Breaky Bottom Part 1

Like many worthwhile things in life, this afternoon’s expedition started with an article in a recent issue of the New Yorker. Far flung correspondent John McPhee reported on his visit to Breaky Bottom, a vast chalk basin nestled in the South Downs of East Sussex. Breaky Bottom is the only place in England where champagne is made. That was enough to get us interested.

So we thought we would kick off the month-long Easter break (and start of term paper time) with a hike across the Downs to Breaky Bottom, for a Sunday afternoon of wine and cheese and walking.

We headed off from the University at Falmer and headed South-East over the Downs. The most annoying part of the trek was the beginning when we had to walk for about two kilometres along a wet slushy muddy track right along the motorway. Thankfully the path eventually climbed up onto a serene silent bit countryside far above the roar of traffic.

There were some simple moments of sheer joy that only nature can inspire. Changeling clouds playing low and fast, their shadows creating dark emerald pelts out of bright green fields. Recently ploughed fields of ochre-beige darkening and shimmering in the sunlight bouncing off seagulls’ wings, the gulls looking like bits of paper tossed about and catching the thermals. Watching birds so close overhead in 29mph wind you understand why they sing. The hills and valleys undulating like a luscious rakshasi sunning herself.

I’ve never been pushed along by the wind like that. We had no choice but to run past the sheep and horses and cows. Ah, the English countryside. Ah sheep-shit strewn fields to gambol through like drunken children.

At some point we got lost. We walked high up above villages and motorways from hilltop to hilltop. The sea lay to the east, glinting like a vast silent plateau. We could see chalk basins ahead of us but they looked far away. We had no idea which fork in the path we had to take. We couldn’t talk much for the wind was so strong and loud. We couldn’t walk straight for the wind was so strong and loud. We took a break behind a copse of trees flattened by the wind. Some lip-balm and a few raisins and brazilnuts later we found we could get up again and struggle on. As we walked on we found we had to put on our caps and Chulani even brought her gloves out. Shekhar manfully soldiered on in shorts (I don’t know how) refusing to attaching the leg bits to it that would make them pants.

Finally, after four hours of walking we decided to find a pub and do the next leg to Breaky Bottom on another Sunday. We trundled down a chalky path to Swanborough past the Manor and other lovely country houses, each with at least two snazzy cars in the drive-way. Ah, the genteel country life. Another ¾ of a mile down the road from Swanborough, and into Kingston-near-Lewes we finally sighted the Holy Land - ‘The Juggs’. By this time all we wanted was a pint and something to eat. After pints and lunch we found that all we wanted was to get home and get some coffee whiskey. Which we did. Followed by nice hot showers. We shall massage our aching knees tomorrow and smile as we think about the clouds and the sea and deep green valleys.

Here are some photographs from our Sunday afternoon expedition.