“Take your high viz off!” my husband hissed at me with a panic-stricken sense of urgency. About to squat behind a smattering of branches which gave a meagre leafy covering from the lorries and cars rushing along the M20, I laughed and was grateful for his warning. It had been an hour since we had broken down (and donned our high viz jackets for safety) and I had no choice but to use the primitive outdoor facilities that the grassy slope offered. Had I not removed my high viz, my attempt at having a discreet motorwayside wee might well have been a delightful fluorescent show for passing drivers.
An hour earlier, our car had decided it had had enough after a ten hour drive through France. Exiting the tunnel onto UK soil, the battery light illuminated in red and then about 20 minutes later, the car started to lose power. Having just passed a sign warning of no hard shoulder for 8 miles, I quickly pulled into the emergency SOS zone, which conveniently appeared as if answering my silent panic.
After an immediate call to the Highways Agency via the SOS phone, we were soon contacted by our breakdown company who said it would be a five hour wait. However, after highlighting the precariousness of our location, we were promised an update within half and hour where they hoped to improve on the wait.
Our next thought was safety. The emergency lay-by was framed with a wall (about 6ft) which was edged with a metal rail. “I’ll give you a leg up,” my husband said. I looked at him amused as I contemplated the extra pounds and years my body had accumulated since he had last given me a leg up, but then I realised that he was serious. So after a joint entertaining effort of a clumsy lift and a few undignified heaves, we managed to climb to a safer place. Once up on the ledge, I looked down and wondered if I would ever get down again.
At first, our spirits were positive, but as we waited and waited watching an endless stream of cars and lorries race by, our energy began to flag. It was now midnight, our phone batteries were low and, although it was still officially summer, we were getting cold. We could do nothing but wait. With no improvement on the predicted five hour wait and with no updates as promised, we began to feel a little helpless as time slowly ticked by. We called again. The wait on the phone to the breakdown services was depressing. No answer. Kept on hold, I desperately hoped that someone would pick up but instead I listened to a chirpy automated voice on endless repeat suggesting that I opt for an electric car as my next purchase. My patience was running thin and my language was certainly getting worse.
As midnight came and went, we began to wonder if anyone would ever come and rescue us. Looking at my husband who was now wrapped in a double bedsheet that he had retrieved from the car, I felt angry with the breakdown company. We were stranded in a dangerous location and they had basically shut down all communication with us. An update of some sort would have been comforting.
A cold night on the M20!
Feeling irrationally sorry for myself, I looked up the number for the Kent police headquarters ready to call and spout off about human rights and the expectation of us having to potentially sleep on the side of the motorway. However moments later, I pulled myself together and steered away from my ludicrous self-pity as I pondered the plight of those who were homeless and genuinely had something to worry about.
Around 01:30, our saviour came in the form of a 26-year-old who drove a local breakdown truck. (His arrival was all thanks to the Highways Agency who had helpfully intervened and who were equally frustrated with the silence of our breakdown company.) Never have I been more grateful to see another human being and he didn’t even batter an eyelid when he opened our car door and smelt the waft of over-ripe Camembert which was quietly festering in the now warm cool-bag.
Chatting animatedly on route, this young driver shared his life story and was just the tonic we needed to take our minds away from the previous few hours – hours which had felt endless at the time but which instantly dissipated into the past as his stream of warm and friendly words filled the truck.
I wrote this blog a few weeks ago when we were still in lockdown, but then I lost the inclination and zest to polish and post it. However some recent kind words from someone have encouraged me to rethink and to revive the blogging. Also a warm thank you to Ben Case, a local photographer who thankfully said, ‘yes’ when I asked if I could use his photos in this blog.
So here goes…
Spending several weeks in lockdown gave people many unexpected, yet hopefully fortuitous hours to enjoy their immediate surroundings. With the government prescription of initially one daily and then limitless exercise in open spaces, there was no excuse to not get out and about. Whether a breathless run or a leisurely walk, even the less active and less inclined may have been tempted by the early gentle nudge of encouragement from the PM. In reality, it couldn’t have been a more opportune time to reap the benefits of the local environment. And so, for me, this is my attempt to share my appreciation of the area around me.
River Arun
Living on the South coast is – in my humble opinion – a fabulous place to live, but in particular (and I’m sure that my fellow beach-dwellers will wholeheartedly agree) it has been an absolute blessing to reside beside the sea during lockdown. Whatever the weather and whatever the interest, the vast and seemingly endless landscape of water, pebbles, shells and sand offer space for a feast of sea-based activities as well as land-based lazy leisure. Often, just staring out across the sea to the horizon and listening to the waves was enough to escape the confines of the Covid19 situation.
For me, running became one of my ‘things’ during lockdown: it allowed me to travel a reasonable distance from home, gave a sense of routine as well as time and space to unconsciously dwell on mindless thoughts. For the first three months of lockdown, I had swapped my usual running path to pace the more secluded roads of East Preston, where the winding peaceful tree-lined lanes made socially-distanced running easier with less side-stepping to avoid others. However as lockdown gradually eased, I returned to my pre-virus running route – a circuit that takes me up to the coastal town of Littlehampton – through its streets, along the river and down the length of the sea front promenade.
