyes, endeavour to take in the views? Through sheer bloody determination we did a bit of both! Still, the sun was shining hard and we dried ourselves whilst taking pictures of the view from the top of the falls. It was our first waterfall in Yosemite and we felt proud and energised by the feeling of accomplishment. The views along the steep steps and at the top really do give you a lift and continuing the trail was an easy decision to make.
Above the falls a few steps on from the summit, lies a body of water known as the Emerald Pool. There are signs plastered around and about warning you of the dangers of gently slipping into the pool for an afternoon swim. Whilst I understand the need for such signs to be erected it seems strange to me, for all the serenity the pool exudes, that people might want to throw themselves into it knowing that the water is flowing towards a 300 foot waterfall! There are safer places to kick off your clothes, I think.
We marched onwards after eating a sandwich or two and the trail extended another couple of miles along a pretty arduous section of switchbacks towards the top of the second waterfall, Nevada Falls. The heat at this point, despite it being only springtime, was quite incessant and there was little chance to rest in shade as we climbed. For our first hike in Yosemite it was quite a gruelling experience but, having endured the trek, we became more confident in our own abilities to withstand the obstacles the hikes presented.
Nevada Falls themselves are truly impressive. Once you have reached the summit there are flat granite slabs to sit down next to the roaring water as it funnels into a thin channel and gushes some 600 feet over a cliff. We had decided that we were going to hike up along the two falls and then head back via a different route (the John Muir trail) and so we crossed a sturdy wooden footbridge, pausing to marvel at the speed of the water beneath our feet. It was really awe inspiring to know that we’d climbed some 2000 feet since we first laced up our hiking boots. Over the course of the mist trail we’d showered in sweat and river water and it felt breathtaking to now stand above Nevada and gaze down at the valley stretching into the distance.
After some much needed sustenance we ventured towards the left and the relative comfort of the John Muir trail. This particular hike, taking us back to where we began, was to be a much more languid affair and we were looking forward to weaving our down into the valley at an easy pace. Although much of the scenery had been glimpsed already on the way up to the top of the falls, soon after starting our descent there were fine views to be had back to our right of Nevada Falls and Liberty Cap. Quite how these majestic falls look in the summertime is beyond my feeble imagination but I can’t help but feel that they become slightly impotent without the surge of melting snow-water pouring over them. We stood there for some time taking pictures and generally feeling great to be alive.
The route back towards the trailhead was slow and easy, gently zigzagging through tall trees and, at the time we visited, smattered with small deposits of snow that had not yet melted in the burning sun. It was actually quite a tranquil conclusion to the hike, meandering along the mountain side, at one point getting drenched again from water pouring along the rock face onto the trail.
All in all, for our first hike in Yosemite, we felt great. There were slight aches and a couple of blisters but the enthusiasm for more adventure bubbled away inside and Yosemite wasn’t to disappoint with the experiences she provided over the next couple of weeks.
This post is one of several that concern Yosemite National Park but, being haphazardly disorganised and motivated by the ideas that suddenly pop into my head when writing my blog, the posts are not necessarily in chronological order! Expect the next few posts to be littered in time 
So, we were into our second week in Yosemite National Park and we’d already been drenched by our fair share of waterfalls (Nevada, Vernal, Bridalveil etc) but our thirst for more was unquenchable. We decided on trying our hand (or rather, our feet) at Yosemite Falls. Firstly, just a few facts; the falls are effectively split into two, the Lower falls and, surprisingly enough, the Upper falls. Both of which combined fall a total of some 2,300 feet, giving them the accolade of being the 5th highest falls in the world. Ok, having Googled those facts, there seems to be some conjecture with that last statement. In many lists, the falls appear to be 5th highest but in some, more pedantic, ‘top tens,’ they slip a place to 6th. The arguments seem to rage around the fact the falls are split into two with some waterfall aficionados declaring from behind their thin-rimmed spectacles that any fall must be free falling in one long, crashing, ribbon-like cascade.
I would have perhaps agreed with them had we not now accomplished the feat of climbing these magnificent falls. As of now, my opinion is that if it’s wet, rapid, tumbles over a rocky edge, drops to the floor via gravity and, perhaps the defining criteria, you wouldn’t jump into a barrel to ride it then it’s most definitely a waterfall. The fact then that Yosemite is split into two parts makes it doubly beautiful and it gives you a couple of reasons to strap a rucksack to your back and tie on those hiking boots.
