A year is no time at all and also a lifetime. The trail fitness I had when I got home is long gone. Edges softened. I finally put my almost full pack on when I get out of the van at Basingstoke train station. Heavy. It’ll be heavier still with another 2l of water. The South Downs Way is serviced for cyclists. Water taps are frequently dotted across the trail. The path passes frequently through villages. Dehydration should be an option easily avoided. The weather is already hot, with no sign of a change in the forecast. The floppy hat and the factor 50 sunscreen are going to be well worth the weight. I board the train to Winchester, lucky to be taken in by old mates Gavin and Nicola for the night. The promise of a big feed before hitting the road, and then again with breakfast in the city makes it make all the more sense. I start to remind myself of the plan. Take your time. I’ve got to me up early and arriving late. All day to do 30km. People haven’t stopped telling me about the hills. The hills are relentless. All I can think about is the 5 saddles of the Motatapu track. Sure, I was 2 months in to my life of hiking then. But there’s no way this can be harder than anything I’ve done before. Gavin has his big red egg burning, he’s done pulled pork, a whole chicken and lamb koftas. Well fed indeed. We sit up talking about my plan and theirs. How big a pack do you need? What do you need to take with you? Always, always less than you think. Gavin and I have breakfast at Josie’s in Winchester before I say my goodbyes and stroll down to the the official start of the South Downs Way; the City Mill. I don’t stop in. I’m ready to start. I follow the short stretch of the River Itchen, pass through the Eastern suburbs and into the South Downs National Park.

I take my first long rest at Cheesefoot Head, overlooking Temple Valley. I sit down, back resting against an old oak tree. The eager glee of eating snacks. The joy of a break. Of knowing when I put my pack back on its already a little lighter. The overwhelming sense of freedom washes over me. I recognise in this moment I am happy. Even if this is the only moment then it has all, already been worth it. I rub sunscreen into my arms and legs like a butter binder on roasting meat. The seasoning comes from the rising dust off the hard packed trail. I am ready to be slow cooked in the sun. I am surprised at how busy the trail is. There are pairs of people with significantly smaller packs than mine passing through. Once I’m ready to go again I get up to my usual trick of chasing down the people ahead of me. I gain on the two older ladies. We have a quick chat, they’re going all the way to Eastbourne too. They’re living the good life, staying in pubs and B&Bs, having the bulk of their packs transferred ahead. Living the dream. I run down another couple walking out of their campervan. They’ll go however far today, grab a taxi back to the van and find somewhere to stay the night. They peel off from me to grab a coffee from the first of many farm shop cafes.

I’m not sure I can tell the difference between rabbits and hares. I decide this creature bounding towards me must be a hare. Taller, thinner, bolder than a rabbit. He comes right close before I move, sending him marching off back the way he came. I pass two, maybe three unmarked taps on route and I’m annoyed to have been carrying an extra two litres all morning. They’re supposed to end after this farm so I stop to camel up. I debate briefly at Beacon Hill about carrying on to Exton to the Shoe Inn for lunch. I should get there before service ends. Quick reminder, this is after all a holiday. The problem I’ve got is I’m way ahead of schedule. I’ve got maybe an hour more walking ahead of me, before I should stop. Sunset is another 6 hours away. A pint and a sandwich should slow me down a bit. I’m ruined by the time I reach the top of Old Winchester Hill. I had visions of cowboy camping in the rings of the iron age fort but its too exposed. Not just to the weather but a near direct sight line to the carpark across the hill. Instead I wander through the Yew trees looking for a small patch of flat ground to spend the night. Leaving the tent to watch the sunset is an anxious affair. There are it turns out, more people around than I had anticipated. I find open ground and a seat to watch the day end. Already looking forward to crawling into my sleeping bag.

