Day 1
“Come far?” I turn from the bar, where I’m waiting to place my order, and two elderly ladies, seated at a nearby table, are surveying my sweaty running gear and rucksack with a pleasant air of enquiry. “Pevensey,” I tell them. “We’re heading for Battle today and then on to Rye tomorrow.” I wait for the oohs and ahhs and perhaps a gosh you must be fit…
“Still a way to go then,” says one of them, prompting me to downgrade my pint of Longman Bitter to a shandy.
I carry our drinks out to the beer garden of the 17th-century Ash Tree Inn, where my husband, Jeff, has bagged a table. Morris, our terrier, is sprawled out beneath it, grateful for the shade on this unseasonably warm May afternoon. We’re running the 1066 Country Walk, a 32-mile marked trail in East Sussex that weaves northeasterly from Pevensey to Rye. The wonderfully named hamlet of Brown Bread Street, where we’ve stopped for lunch, is ten miles in.
The route retraces the footsteps of William, Duke of Normandy, who landed his troops at Pevensey in 1066 and, as every English school child will know, marched into a battle that would change the course of history. But there’s more to 1066 country than battle trivia: the route passes through diverse landscapes, from the Pevensey Levels – a 3600-hectare low-lying expanse of grassland, crisscrossed by waterways – to the rolling, wooded hills and steep-sided valleys of the High Weald Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty (AONB) and the ancient settlements of Battle, Winchelsea and Rye. With well-trodden paths, a peak height of 115m and a total elevation of 2500ft, it lends itself perfectly to a bitesize running adventure.
Like William, we had begun our on-foot journey at Pevensey. Unlike him, we had arrived not by boat but by train – a direct journey from the end point at Rye. A short jog brought us to the atmospheric ruins of Pevensey Castle, where the official start of the route is marked by a stunning wooden sculpture of a Norman longboat, the first of ten Bayeux Tapestry inspired works along the trail, carved by local artist Keith Pettit.
On the Levels
Pressing start on our watches, we left the castle behind, curving north on to the gloriously flat Pevensey Levels. The sky was blue and cloudless, though the day still cool. We followed the course of a broad ditch marked on the map as a haven, meaning ‘inlet’ – a reminder that much of this land was once underwater. The sea has retreated by over a mile over the past 700 years, leaving a watery landscape that is deemed internationally important for its flora and fauna: 110 out of 160 British aquatic flowering plants grow here, and both the rare Shining Ramshorn Snail and disconcertingly large Fen Raft Spider reside in the myriad waterways.
Morris, blissfully unaware of the long day ahead, pulled like a huskie. The air was filled with birdsong – Skylarks overhead and the scratchy notes of Whitethroats in the hawthorn. Sheep scrambled out the way on our approach.
We were feeling nicely warmed up by the time we reached the first climb, which traced the border of a sloping field up to the pale shingled spire of All Saints Church. There was a woman standing in the field, her arms outstretched to the heavens. I wondered if she was doing yoga, or some kind of pagan ritual (it was close to Beltane, after all) and prepared my face for a polite good morning. But as we drew closer, I realised that she was, in fact, a scarecrow. Looking back over the Levels, we could see the rise of the South Downs in the distance.
We took our first rest break at around six miles – sitting on a grassy hillside, scoffing oatcakes and Babybel cheese (it travels well). We had a bird’s eye view of the grand and turreted 15th-century Herstmonceux Castle, as well as its rather less inspirational car park, which was thronging with visitors. It felt good to be travelling under our own steam.
The day was hotting up when we got moving again, and we were grateful for the slivers of shady woodland that the route took us through. The bluebells were at their peak, adding a sweet fragrance and violet hue to the air.
A little way east, at Boreham Street, we entered the High Weald AONB. This medieval landscape – which extends all the way to Rye – is exactly what people conjure up when they think of the English countryside: a patchwork of green hills and valleys, stitched together with hedgerows and holloways and dotted with scattered farms and sleepy villages.
Having barely set foot on tarmac thus far, we found ourselves on narrow lanes for a fair stretch between Boreham Street and Brown Bread Street. Morris voted with his feet, slowing our pace to a walk, but it was no hardship; the verges were thronged with wildflowers, including orchids.
Nevertheless, with our bellies beginning to rumble, the wrought-iron sign hanging outside the Ash Tree Inn was a welcome sight.
While ordering lunch, I’d asked the waitress about the hamlet’s curious name – she didn’t know its derivation. But when she brought out our ample-portioned lunches, she’d found out that there used to be a flour mill in the village. Place names often reveal past uses – Sussex is full of Furnace Lanes as a result of its once-thriving iron ore industry.