We drove into the park via the Arch Rock entrance, north of Mariposa and set about finding a parking space around Yosemite Lodge. We’d ensured an early start to the day for two reasons. One, by the time we were climbing the Upper Falls we would not yet have encountered the blazing heat of the springtime afternoon sunshine. Secondly, finding a space at Yosemite Lodge was likely to be easier first thing in the morning than waiting for everyone to finish their breakfast and descend into the park.
After getting our gear ready we had a small trek of a mile or so to wander along the Northside Drive to the trailhead. At this point, as with virtually every other trailhead in the park, a sign greeted us and warned us of the task ahead by depicting several destinations, each with an associated mileage attached. We knew then that our journey was to encompass a trek of around 9 miles (round trip) and a climb of some 3,000 feet from the valley floor. So then, we began the first part of our walk.
It began in a similar fashion to that of the closing stages of Nevada Falls. The climb to begin with, although along a relatively worn track, was steep and negotiated via a series of switchbacks. It became decidedly steeper soon after and then, thankfully, flattened out as the switchbacks seemed to stretch out gradually. Encouragement for the climb came from many quarters; the burning sun was not yet high into the sky (and besides, a lot of the initial switches were shaded by trees), the excited chatter of myriad children being led by a young, enthusiastic guide prodded at our pride to be more athletic than they were despite our lungs burning for oxygen and the occasional roaring sound of a magnificent waterfall pushed us on regardless. Knowing where we were heading gave us a lift whenever we felt the going was just a little tough – the rewards of climbing the 5th/6th highest fall on the planet (depending on your pedanticity!) are something you just don’t find down at the local Virgin Active!
As we continued on our journey it was definitely noticeable that the number of hikers thinned out considerably. Whether this was because of the constant babbling of children spoiling their escape into this wilderness, having their food rations stolen by brave and hardy Stella Jays and Squirrels or the fact that the climb to the top of the lower falls is reasonably steep I’m not sure but I’d like to think that having the thought of standing one pace from a two and a half thousand foot drop at the top of Yosemite Point was enough to make you forget boisterous kids and brazen wildlife. Whatever, we ploughed on and began to feel refreshed merely by hearing thunderous water not far ahead. The heat, even at a relatively early stage of the day, was beginning to pick up intensity and the feeling of getting to the top of the Lower Falls pushed us on for the hope of finding a swirling breeze and / or misty haze to bathe us with refreshment. The final few switchbacks to the top of the Lower Falls were long and sun dappled but as you draw closer to Columbia Rock you are rewarded with excellent views of the Upper Falls and there are photo opportunities aplenty affording the time to catch your breath and marvel at the rainbow swirls towards the base of the falls. It’s worth mentioning here, whilst talking of the base, that the falls are so high that in winter time the few drops still tippling over the top of the fall has long since frozen by the time it reaches this point. That’s quite something.
It had been our intention to stop by Columbia Rock and eat our lunch but three factors forced us to change our minds; there were still a few people milling around and such crowded company spoiled the ambience a little, the sunshine was now getting quite aggressive and there was little opportunity to find shade and, probably more pertinently, we were just too damn excited about getting to the very top and, thus, we trekked onwards satisfied that our adrenalin would sustain us till we reached the summit.
We headed onwards, stopping every so often to take in breath and the site of the falls whenever we could. I guess climbing a waterfall is something akin to sex. It takes just a momentary explosion of energy to reach the climax but taking your time to breathe in every sensual moment enhances the whole act. We didn’t want to miss anything and we took our time to drink in and taste every drop of Yosemite Upper Falls. It was very intoxicating and utterly uplifting.
The final stages of the climb saw us veer away from the falls themselves and embark on an arduous stretch of tough, rocky switchbacks. By now, the amount of hikers left walking near or around us had thinned out dramatically. Our guide book had promised that we’d be heading in relative solitude to the top of these falls as many adventurers eat their sandwiches at Columbia Rock, swig a bottle of water or two and then do a swift 180 and head back down to the valley floor. We found this to be most perplexing; rather like finishing half a bottle of fine wine, popping the cork back in and flinging the bottle into a pedal bin. If you’d come this far, surely you had to go on and see the climb through to the bitter end?