Sleep is disrupted by the homemade glue of sunscreen and sweat binding my legs. This really is going to be the worst part of wild camping in the hills. The limited access to water, especially at spots I’ve set out to overnight is going to make any standard of hygiene impossible. Already I smell. It’s been one day. I pack down and pull on my pack. Thankful, for now at least, to be carrying less water. I have to slow down today. I’m doing a similar distance with an additional 3 hours to play with,  thanks to the lack of a leisurely breakfast. I was way too early yesterday afternoon. The trees sing the song of the wind, rustling like water. Creaking like old stairs. Repetitive views of pasture, green seas of wheat. The overhead wires whistle and crackle. In the field lambs and sheep bleat. The hills roll away in every direction, fading from green to grey, and to the south, blue. Where sea meets sky. I start talking myself into a second breakfast at Butser Hill. A bacon sandwich and a coffee would go down a treat. As I get closer I’m forced to shut down the plan. The cafe is only open between Thursday and Sunday. I’ve enough water left to brew myself a cup of tea. Looking South I confirm the weird white obelisk I’ve been seeing for a while is Spinnaker Tower. Portsmouth really not all that far away. I break again at the bottom of the hill in the Queen Elizabeth Country Park visitor centre, where the coffee is barely better than the instant I stirred first thing. Other hikers catching me here, a group of lads, and a chap I met yesterday with too much faith in the forecast. He told me he’s not carrying any waterproofs. I fill up my water and sigh beneath the extra weight. The climb out is a slog, my poles come into their own and I’m mostly able to enjoy the woods. Beyond Queen Elizabeth Country Park is a grind. A track running tight between farm fields. Private, no entry signs hang on every fence. I’m not entirely sure why the South Downs National Park got the status. It is mostly farms and villages. Down there in Nimby valley, perhaps lies the answer.

The farm tracks are fine until something comes, usually wider than the road. The grass verges haven’t been mown. Thinking of the wildflowers, where here they’re mostly nettles. A woman sits on a corner with a water carrier offering some out. I’m thankfully still full. Though I know this isn’t really a medal of honour. I should be drinking it. I push up on to Harting Down. The second Beacon Hill is the first climb that looks nasty. I don’t even have to go up it but it’s there, and I’ve got time. The trail punches straight up the chalk. I drop off the ridge. Leaving the wind and sun exposure behind and enter a pine plantation. Immediately I start picking out potential spots. Most are a piece of flat ground, all are too close to the path. I see more deer in 5 minutes than I’ve seen so far. I swing across the rows of pines, the map has a ruin hidden away.  I hope for walls surrounding a long abandoned garden. I get walls but they’ve all fallen down. Something about the small cairn of flint and logs sets me off. “What’s under there?” my brain asks. I don’t care to find out. I find other places, still too close to the path but I figure if I leave it late enough, I should be fine. I find a string of stumps, pot on one, stuff on the next, me on the last. I sit and listen to the trees whispering in the canopy, birds shouting over them.

I suffer three minor inconveniences before bed. The first, and by far the worst; I sit on a tree stump without checking and get stuck to sap. I peel myself away, touch my bum and now my fingers are covered in sap. I manage to get the worst off with antibacterial gel. Off my fingers at least. All the attempted scrubbing of the still being worn shorts does is stick a white, toilet paper based fluff to them. Compared to this finding the block of chocolate smashed to bits in the bottom of my bag is easy to deal with. The leaking packet of chorizo is more problematic. Hiking supplies from the British supermarket just don’t cut it. I realise I’d made a mistake when I came to pitch my tent on what looked like a glade in the plantation. Yes the grass was lush, visibly flat from a distance but the ground was chewed to bits. Four old tracks met here and the ground was compacted hard as cement. I decided to move a little further on, under a beech tree a little off the trail. I’m spooked as a land rover rattles past but they don’t seem to have seen me and I’m left in peace.

