Coastal path
Apr. 21st, 2014 10:18 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ladyofastolatWe've walked the entire coastal path this weekend: 28.5 miles on Friday (of which 27 were officially on the coastal path, and the rest was getting to and from it), 28.5 on Saturday, and 19 yesterday, in torrential, non-stop rain.
I've walked all of this before, some parts of it many, many times, so I only took my camera with me on day one, when the weather was lovely. Carrying it is a bit awkward, so I didn't bother on the other two days. I wrote a full account of the entire route, with many photos, when I walked it all in 4 days a couple of years ago: here, here, here and here.
On the first day, we walked down to the floating bridge, where we narrowly missed the boat, but still managed to get to East Cowes by 8.25. The first 8 miles are mostly road walking, since most of the coast is in private hands, being owned by Queen Victoria, God, and private landlords.
Here is Whippingham Church, where Queen Victoria worshipped when she was at Osborne. Prince Albert had a hand in its design. Many people probably wish he hadn't bothered. This also means that, annoyingly, the church is run as a tourist attraction rather than as a normal church, and is only open on the tourist season, and charges for admission. It's never open when I go past.
On the far side of Wootton Creek, once past the ferry terminal, you suddenly stumble across an enormous abbey, which is almost entirely hidden until you're almost upon it. It always looks to me as if it's teleported in from another country, since there's nothing else remotely like it anywhere else on the island. Or maybe it's an Unidentified Flying Abbey from another planet, which landed by accident in rural Isle of Wight, and hasn't been able to leave, so is making the best of things.
Best of it, the Abbey has piggies! Spotted piggies! Teeny spotted piggies! Sadly, they were hiding this time, and were glimpsed only as great hulking lumps in the distance, so here's a picture from two years ago, because piggies!
We reached Ryde at about 10.30, then had the long walk along its very long seafront, through a park, past a boating lake, a battery and a silly folly full of fossils. The tide was very low. In Yore, before they build the pier, anyone wishing to visit Ryde had to be rowed in to the edge of the sands, then carried in on the shoulders of burly boatmen. 18th century visitors found this quite acceptable, but then the country got hit by an attack of the Victorians, whereupon everyone realised that it was entirely shocking for ladies to be carried in by burly boatmen, so a pier was built.
There are no burly boatmen in this picture, or at least none that are visible.
Get out of the way, you pesky Palmerston's Folly!
In Seaview the walk runs along the top of the seawall, which offered the walk's first evidence of the damage done by the winter of storms, since a few million tonnes of stones and shingle had been hurled onto the north-east coast of the island. The seawall - quite high above the sea - was deep in shingle, and a few miles on, Bembridge beach was quite horrible to walk on - an enormous, mile-long bank of shingle, where last year it had been sand, with a small stretch of shingle at the top.
Exhausted from tramping across shingle, we had lunch at Bembridge, then rounded the first corner - one full side of the island complete. Then it was round the coast for a bit, up Culver Down, and then down into Sandown for ice-cream, followed by a few miles walking along the seawall to Shanklin.
Sandown Bay viewed from Culver Down:
Somewhere between Sandown and Shanklin, we passed the remains of previous walkers:
After Shanklin, the path climbs sharply and leaves the landslip-devastated coast, and goes over the hill at Luccombe. Last time I passed, I photographed the table of jam that sits in the middle of nowhere, and wondered what sort of long-distance walker would ever decide that the only thing their walk lacked was impulse jam. Well, now I know.
We finished in Ventnor at about 4, and got the bus back to Newport, then back to Cowes. The following day, we were able to leave the car in the library car park right next to Newport bus station, and bus back out to Ventnor. The path follows the coast west for a bit, down to sea level at Steephill Cove (very scenic) then past the Botanic Garden and on to St Lawrence. It then decides that the coast is far too lumpy and bumpy and deadly, so heads inland and climbs up the big inland cliff, and follows its top for about 3 miles, towering over the strange stretch of landslip-shaped land called The Undercliff.
Just outside the entrance to Blackgang Chine, a lost, lone walker was loitering. "Are you following the coastal path?" he asked us, and "Oh, good!" he said, when we said yes. He looked very much as if he wanted to walk with us for the rest of the day, but we pretended not to notice his hints, and gave him directions, and headed off at our usual speed. He followed on behind at about half our speed, so I'm glad we didn't get committed to walking with him. I do feel a little guilty, though.
By now we had rounded the second corner, and had the long, scenic south-west coast to go, which is littered with chines and geology, but almost entirely lacking in human settlement. The landscape had been comprehensively rewritten since last autumn. We're not just talking a few landslips; we're talking an entire ten mile stretch of coast that has changed shape. There were loads of places where the path we had walked last November was still there, worn in the grass, but led to the edge of a cliff, with the next few yards of the path glimpsed all shattered down below.
Despite this, there were only 2 actual diversions, and none of them were on the cliff edge, but were in chines, caused by the higher slopes of the chine sliding down on top of the path at the bottom. We ignored once diversion, when we could see the entire length of the closed stretch, enough to see that it was easy to scramble, and the consequences of failure would not be too doomy. The second one we had to obey, because we couldn't see the closed section, so didn't know how bad it was.