Into Battle
An afternoon doze is tempting, but Tent Hill – the toughest climb of the day – is yet to come. There’s a story behind this place name, too: it is reputedly where William and his army camped the night before the great battle – though some say it was King Harold and his army. Whoever it was picked a good spot – the view over Ashburnham Vale encompasses a whole paint chart of greens. A buzzard mews as it glides high above us, and I imagine its ancestors looking down on this seemingly unchanged landscape, nearly a millennium ago.
We run across fields, dip through copses and cross rickety footbridges over forgotten streams, encountering a scarce handful of other human beings. “Where is everyone?” Jeff wonders, but we are more than happy to have the trail to ourselves. I lose count of how many stiles we scale and gates we open and shut. Weariness sets in and each mile seems to stretch itself across time and distance. In Powdermill Woods, on the outskirts of Battle, I start at a towering figure amid the trees. It’s a sculpture of a man, fashioned from blackened wood, complete with gold crown. An arrow splits it into two – one half represents William, the other Harold.
By the time we reach Battle, we’ve run almost 18 miles. It was here, on October 14th 1066, that 10,000 men, including King Harold, were killed, leaving William the Conqueror to declare himself King of England. The abbey that was built in 1070 to mark the site still stands, and thankfully, our B&B is only steps away from it. As soon as we get to our room, Morris curls up on the carpet and falls asleep. I wash the day’s sweat and grime from my tired limbs, while Jeff goes to pick up pizza. We are in bed before 10pm, the turreted gatehouse of the abbey floodlit in the quiet street outside.
Day 2
We wake up the next morning feeling bouncier than expected. The unhurried pace and the predominantly soft surfaces have softened the blow of the distance covered. I pilfer a couple of sausages from the breakfast buffet in case Morris needs incentivising later on.
It feels good to put on a fresh top and socks – well worth the small amount of space they took up. We faff around with our bags, refilling Camelbaks and ensuring snacks are easily reachable, and then we’re off.
The start is inauspicious – a long drag on pavement, which Morris insists on walking even though it’s downhill. But eventually we spot the distinctive red-and-white 1066 waymarker pointing down an overgrown passageway. It deposits us in sizeable Battle Great Wood, where runners, riders and dog walkers are making good use of the broad, well-maintained tracks. We ease into a run… this is more like it!
The woods give way, unexpectedly, to a busy golf course. And if that isn’t enough of a brush with modernity, crossing the busy A21 certainly is. It’s a relief to melt back into the countryside.
Runner’s Highs… and Lows
A stiff climb leads us into the village of Westfield, where we take a breather at the cricket ground and look at the map. We decide to make the village of Icklesham – five miles hence – our lunch stop. It means more climbing this morning, but less distance to run in the afternoon.
A little further on, we come across Farbanks Henge, another of Pettit’s sculptures and my absolute favourite: six oak monoliths stand in a circle, each with hawthorn blossom bursting forth from the latticework.
We drop down into the Brede Valley and cross the railway line before – in a series of ups and downs – regaining all the height we’ve lost since Westfield. It’s hardly the Peak District, but these hills, coming as they do in the second half of the second day, reduce us to a ‘walk 10 steps, run 10 steps’ regime. Morris’s sausages are long gone.
At Icklesham, we get a table in the garden at the Queen’s Head, eyeing everyone’s food jealously until our sandwiches arrive. This village is set high above the River Brede, which in William’s time was navigable by ship. Nowadays, it’s a quiet and orderly channel. I try to imagine the sea swirling where there are now just sheep-cropped fields.
The route stays high as we head southeast out of Icklesham, crossing fields from which we get our first glimpse of the English Channel, the pearly expanse of Camber Sands, the gravel pits of Rye Harbour Nature Reserve and the hulking power station at Dungeness. At Hogg Hill, a former windmill now houses a recording studio owned by Paul McCartney.
We pass through the pristine village of Winchelsea, where three of the four old city gates dating from the 14th century still stand. In the graveyard of the church of St Thomas the Martyr we seek out Spike Milligan’s grave, with its infamous headstone inscribed ‘I told you I was ill’ (inscribed in Irish Gaelic).
Then we descend, a little stiffly, through fields and along the road past Winchelsea Station to join a bridleway that snakes along the bottom of gorse and bracken clad slopes into Rye. Just before it joins the road stands the last of Pettit’s sculptures, a Bayeux Tapestry styled tree – marking the official end of the route.
Rye is one of the UK’s finest medieval towns, but with 34 miles in the bag, we’re more interested in one of its other claims to fame – the original branch of Knoops hot chocolate. We make a beeline for it, proud to have made our own history on the 1066 trail.
Runner’s World, July 2024