Beachy Head

My best friend and I experience the English seaside. Read on for pony sightings, an abundance of spiders, and the coziest inn ever.

After taking a train from Paris to London, Erin and I found our way to Eastbourne, England.

Growing up I loved watching Rick Steves wander around Europe on PBS and would imagine myself taking similar trips one day with nothing but a backpack, my passport, and a money belt. On the train to Eastbourne (sans money belt), I eavesdropped on the conversation of the family behind us, subject matter has since been forgotten but I remember reveling in their accents. After two days in Paris, it felt luxurious to listen in on conversations I could understand. We passed cows and pastures and wooded villages.

It felt dreamlike and would only get dreamier. Once in Eastbourne, we took a bus to the inn I’d booked on a whim and dropped off our luggage at the pub downstairs. Their luggage storage? The supply closet. We ate fish and chips and Erin had a Guinness and I worried about the fried food hurting my stomach.

We couldn’t check into our room just yet, so we embarked on what I can only describe as the hike of a lifetime for myself.

I remember sitting at my desk job last year, planning out our EuroTrip in between customers, and reading one of Rick Steves’ e-book guides knowing I wanted to visit the coast and witness the famed chalky cliffs. However, I felt a paralyzing anxiety about choosing the perfect city, the perfect accommodation, the perfect cliff. Sitting in the middle of San Antonio—masked up, fluorescent lights ablaze—I read a line in his chapter about Dover: ”For a more rural and idyllic white cliff experience, visit Beachy Head near Brighton”. It just so happens that Erin and I love the rural and idyllic and I knew I’d found the perfect spot. On the hike out to Beachy Head we passed a lone pony, blankets of blackberry bushes, and felt the clear sea breeze on our faces.

I understood then how Tolkien dreamed up Middle Earth. I too could imagine Númenor out past the cliff’s edge. I could pretend I was on an unexpected journey with my best friend in tow, wandering along the road that goes ever ever on.

We made it across the hill to Cow Gap and down some worn stairs leading to the waters edge.

It was all rocks and pebbles and boulders and I watched sea snails move around the tide pools for while before my body itched to walk around and explore. To the right, I could see the cliffs and a path to some unknown destination. While I watched sea snails and algae, Erin was getting harassed by a shirtless man—I’d forgotten this bit until yesterday when we reminisced about that day. Apparently he’d asked her to be his girlfriend. Yikes. The duality of traveling as femmes, am I right? Stumbling over rocks and boulders in my converse high tops, we finally reached a stretch of what I can comfortably call a beach.

The Texan in me, used to driving my entire vehicle out onto the sand, couldn’t fathom the trip the people stretched out on towels and beach chairs had to take to get here. The chalky white cliffs I had obsessively studied on Google Maps rose up behind me like castle walls, the sheer size of them was difficult to comprehend. Almost like when you stand at the edge of the Grand Canyon and look into it, not fully grasping the depth of the chasm. Chalk boulders lay around the bottom of the cliffs, and yet I stood with my back to it all, enraptured by the sea and the lighthouse in the distance. Erin flings off her clothes and jumps into the ocean; I peel off my socks and dip my toes in.

The trip back to our inn was quick as trips back always are. We stayed in the Mouse’s Nest and napped hard before dinner. We were steadily losing steam by this point.

We’ve gotten into this bad habit of traveling at an almost frenetic pace, zipping from city to city in an effort to experience as much as possible…so we still had a full London itinerary planned for the next day.

The following morning we left for the train station, walking through Meads and Eastbourne to get there. I’m a stubborn walker. That doesn’t make sense, but basically if I don’t want to figure out how to get somewhere via bus/train/taxi I will simply just walk there. I once walked from the Port Authority bus terminal in NYC to the Guggenheim Museum because I didn’t want to deal with the subway. It was only a 30 minute walk to the Eastbourne train station but we did have our ~30 pound backpacks on us. God bless Erin and her patience with me. We also discovered English spiders and their abundance on paths. I’ve never encountered spiders of this size and frequency!

Visiting the sea is a highlight for any trip I take. My maternal grandmother grew up by the ocean, as did my mother. I yearn to someday live by the sea and feel its tidal energy daily rather than occasionally. During this trip I got to visit my ancestral home: Galicia. But that’s a whole other reflection. One wrapped up in family and war and memory. For now, I’m yearning for a future rural and idyllic trip to the English countryside.