So we pressed on, the heat building with every step. The last few hundred feet comprised of several steep rocky switchbacks and we found ourselves stopping to wipe brows and suck in some air routinely. Not long after, we finally made it to the summit and were rewarded with a set of downhill stairs hewn from granite to a rocky overhang that had a protective steel barrier keeping you from base jumping to the valley floor. We reached over and took in the view in awe at the power and majesty of the falls themselves. There are ample opportunities to get a fine array of photographs at this point, including that of the affectionately named, “Washington’s Nose.” A large portion of rock that crops out to the left of the gushing maw is, at first glance, shaped like that of the central facial feature of George Washington. It’s humorous to look upon and instantly recognisable; rather like laying face up on the grass and finding forms of everyday items in the fluffy clouds that pass above.
The top of the falls make an excellent perch to have lunch and rest before heading down the same route to the valley floor. However, it is worth trekking an extra 600 feet to Yosemite Point to take in further views of Half Dome and Sentinel Dome. There are guide books that stress that it’s tough going to the point itself but, having already climbed steeply to get to the summit of the falls, it’s easier than you would imagine.
In summary then, for anyone remotely interested in Yosemite National Park and particularly hiking the falls in springtime, Yosemite Upper and Lower provide an exhilarating day hike and shouldn’t be missed.
Music has and always will be a big part of my life. I do need to clarify that slightly before continuing otherwise you’ll be under the impression that I’ve penned mighty compositions for renowned philharmonics. This is, sadly, not the case for I am unable to strum, bang, fiddle, tap, tinkle, blow, whallop or wobble any instrument at all. Unfortunately, my musical talent extends to a half decent singing voice used mostly to shower to and even this has not seen its prime since taking my junior schools’ two night performance of Joseph and his Technicolour Dreamcoat to new levels with my starring role; seven solos and a box of Maltesers from my music teacher cemented my place in aural history.
My distinct lack of talent in this area has certainly not diminished my love and respect for anyone who can play anything at all. I have a pretty eclectic taste when it comes to music and with any luck, in time, I’ll get to share some of my favourites with you over the course of this blog for however long that course may run.
I mention this for my second entry here simply because my most recent musical experience happened only last Thursday 16th April in the simple, yet beautiful, surrounds of the Trinity Theatre in Royal Tunbridge Wells. Stacey Kent and her musicians were in town to play a selection of songs from her current album and a smattering of tracks from days gone by. This was my first time hearing her live and if you’re unaccustomed to her soft, unhurried tones you’d do well to investigate her latest longplayer, Breakfast on the Morning Tram. The album is layered with a selection of tracks that are brimming with poetry and seductive narative. While her voice and the musical backing she receives on CD is beautiful to envelop yourself in whilst sitting in a low-lit front room with a large glass of deep red wine, you really only get to appreciate how creamily sensuous her tones are when allowing her voice to drift acoustically around a large hall.
I was astounded at how good she, her husband and composer Jim Tomlinson and the bassist, pianist and drummer combined on a night, she divulged, they were playing together for the first time. During the show, which was split across two sessions and an obligatory encore, every song seemed to effortlessly release from her lips and melt into my ears like warm caramel.
Highlights for me were Breakfast on the Morning Tram, I Wish I Could Go Travelling Again, La Saison des Pluies and The Ice Hotel. Particularly the few songs that she sang in French were just wonderfully rendered and both my partner and I enjoyed the night immensely.
Please do search out her recordings and, especially, check her out live if you can.
Pulling back the canvas curtains it appeared, at first glance at any rate, that the weather Gods had been kind. Through windows of white netting a billion shafts of sunlight poured into our tent speckling the insides lush bedding with a multitude of blurred squares. They weren’t the only things either; my eyes reliving the night before when far too much of that staple camping beverage had been consumed – Tawny Port! I was reasonably certain, though, that a rather enormous breakfast would soak up the remaining alcohol currently coursing through my veins and I set about clambering from our deliciously comfortable bed.
Gnome Guard
Stepping outside into the daylight for the first time is always one of those simple pleasures I look forward to when camping. I think maybe one of the reasons for this is because, generally, pitching the tent the day or night before is normally done while being drenched by the watery juice of a giant, grey cloud. Friday had been no exception. So it was with a very glad heart that I stepped outside to see blue skies punctuated every so often by large balls of woolly, white fluff. The day (as was the entire weekend) was to be a good one, I thought.