Beach huts line Littlehampton prom
On my first revisit to this familiar course, I was filled with a warm feeling of contentment. It was early in the morning and a wonderful sense of peace hung in the air, where the world was waking up and preparing for the day. After weaving through a few inland streets towards Littlehampton, I paced (albeit slowly!) along Pier Road, which runs parallel to the River Arun. The area around here is always a delight. Boats literally do bob on the water moored up against the wooden boardwalk; attractive riverside apartments line the water’s edge and swans glide along with the current, seemingly without a care in the world. Occasionally, they swagger up the slipway and you have to mind not to get too close, but today they happily ignored me.
Along the raised riverside walkway, the local fishmongery was preparing for business. I was there at the right time of the morning to see crates of sea-life being hawled up and safely placed on wide beds of crushed ice ready for customers.
Whether you enjoy eating fish or not, standing on Pier Road with a backdrop of traditional chippies, smelling the aroma of perfectly cooked British chips smothered in salt and vinegar, eyeing the shops selling ice-creams, sticks of rock and other beach nik-naks, and hearing the squawks of seagulls with the sun shining down from a distance, I challenge you to not feel a positive glow of coastal loveliness. Add in the sight of locals sauntering up to purchase a recent catch from this local fish stall for their next meal – it is undeniably a pleasurable sight.
Littlehampton Pier
Bypassing the short wooden pier which divides the river from the sea, I turned eastwards and continued along the prom. In recent years, this area of Littlehampton has been tidied up, which has been much welcomed by locals. Nearby, paint pots in hand, local Arun Council workers were sprucing up the Stage by the Sea – a relatively new addition to the town.
Stage by the Sea
This shell-shaped structure offers a unique performance area where it has been designed to project the sound out as well as complement the landscape of the nearby sand dunes at West Beach. Today, equipment and trucks had been safely positioned with the immediate area cordoned off in consideration of the safety of the public as the workforce quietly persevered with the task in hand. This was a stark contrast to the negative images of jam-packed beaches which had recently filled the newspapers’ front pages. Here was the positive narrative that would never be reported because it contained no fuss, no outrage, no nonsense, no agenda. People were just getting on with their jobs in their seaside town that successfully copes with the ebb and flow of visitors year in, year out.
As I paced along the lengthy stretch of the promenade, I noticed that queue markers had been carefully painted out outside the traditional seaside food stalls which lined the busiest area of the beach. Additionally, two metre signs were now helpfully painted in strategic locations to remind everyone of the current guidelines. I contemplated the hard work of the council, who no doubt had met in many a stressful meeting to discuss and design a plan of action for Littlehampton: a tourist town which was an ideal destination for many a day tripper. It was vital to be prepared for the incalculable numbers of visitors which were now not only dependent on the unpredictability of the English weather, but also the uncertainty of post-lockdown life.
On this particular morning, the beach had a sparse number of locals out enjoying the tranquility and freedom of low tide: early morning parents with young children who were paddling safely in the shallow ripples; locals taking a stroll along the sand and the odd individual, who was just sitting and soaking up the early warmth of the sun. Meanwhile dog walkers sauntered along the prom, whilst a cyclist respectfully traveled at a reasonable speed keeping a distance. At one point, a carefree, lone soul raced past on roller-blades. I became aware of how much I had slowed down in my own pace to enjoy the sights of seaside life so I made a half-hearted attempt to speed up.
Accompanying me on this leg of my run was Littlehampton’s colourful long bench, which dips and twists along the prom. I was reminded of my early teaching years when I worked at the local school that had been proudly involved with the design of this bench.
The twists and turns of the long bench
Now an established part of Littlehampton, this iconic structure includes wooden slats, some of which include simple, yet heartfelt messages and memories from local people. Whether or not it is the longest bench in Europe (which I believe has been a much discussed claim), it certainly provides a sense of community, a place to rest, a chance to remember, an opportunity for memories and an interesting talking point among many.
When the bench stops, you reach East Beach Cafe. As I ran passed, I fondly mulled over the various affectionate (and some less affectionate!) names that locals have for this establishment. Opinions on this cafe vary and, depending on what name someone uses, it gives a good indication of how they feel about it. Yet, whatever people’s thoughts, it can easily be argued that this distinctive piece of architecture has helped to embed Littlehampton on the map of perhaps the more discerning customer. It has won awards and has been well received by various critics, and it has, on occasion, even made the papers. Regardless of the publicity, we can safely say that it has become an established landmark in this seaside town.
East Beach Cafe
Within the length of the next kilometre, I noticed just how plentiful Littlehampton’s offer of sporting activities was within easy reach of the beach: crazy golf, tennis, pitch and putt, the skate park and also ‘Littlehampton Wave’ – the town’s local swimming and fitness centre, completely rebuilt to open in 2019. Conveniently located opposite the beach, this building provides a wealth of exercise opportunities for any and every kind of person. As I affectionately recalled my weekly sweat in fitness classes that I had regularly attended pre-lockdown, I continued running eastwards. On my right, the construction for the new kite-surfing cafe looked like it had resumed; this was a project that has been on the cards for a while so it was exciting to see development on its foundations.
Veering inland to the left, I passed through Mewsbrook Park; aside from the odd dog walker, it was relatively quiet on this particular morning. Given the exceptional circumstances, the usual happy hub of Littlehampton life was absent: the boating lake and it’s viewing platforms were empty; the cafe remained closed and the children’s play area was still out of bounds. Soon I crossed the border away from Littlehampton and I mused on how much I had enjoyed returning to my old, familiar running route. It was a pleasure to appreciate this seaside harbour town once again.
Let Luce! 