The car alarm goes off at 2 am and I fumble in the dark, disoriented, trying to find the key. It should be disabled, but I vaguely recall my leg cramping and stretching out, kicking the door. It’s still cosy,

I wake up at 6 am and dimly recall the alarm going off at 5 am — not a great start. This is my first two-day hike, with an overnight kip in the well-prepared Viano, but the car has other

I’m feeling guilty for not posting a photo of stumpy Bognor Regis Pier last week. The vibrant blue sky is deceptive. It’s 7.30 am and rather chilly. A hot coffee would be great but there is nothing open. The shingle

As retirement draws nearer, the hiking steps up, with a second, shorter walk this week. Jude comes along to retrace childhood holidays with her grandparents at Rustington. I worry about carrying buckets, spades, fishing nets, and jam jars. The tide

Brighton and Hove promenade is alive with early morning activity: joggers, cyclists, swimmers, rowers, and paddle boarders, including one with a dog perched on the front. The sea is as smooth as a mirror — not a breath of wind.

Dawn swimmers brave the cold sea next to the car park. “Are you coming in?” This is the English Channel. At 7 am. In March. Am I starting to look like a crazy person? Snug and warm in my four

Eastbourne is a little more familiar now, and I arrive early enough to park next to the start of the South Downs Way, although our paths quickly diverge as I climb up the first of many hills along the iconic

I tell Jude I’m walking to Eastbourne. “Are you staying there?” A little uncharitable — I only turn 60 this year. The weather is foul. A biting wind in my face and a constant drizzle that seeps through my layers.

A frosty sunrise at Rock-a-Nore car park in Hastings Old Town shared with a few hardy souls. One woman drags her ageing father out to view it for the first time, despite having lived here for years. He laughs. Everyone