Eventually, we got to Freshwater Bay, where we stopped for tea, and then - with Pellinor reenergised by sugar (Rocky Road) and me by salt (salt and vinegar crisps) - we positively raced up Tennyson Down. A lady loitering at the stile felt the need to tell us off. "If you go that fast, you won't see the gentians!" she berated us. We made sure to see some gentians, just to spite her. But we didn't slow down. Tennyson Down has definitely shrunk in the last few years. It once left me breathless and in need of several pauses for breath, but now it barely makes me breathe fast at all.
We'd planned to finish for the day at Alum Bay, or maybe at Totland a mile or two later, but since the weather was nice, and the forecast for the next day was vile, we decided to keep going all the way to Yarmouth, although this would lead to us not getting home until 6.30 or so.
For a while, it seemed that we wouldn't even be home by then, since Alum Bay (the Needles Pleasure Park) was TEEMING with people, many of whom were trying to leave by bus. When the bus got to Yarmouth, there were only 5 spaces on it. This was one of those bus stops where there's no obvious place to queue, and then the bus goes and pulls up quite a way past the bus stop, anyway. People, like us, who had been waiting for half an hour, ended up near the back of the crowd. When told that there were only 5 places, we all got very English, and started wondering out loud who had been there first, and therefore deserved the places. While we were doing this, a group of foreign tourists, who had only just arrived at the bus stop, took those 5 precious places. We English stereotypes promptly started bonding over this breach of queue etiquette, but didn't argue with the driver, while the remaining foreign tourists started arguing with the bus driver and demanding to be let on.
Fortunately, an open topped tourist bus, returning to the depot after the end of its stint at Alum Bay, then appeared and offered to take us all to Newport. What a hero! We even got there ahead of the proper bus.
Yesterday it rained. I really can't say much more than this. We had 19 miles of walk, and it rained for all but the first 90 minutes of it. "I don't believe in the concept of tempting fate," I said, "so it's safe for me to say that we've been quite lucky thus far, since the forecast said it would be raining from 8, and it hasn't rained yet... and note that I've only said "yet," so even if I did believe in the concept of tempting fate, I'm not doing it."
Two minutes later, it started raining. It continued to rain very very heavily until about half an hour after we got home, whereupon it stopped and the sun came out. There is probably a lesson in this.
By this time, despite waterproof coats and trousers, we were both soaked to the skin, but were able to get warm and dry within minutes, very thankful not to be medieval peasants or fantasy heroes en route to saving the world.
I don't feel at all weary or stiff today, and could probably do another 20 miles day, if I had to. However, I am rather enjoying the knowledge that I don't have to. :-D
I've walked all of this before, some parts of it many, many times, so I only took my camera with me on day one, when the weather was lovely. Carrying it is a bit awkward, so I didn't bother on the other two days. I wrote a full account of the entire route, with many photos, when I walked it all in 4 days a couple of years ago: here, here, here and here.
On the first day, we walked down to the floating bridge, where we narrowly missed the boat, but still managed to get to East Cowes by 8.25. The first 8 miles are mostly road walking, since most of the coast is in private hands, being owned by Queen Victoria, God, and private landlords.
Here is Whippingham Church, where Queen Victoria worshipped when she was at Osborne. Prince Albert had a hand in its design. Many people probably wish he hadn't bothered. This also means that, annoyingly, the church is run as a tourist attraction rather than as a normal church, and is only open on the tourist season, and charges for admission. It's never open when I go past.
On the far side of Wootton Creek, once past the ferry terminal, you suddenly stumble across an enormous abbey, which is almost entirely hidden until you're almost upon it. It always looks to me as if it's teleported in from another country, since there's nothing else remotely like it anywhere else on the island. Or maybe it's an Unidentified Flying Abbey from another planet, which landed by accident in rural Isle of Wight, and hasn't been able to leave, so is making the best of things.
Best of it, the Abbey has piggies! Spotted piggies! Teeny spotted piggies! Sadly, they were hiding this time, and were glimpsed only as great hulking lumps in the distance, so here's a picture from two years ago, because piggies!
We reached Ryde at about 10.30, then had the long walk along its very long seafront, through a park, past a boating lake, a battery and a silly folly full of fossils. The tide was very low. In Yore, before they build the pier, anyone wishing to visit Ryde had to be rowed in to the edge of the sands, then carried in on the shoulders of burly boatmen. 18th century visitors found this quite acceptable, but then the country got hit by an attack of the Victorians, whereupon everyone realised that it was entirely shocking for ladies to be carried in by burly boatmen, so a pier was built.
There are no burly boatmen in this picture, or at least none that are visible.
Get out of the way, you pesky Palmerston's Folly!
In Seaview the walk runs along the top of the seawall, which offered the walk's first evidence of the damage done by the winter of storms, since a few million tonnes of stones and shingle had been hurled onto the north-east coast of the island. The seawall - quite high above the sea - was deep in shingle, and a few miles on, Bembridge beach was quite horrible to walk on - an enormous, mile-long bank of shingle, where last year it had been sand, with a small stretch of shingle at the top.
