Piddling in the oompahs: Newhaven to Ticehurst

March 24, 2015

DIEPPE, as we've gathered, takes a pride in its port and the city beside it. Such a shame the same can't be said of Newhaven. The little port there, I gather, actually belongs to Dieppe, a measure to be sure it can't close overnight and deprive Dieppe of the ferry link that brings it employment. But neither Britain nor France has fancied getting out the paint and slapping up the metaphorical wallpaper and the port of Newhaven rests firmly in the list of places you'll probably never go back to.

Not that I wanted any more of it than a place to set foot on British soil. I found a bed-and-breakfast place, a "Cyclists Welcome" sticker on its door, slept, and set off this morning in the rain and the heavy morning traffic.

The prosperous south-east: oast houses which once dried hops for beer have been converted into expensive houses - with the obligatory all-terrain car left outside to admire

It's so hard to say what makes one country different from another. It's not just the change to speaking English or that the traffic now travels on the left. There are more subtle changes, like the English delight in putting up signs for every conceivable purpose, or their gentle politeness. Where French signs point out that it is STRICTLY FORBIDDEN, the English write "Please do not...". Where France points out that an infraction brings "the risk of a severe penalty", English signs clear their throat politely and suggest there could be a fine but, well, nobody reasonable would walk on the grass or cross the road in the wrong place but, you know, we do have to mention these things. We're sure you'll understand.

Another difference, once you're away from the depressed coast that has never recovered from the British decision to spend summer in Spain and not on the stony beaches of the liquid grey Channel, is the striking prosperity. Farms function with neither mud nor animals; men who work in finance or insurance dress in brown at weekends and drive all-terrain cars in which they avoid puddles, let alone any hint they might cross a field.

Women with faintly braying voices talk in shops, and pretty pubs which anywhere else would be feeling the breeze and wondering when to go out of business, brim with confident couples slapping down beers and wearing wellingtons.

The rural roads are narrow and winding, high hedges on each side. You can ride an hour without seeing far ahead of you. You, and those coming the other way, acquire a sixth sense that there could be someone else on the road. Drivers pass with a gentlemanly wave, whether you've done anything to merit it or not. In France, nobody waves thanks unless you've climbed off and hidden in a ditch; the English wave for the slightest concession. It's all rather charming and something I'd forgotten.

The hills are steep, though. Low but demanding ridges run parallel to the coast and see no reason to restrict themselves to one up and one down. Instead they jump up and demand attention, like an ill-behaved child, and they take their toll.

The further I went, the more wearing they became, and the darker the sky grew. First there was rain, then anaemic hail that bounced around me. I called it a day in Ticehurst, around where Kent and Sussex join. I was never going to ride all the way to London, anyway, because of the traffic, and Ticehurst would do fine, given the leaking grey roof of the sky.

I pushed my way into an old hotel called The Bell. Anywhere would have done: but look at these pictures of the gents' loo and see why I was especially delighted...

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