I do a good impression in the morning of a person who knows what they’re doing. Until I come to leave and decide the mantra of be bold start cold can do one. The hills are hazy this morning and I hope it’s just cloud and not rain. I drop off Cocking Hill and back up on to Graffham Down where I find the first actual meadows I’m permitted to walk through. There are all sorts of knee high plants beyond the buttercups and dandelions I recognise. The two paddocks smell distinctly sweet.  Small pink and purple orchids nestle among the greens and yellows. While I break for tea, a man who actually introduces himself with his name as Tom, stops for a brief chat. He’s wild camping too, but pushing further than me each day. We chat about trail runners vs boots. How to save weight. And then he’s gone. The clouds burn off as I reach the Cadence cafe at Upwaltham. Tom heads out as I head in. In my best attempts go get up and go, I’d left my bank card inside my tent. A quick unpack and repack and I’ve got a coffee and a bacon roll. While I’m waiting the woman behind the counter asks if I like chocolate brownie. She assures me she only dropped it this morning before wrapping the remains in tinfoil and handing it over. It doesn’t matter where the trail is. It provides. In the time it takes to eat and drink the wind has switched from definitely cold to deceptively cool.

The haze settles in. The hills keep rolling, rolling, rolling. I watch a rabbit perform magic. It darts in to the long grass and stops still. Lowering itself, closer and closer to the ground until if I didn’t know it was there, I wouldn’t know it was there. I begin my descent in to Amberley, where I’m passed by a big group of cyclists. I think about telling them how cool it would be if they had some way of letting me know they were coming up behind me, like they could attach say a bell on their handlebars. Or even just say something. The Rusty Bikers get lost and I’m stupid enough to follow them for a while before I realise the trail splits cyclists and walkers from time to time. I walk in to Foxleigh Barn bang on check in. Optimal value. They have washing up bowls and Epsom salts for soaking your feet. I make a cuppa, put a chair in the shade and enjoy the feeling. I wash me and my clothes in the shower but the tree sap seems to be stuck for life. Eventually I get the names of Tony and Alan who I was leapfrogging yesterday. Two of their party have pulled out, explaining why I never saw them again. They head to the pub while I wait for my take away curry to arrive at the campsite gate. Moonrise prevents a proper dark sky experience. I’m not sure it would compare to those Pacific Island nights anyway. The sprinkling of morning dew saturates the outer of my tent. Extra weight isn’t really on my mind. I don’t rush off as early as I have been. I am tired, my body is sore. I am only halfway. I use the kettle for two instant coffees. Commit to another shower and get to it. I had planned for a delayed start and breakfast at the Riverside Cafe but they don’t open until 9am, which on my current hours is too long to wait. I tell myself it’s ok, I’m still full from last night’s dinner.

I struggle with a low mood. I’m not entirely sure I’m actually enjoying this. But then why not? I’m sure I’d been having a good time while it was happening. Perhaps the threat of rain. Or that I’m now over halfway. On the way home, rather than on the way out.

One field border is bright with the red burst of poppies. I stop at a carpark for a late breakfast. I find now i am actually excited and hungry for the leftover pershwari naan. My mood rapidly improves. Coming down the next valley I spot a woodpecker on a water trough. I begin to remember why I’m doing this, that I am in fact having a good time. The sign for the tap at Washington has the words ‘not working’ and the date ‘5-6-23’ carved into it. That was only three days ago. I turn it on and a trickle comes out, and there’s enough coming through to fill up. I remain grateful. The A24 is a distinctly unpleasant road crossing. Two lanes, fast moving. There’s a decent wedge of land between the two directions of traffic. I trot across and get out of there as fast as I can. In my first drafts, Chanctonbury Ring was a place to spend the night. My imagination had been captured some time ago by the writings of Robert Macfarlane. I’ll admit its not much too look at. A heavily planted piece of the hill tops. The history stretches back through millenia. Obvious is the neolithic hill fort, and you can see why. The plains spread out to the North. Through the lingering haze I can make out the windfarms in the channel to the South. Supposedly, this was also the site of a Roman temple, to who I don’t know. I’m pleased to arrive before 10. Getting up and on was better for me than hanging around for breakfast.  I enjoy the last of the vitamin D and baste on the sunscreen.