Exhausted from tramping across shingle, we had lunch at Bembridge, then rounded the first corner - one full side of the island complete. Then it was round the coast for a bit, up Culver Down, and then down into Sandown for ice-cream, followed by a few miles walking along the seawall to Shanklin.
Sandown Bay viewed from Culver Down:
Somewhere between Sandown and Shanklin, we passed the remains of previous walkers:
After Shanklin, the path climbs sharply and leaves the landslip-devastated coast, and goes over the hill at Luccombe. Last time I passed, I photographed the table of jam that sits in the middle of nowhere, and wondered what sort of long-distance walker would ever decide that the only thing their walk lacked was impulse jam. Well, now I know.
We finished in Ventnor at about 4, and got the bus back to Newport, then back to Cowes. The following day, we were able to leave the car in the library car park right next to Newport bus station, and bus back out to Ventnor. The path follows the coast west for a bit, down to sea level at Steephill Cove (very scenic) then past the Botanic Garden and on to St Lawrence. It then decides that the coast is far too lumpy and bumpy and deadly, so heads inland and climbs up the big inland cliff, and follows its top for about 3 miles, towering over the strange stretch of landslip-shaped land called The Undercliff.
Just outside the entrance to Blackgang Chine, a lost, lone walker was loitering. "Are you following the coastal path?" he asked us, and "Oh, good!" he said, when we said yes. He looked very much as if he wanted to walk with us for the rest of the day, but we pretended not to notice his hints, and gave him directions, and headed off at our usual speed. He followed on behind at about half our speed, so I'm glad we didn't get committed to walking with him. I do feel a little guilty, though.
By now we had rounded the second corner, and had the long, scenic south-west coast to go, which is littered with chines and geology, but almost entirely lacking in human settlement. The landscape had been comprehensively rewritten since last autumn. We're not just talking a few landslips; we're talking an entire ten mile stretch of coast that has changed shape. There were loads of places where the path we had walked last November was still there, worn in the grass, but led to the edge of a cliff, with the next few yards of the path glimpsed all shattered down below.
Despite this, there were only 2 actual diversions, and none of them were on the cliff edge, but were in chines, caused by the higher slopes of the chine sliding down on top of the path at the bottom. We ignored once diversion, when we could see the entire length of the closed stretch, enough to see that it was easy to scramble, and the consequences of failure would not be too doomy. The second one we had to obey, because we couldn't see the closed section, so didn't know how bad it was.
Eventually, we got to Freshwater Bay, where we stopped for tea, and then - with Pellinor reenergised by sugar (Rocky Road) and me by salt (salt and vinegar crisps) - we positively raced up Tennyson Down. A lady loitering at the stile felt the need to tell us off. "If you go that fast, you won't see the gentians!" she berated us. We made sure to see some gentians, just to spite her. But we didn't slow down. Tennyson Down has definitely shrunk in the last few years. It once left me breathless and in need of several pauses for breath, but now it barely makes me breathe fast at all.
We'd planned to finish for the day at Alum Bay, or maybe at Totland a mile or two later, but since the weather was nice, and the forecast for the next day was vile, we decided to keep going all the way to Yarmouth, although this would lead to us not getting home until 6.30 or so.
For a while, it seemed that we wouldn't even be home by then, since Alum Bay (the Needles Pleasure Park) was TEEMING with people, many of whom were trying to leave by bus. When the bus got to Yarmouth, there were only 5 spaces on it. This was one of those bus stops where there's no obvious place to queue, and then the bus goes and pulls up quite a way past the bus stop, anyway. People, like us, who had been waiting for half an hour, ended up near the back of the crowd. When told that there were only 5 places, we all got very English, and started wondering out loud who had been there first, and therefore deserved the places. While we were doing this, a group of foreign tourists, who had only just arrived at the bus stop, took those 5 precious places. We English stereotypes promptly started bonding over this breach of queue etiquette, but didn't argue with the driver, while the remaining foreign tourists started arguing with the bus driver and demanding to be let on.
Fortunately, an open topped tourist bus, returning to the depot after the end of its stint at Alum Bay, then appeared and offered to take us all to Newport. What a hero! We even got there ahead of the proper bus.
Yesterday it rained. I really can't say much more than this. We had 19 miles of walk, and it rained for all but the first 90 minutes of it. "I don't believe in the concept of tempting fate," I said, "so it's safe for me to say that we've been quite lucky thus far, since the forecast said it would be raining from 8, and it hasn't rained yet... and note that I've only said "yet," so even if I did believe in the concept of tempting fate, I'm not doing it."
Two minutes later, it started raining. It continued to rain very very heavily until about half an hour after we got home, whereupon it stopped and the sun came out. There is probably a lesson in this.
By this time, despite waterproof coats and trousers, we were both soaked to the skin, but were able to get warm and dry within minutes, very thankful not to be medieval peasants or fantasy heroes en route to saving the world.
I don't feel at all weary or stiff today, and could probably do another 20 miles day, if I had to. However, I am rather enjoying the knowledge that I don't have to. :-D
