Keeping a keen eye at Cuckmere Haven

Is it really spring already?

There are days like this every February. Brash sunlight. Minimal cloud cover. The first buds on trees. Coats slung over arms. Sunglasses and beanie hats on heads. The end is approaching. And with it hope. I can smell it in the chalky mud of the car park at Friston Forest. On the breeze that blows off of the meanders at Cuckmere Haven. On the sharp throated cackles of common terns dancing through the air.

Cycling at Cuckmere Haven

There is an inevitability in the fact that days like these draw hibernating families out from the comfort of warm front rooms, away from kitchen tables and to popular spots like this one. It takes ages to find a place to park when we arrive at midday on the first Sunday of the month, but once we’re fully kitted out and the kids are on their bikes, ready for the ride ahead, the mood is ebullient. We’re happy and so, it seems, is everyone else.

The path that tracks alongside Cuckmere Haven and up onto the Seven Sisters is reachable by crossing a road chock with speedy traffic, not ideal with a seven and four year old in tow. But once on it, it’s a dream for little people. Large slabs make it easy for riding, albeit M and E need to negotiate large groups walking side by side and dogs darting in between legs. K and I remain on foot.

Like me as a child, M has no truck with canine company. He spends the first part of our outing nosing his bike through the crowds, foot on the floor, grumbling about people not using leads for their pets. I can sympathise, but as he chunters to himself and K and E take things at a more leisurely pace, I keep my eye trained on the water, in search of birds. I hear oyster catchers piping along on the wing and watch black headed gulls squabble over an unseen lunchtime snack.

Soon, the path clears, leaving M to ride properly, splashing through deep chalky puddles, turning his red bike a dull grey/white, the lack of mud guard kicking up dirt onto his coat and trousers. E catches us and follows in his tyre tracks, using her feet to glide her balance bike in the same direction.

After a 45 minute ride, we pass through the final gate and go over the small rise of the dunes onto the beach. Here, the river emerges on an angle set by a retaining wall, its water mingling and swirling with the backwash of the English Channel. There’s a rising tide as bikes and bags are dropped and we spend time throwing stones into the sea and chasing each other for no reason other than it’s fun.

Like seemingly everyone here, we’ve brought a picnic, which we eat greedily sitting on the tideline, surrounded by dried bladderwrack and shards of driftwood. We demolish homemade bread and hummus, fill up on carrot sticks and cucumber and then greedily eat crisps, the cool breeze welcome and not cutting. The date may say otherwise, but this is the first intimation of spring, much how an early August morning can sometimes hold the portent of autumn.

Behind the beach, the fence posts along which cables will be laid to protect ground nesting birds in just a few weeks stand sentinel and unconnected. E takes this as an invitation to pass through and onto this hallowed ground, lowering herself onto the soft ground, rolling around to get a feel of the shingle on her hands, through her fingers and on her face. It’s pointless saying no. The blast of the sea air has enlivened both of them and soon M is doing the same.

The ride back passes quickly, M shedding his coat and hoodie in favour of just his Tamworth FC shirt. I can’t keep up, so let him ride ahead and fall into conversation with a man in full camo with a long lens camera.

‘Seen much?’ I ask.

He lights up.

‘A buzzard on the ground over there,’ he says. ‘I’m really here for the short eared owls. They’ll be coming out around now on some farmland just along the way.’

He points back towards where we’ve come from.

‘It’s a way to go from here, though,’ he smiles. ‘Away from the hordes!’

He explains that the owls usually come out between 1 and 2pm at this time of year. He’d already seen them last week so was hoping to catch another glimpse. I am an enthusiastic but very much amateur ornithologist. I like gleaning knowledge this way, from real people in the real world. It feels like a deep connection can be made with just a few short words.

By the time we get back to the car I am happily foot sore and tired from the freshness of the air. There is a purity to the exhaustion that can only be gained from being out in it on days like this. I sip on a coffee as the kids devour ice cream and K orders us cake.

Back in the shade of the woods, the car park is emptying. We load up and pull out, the sun still throwing light across this huge sky. Whisper it, but more days like this are coming.