Out east, the blocky skyline of Brighton and/or Hove emerges from the haze. Along my route, the next masts rise on the next hill top. These landmarks seem to have replaced the beacons so many of the hills are named for. Before I get there, I’ve another drop to another river, another road. The pig farms above Steyning are home to by far the best meadows I’ve seen. Poppies and thistles, and something yellow that might be buttercups or dandelions or something else bob gently in the wind. Butterflies drift through. The clapping wings of blue are more likely to belong to the Common Blue rather than the Chalkhill. At the ridicuously named Botolphs I stop at the South Downs Fodder Truck for a coffee and a slice of flapjack. On my way up Truleigh Hill I stop to chat about gear with another in training, this time we talk poles. Poles remain the most useful piece of kit I carry with me. Along the tops the sun would beat hot were it not for the ever present wind. I pass ploughed fields dotted with black, the elusive crow farms. They take to flight as soon as I get close. I cross Fulking Hill. Perhaps the only place name generating bigger smirks than Cocking. I buy a 99 with a flake at Devil’s Dyke for £3. I don’t think they’re called 99s anymore and I had an option of three sizes. The view cheers me immeasurably. Chanctonbury Ring sits proud some three hills back. I walk around the edge of the Dyke. A weird rift through the hillside, a valley without a river. I drop down into Saddlecomb Farm where I honestly feel a bit conned. Roly and Camillas is a National Trust farm campsite. Rustic is a stretch. A picnic table might make a nice addition. The field isn’t even particularly flat. The toilet is nowhere near. There’s no shade. But there is a tap. I will be getting my £12 worth of water. I have a cup of tea under a tree until the sun moves below the branches and I’m forced to pitch my tent for shelter. At least I can just stop now. My knees are starting to creak. By the time I’ve had a cold water rinse, a lie down, and a pocketful of snacks I come to realise this ain’t so bad. So long as you don’t think about the price. It’s paid for, in the past, essentially free. Tony and Allan crawl in as evening begins to settle. I think we’re all surprised to see each other again. Roly comes through and is surprised to find his campsite so busy. “Just checking on the cows,” he says, “they’re calving at the moment.” The already unimpressed Allan looks even less pleased to be here.

Another dew damp morning, bright and clear. As soon as I get out of the valley I book a spot in Alfriston Camping Ground. Options for a wild camp that close to the end look thin, and my desire for a decent (any) shower is strong. The A23 at Pycombe is bridged, I’m not sure I’d have ever got across were it not. The second road is not, I’m esily across the other side and on to my personal favourite wasteland; a golf course. I loop around the nearby Jack and Jill windmills only to find they’re private property. The flyers advertising a coffee truck don’t display opening times but I’m sure I’m too early. I’m on to Ditchling Beacon, where dog-walkers are already out in force. The Amex stadium blends in surprisingly well with the rolling hills. Most cyclists seem over reliant on me being aware of what’s behind me. I decide they’re lucky I’m not one for wearing headphones. The rain that had slipped into the forecast slips back out again. It’s a long, hot slog from Housedean Farm to Southease. Things start well, a steady climbing curve on to the next chalk ridge, which drags on for eternity. A slowly falling concrete path deposits me in an empty valley. The tap at the church is all the saviour I need.