Onto breakfast then and, armed with two gas cookers and a mountain of plastic cutlery items and encouraged by the deep, resonant rumbling in our bellies, I pulled together a fry-up of unparallelled taste. Outdoor food whatever the guise always tends to taste pretty good to me but when it happens to be rashers of smokey, back bacon, pork and herb sausages enveloped in a bundle of chestnut mushrooms accompanied by a couple of eggs nestled to the side it doesn’t really get any better than that. Throw it all onto a plastic plate together with a beautifully prepared roll of eggy bread and you could be forgiven for thinking that an official looking man wearing a little metal Michelin badge would pop out from behind a tree and award our tent 3 stars!
Hearty breakfast
So then, with breakfast consumed and you having skim read my three hastily prepared, scene-setting paragraphs lets move on to the whole point of this blog entry; the walk from the incredibly tiny village Pyecombe to Lewes along a section of the South Downs Way.
These two locations are separated by approximately nine miles of glorious countryside views with panoramic vistas to the North and South along the majority of the journey. After packing up essentials such as chocolate chip cookies, cheese and ham buns and a scotch egg or two we set off from Blackberry Wood campsite negotiating the initial one and a half mile stretch to Plumpton College. We then had to jump on a couple of buses to get us to our starting point, the Plough pub in Pyecombe. (Just a word here on beginning the walk but you can either do as we did and trawl up and down a steep hill masquerading as School Lane in the hope of finding a small shop selling water or proceed directly to the local golf club and take a chance that half way round the hike there would be a little ice-cream van waiting to sell us a Screwball or two).
Initially heading up past the golf course to the right and avoiding any stray tee shots or practice drives you veer to the left along a well used path and walk towards two pretty windmills directly in front of you. The two windmills are apparently called Jack and Jill and, should you wish to visit them, you will find one is open to the public and welcomes you with open arms and the other is not. As to which of the two affords you the opportunity to play out your twisted fantasy of dressing up as Windy Miller of Camberwick Green fame I’m not sure but since they’re separated by just a few small paces I’ll let you discover for yourselves.
Not sure if this is Jack or Jill
Onwards, then, from Jack and Jill and their pretty sails and you’ll easily find a post announcing that you’re now trekking along the famous South Downs Way. This was actually the first time I’d been up the downs (as it were) and I was struck by how beautiful and serene everything is up there. The initial climb up onto the ridge is relatively comfortable and you could probably Google the actual height of the Downs for yourself but I will tell you that following the path from the windmills will take you directly to Ditchling Beacon which I’m reliably informed is the heighest point on the Downs. Prior to, then, and immediately after this point your aching limbs and gasping lungs are rewarded with sensational views towards the coast and also inland offering uninterrupted scenery for many a mile.
Ditchling Beacon
I forgot to mention that just before you get to the Beacon itself you will come to a car park located adjacent to a main road and, following the necessary purchase of a 99 ice-cream (with flake – I mean who asks for a 99 ice-cream without the requisite flaky chocolate finger?) you may cross the road and continue your journey.
Following the path past the Beacon you will soon arrive at Black Cap which is essentially a copse of trees planted to commemorate the Queen’s Jubilee back in 1953. As an aside, whilst we marvelled at the trees and felt the cool, crisp wind blowing through our hair and chilling our ears we noticed a glider circling above and riding the currents of fast flowing air above. It looked eerily like a giant seagull with tattooed markings under its wings. But it wasn’t.
Heading up towards Black Cap and Mount Harry on the SDW
Continuing along the path you’ll pass another rise, named Mount Harry and you’ll need to either head left towards the small village of Offham or take a path cut into the hills to the right providing a more direct route to Lewes. Depending on how your legs and blistered feet are feeling I heartily recommend the wooded surrounds of Offham as the path descends leisurely through a mash of trees and twigs that will, I presume, look beautiful in the summer once dappled with green leaves. More importantly though, the path will lead you out just a few hundred yards shy of the Chalk Pit Inn, a wonderfully located pub that provides much needed sustenance before undertaking the relatively short trundle downhill into Lewes itself.
The South Downs Way; somewhere between Pyecombe and Lewes
Ok, so this was an entry of firsts. First entry ever into the murky waters of blogging, my first experience of hiking a section of the colourful South Downs Way and my first recognition of the fact that no matter how remote you happen to place yourself in this world there’s always an ice-cream van called Mr. Whippy happy to sell you a blob of vanilla flavoured swirl with a Cadbury’s flake sticking out of it!
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