Megan Carmichael enjoys a walk free from demons
ACCORDING to local folklore, the Devil dug the dyke to drown the people of Sussex as a punishment for converting to Christianity. If he succeeded in digging the trench to the sea before dawn, Cuthman of Steyning’s soul would be his; however, if he failed, the Devil was never to bother the people of Sussex again. Using a candle and a cockerel, Cuthman tricked the Devil into thinking dawn had broken early. Believing he had lost, he fled in disgrace.
We took a left from the road along the South Downs Way, an ancient pilgrimage route, and proceeded along the edge of the dyke to Saddlescombe. Starting
this way, it feels counterintuitive to walk away from the fantastic vista of the Sussex countryside; but it’s certainly worth it to finish on those views.
I was with my sister and dad, and they struggled to open the gate over the road. The farm and shop have a history dating back to the 1630s, so are certainly worth a mooch. Advancing up the hill, we took a right turn to join the Sussex Border Path.
The fragrant wildflowers were in full bloom, filling the air with floral freshness.
Descending Varncombe Hill, the landscape of chalk and sandstone was apparent in the scree littering the path. We crossed the road and hopped over a stile. The path on the map follows the field boundary at a right angle, so it’s tempting to walk straight across to cut the corner; but the gradual climb around the edge is much kinder on the thighs than the steep incline of the middle.
The track running along the Brighton and Hove Golf Club provided a perfect opportunity for a water break and the ceremonial opening of the fruit pastilles. The track led us through picturesque Sussex farmlands and towards Brighton. The smell of freshly cropped fields was soon replaced with that distinct aroma that comes with keeping horses, and we walked through a working yard.
The following 2km from the A27 is a steady tramp up a track between fields. The sea glinted in the sunshine to my left and there was postcard-perfect English countryside to my right. Fulking Hill prompted some puns and wordplay until the pub by the car park emerged in the distance. The final stretch took us along the edge of the South Downs with a sheer drop into the suddenly flat Sussex landscape.
As I strolled back towards the pub, a pint of Aspalls firmly set in my mind as my finishing reward, I wondered how a cockerel and a candle could trick an all-knowing being into believing dawn had broken. Perhaps the Devil wasn’t as cunning as once thought? Either way, Sussex has been safe from satanic shenanigans ever since.