From the bench I can see the next climb. That’s going to be long, hot and exposed again. Two ladies join me at the benches and we talk of the trail, they say there’s a cafe open less than a mile away. At the YHA. I want a Sprite but the best they can do is a Tango. And a late late coffee. The caffeine I hope to burn off pushing through to Alfriston. Whatever plans I had of even distances each day is long out the window. I’m doing a big one today to have a shorter one tomorrow. I pass two women putting up arrows along the trail, they inform me there’s a marathon tomorrow. I hope I’m out of the way before they kick off. I’ve got little left in the tank when I reach Firle Beacon. Muscle memory kicks in and my legs do what they were grown to do. One in front of the other. Soon enough I can see the edge of the white cliffs. Alfriston Camp Ground is the same price for the night as the last, yet a totally different experience. Three fields, all gradually filling up with people of all sorts. I seek a flat patch frustratingly far from the entrance but close enough to the showers. I find myself near a group who, respectfully are outside, and so insist on using their outdoor voices. I have the long hot shower of my dreams. Reminding myself again of the true peak of civilisation. I inspect my feet, the hotspots have begun a conversion into blisters but I’m confident they’ve got another day in them. They no longer have a choice. The man comes around to check I have paid and tells me tomorrow is gonna be a scorcher. Like every day so far this week has been anything else.

I’m surprised anyone else is up in the camp ground. Bleary eyed adults sway towards the toilet blocks. I move through the still very much asleep village of Alfriston. Every building seems to be offering food or accommodation. I get down to the Cuckmere River and go again. I’ve learned an ultramarathon is also coming through this way today. It’s also already hot. At 6:30am. I’m extremely keen to get ahead of the crowd and beat the heat. Kissing gates have been absent until now. They’re near impossible for me to get through with a pack on. I squeeze into the corner, and brush the gate past my hip and shoulder. I miss the Long Man of Willmington which is a shame because it means I’ll need to come back. I do pass a white horse cut in to the hill side which gets me wondering if this is just the symbol of a people who live on chalk.

A footpath follows the Cuckmere all the way to the sea but I’m pushed in land and over three additional and unnecessary hills. This can’t be for the benefit of those on wheels. I’ve gone up to flights of stairs. Sweat is already pouring down my face and we’ve not yet reached 8am. There’s some delightful GCSE geography to be enjoyed at Cuckmere Haven where the rivet whips out Horseshoe bends. I merge on to the English coast path. The first wind filled white sail drifts across the bay. The Seven Sisters are cause for concern. Similar, though not as steep as Lulworth. I roll across them with reasonable ease in the end. Slumping in to Birling Gap at what I think is bang on 10am. That feels slow but I’m happy with it. I’m then incensed to find the National Trust cafe closed. It’s only when I vent to someone nearby that they inform me it is in fact 9am. My phone thinks I’m in France. A bigger threat to our borders than anyone popping across the channel on a dinghy as far as I’m concerned. We both agree what time it is actually doesn’t matter, on a day like today the National Trust are already losing money by not being open. I could wait here 40 mins, or I could crunch on to Beachy Head. No contest.  Sunscreen on, water in. Away we go. The white coastal cliffs are dramatic. The suggestion obvious, this wasn’t always the end. Beachy Head lighthouse is one of those 1000 photos a minute views. Even though I know the light is wrong. It is a serenely beautiful place to come to die. Not counting the hoards of people.

It isn’t my knee in the end but my hip that eventually brings me to the ground. It doesn’t feel serious, yet. Mostly discomfort. Which might be fine to walk off. I sit down, pop some pills, have a drink and a snack and check the map. 5km to go. Worth pushing through.

The last Cadence Cafe delivers. An iced latte and a Naughty Amrstrong. A cheese toastie with sauerkraut, pastrami, mustard and gherkins. Pain relief. I slump down the hill into Eastbourne. Like most English seaside towns it is much easier on the eye the further away you are. I hear a man declare the beach busy for Eastbourne standards. I’m amazed anyone’s on it. There’s a decent sign at the finish. I take a photo, send it to my friends and I’m done. Aside from the next 5km to the train station. And the beer. Old mate Mike informed me all roads lead to Beerama, which doesn’t open until 1. I go and get one and half pints pissed, which turns out to be quite a lot. Then I’m on the train, on the way home. Finished again.