In the summer I would climb a rough track upwards, towards the Downs and riding stable under the secure and deep dappled tree shadows. At the end of my riding lesson, I would head down lanes and hollow ways towards the coast. The journey took something like two hours. I loved the walk under the elms and oak trees and between the hedgerows of hazel, hornbeam, and spindle where I would occasionally pick a bluebell or primrose, a wood anemone or yellow archangel to press between the pages of a book. Wrens, hedge-sparrows and whitethroats could be seen flittering amongst the depths. Song thrushes and blackbirds hopped at the hedge bottoms eating earthworms, slugs and snails and during the autumn months berry crops would be food for yellowhammers, bullfinches and chaffinches. In winter, fieldfares and redwings could be spotted. The hedgerows were alive with song and the movement of flittering butterflies, moths and birds as I dawdled my way homewards.

:
The three Musketeers’

Occasionally, my two brothers would accompany me during the Summer vacation with packed lunches in hand. They would spend the morning playing on the Downs whilst I rode. When the three of us met up after my ride, rather than walk back along the beach we’d make out way home through the woods and across the Downs, High Down, Salvington and Cissbury Ring . We walked the dark cool depths of the ancient deciduous woods, dominated by oak where midges danced in the beams of sunlight. Sometimes we’d spot a lone rabbit or fox and above our heads grey squirrels would jump from branch to branch. As we moved further down well-trodden trails, we would occasionally espy an adder sunning itself in a sun drenched spot and as we drew near it would slide silently to disappear into the undergrowth. Tits foraged in the trees, constantly calling to each other and we would often stop and listen for the drumming of great spotted woodpeckers. The woods were a magical place, with trees to climb, glades of inordinate beauty to be investigated and streams to explore. As we walked through the deepest depths we would tell one another dark frightening stories. We were never afraid for we were the ‘Three Musketeers’.

The ancient trail

But soon the trails would lead us through and into the sunlight where we’d frolic in the fields, collect stones and flints, find Roman arrowheads, and pick wildflowers. We’d dawdle along the bridleways in the warm late afternoon air, chasing butterflies, chasing one another, playing out our dreams, the three of us discussing our future. We’d climb ancient stiles and make our way through cornfields, across paddocks and follow the ancient tracks made centuries before by the other footsteps of our ancestors. We would stop and rest and survey the view, which was far ranging across meandering rivers, the rolling Weald and the coast. We’d watch the deep sun blushing rose disappear beneath the sea from the top escarpment of Cissbury Ring, an ancient hillfort, before making our way in the opalescent light towards home. Foot sore, and weary, but happy, we would arrive home just as the night drew in. In bed, after a quick supper of bread and cheese, we would listen to the slow rhythmic smash of the waves upon the seashore, which would lull our tired legs and bodies into sleep.

Beating the Wave

On stormy days, we would run down to the beach and play a game we had created which we had named ‘beating the wave’. As the wave hit the groin (breakwater) it would rear up high into the air with a roar before dropping to smash onto the pebbled beach below. Our game was ‘chicken’. When the turbulent water receded we would run down the pebbles, stand as close to the groin as we could and wait for another wave to sweep in. When it swept in hitting the groin and reared up over us we would make a dash back up the beach, slipping and sliding on the wet pebbles with the wave arching over our heads, trying to beat it before it crashed down onto us. We were frequently drenched and I can remember our Mother none too pleased when we arrived home sodden. One time, our Father took a black and white photograph of the three of us caught under a wave as it reared up, the sea receding from around our feet. He did not capture the look of fear and anticipation on our faces as we were about to make a dash up the beach. Paul in the middle, Carl and I on either side, clinging to his arms. Our faces were pure anticipation of the run to come but who would chicken out first!

Myself as a Child