Bracklesham Bay in Sussex

Bracklesham Bay has not prostituted itself to the plasticised consumerism of larger seaside resorts. That is in the form of of buckets, spades and arm bands. The beach might be something to do with this consumerist understatement. It is one steep bank of grey shingle and only when the tide is out is there any sand which is not golden but a dark brown.

On a good day it is possible to see the Spinnaker Tower in Portsmouth towards the west. To the south is the eastern end of the Isle of Wight and to the east towards Brighton a low lying coast melding into the marine horizon.

Apparently on a good day when the tide has retreated it is possible to find fossilised shark’s teeth glistening in the brown damp sand that are anything up to sixty million years old. That is about fifty nine point eight million years before we as a species appeared on earth. In my few walks along these sands I never found any sharks’ teeth but did encounter a few people, not yet fossilised.

There is a local legend that when the Spanish Armada was smashed to pieces along the south coast in 1588 that one of these unfortunate ships, the Cartagena, ran aground at Bracklesham Bay. Being opportunists, the locals plundered it for whatever treasure there was on board. wWen had been plundered they started to take away the timbers some of which were used to build a local farmhouse coincidentally named “Cartagena Farm”. If this myth is a truth then it contradicts written records whose words tell the historians that the ship was towed away, repaired and re-commissioned into the service of the English navy. Maybe best to reach a compromise between the myth and the truth and agree that if any wood was used in the farmhouse it was only a very small amount.

As our hotel in Chichester did not have a dining room Heather and I bought our breakfast at a local superstore and took it to Bracklesham Bay. As we pulled into the car park we both saw a man walking around and cleaning the tables outside the small café on the front.

‘No, it can’t be’ my Heather gasped in astonishment.

‘Look, he walks just like…’

‘Same build and everything. Even his clothes.’

‘What is Ronnie Wood doing wiping tables down here?’

‘I know Charlie Watts had a place nearby and Keith Richards was around here as well but Ronnie and wiping tables at this hour? No.’

I collected our detritus from breakfast and took them over to the rubbish bin. The Ronnie Wood look alike crossed my route. We said good morning. I carried on to the rubbish bin and he carried on to a Nissan Micra whose back windows were stopping bulging bin liners from escaping. No, it couldn’t be.

I returned to the car park later in the afternoon and went for a walk along the top of the shingle bank towards the east. Behind it and at a slightly lower level were one and two story houses with long gardens. Most of the houses had been updated. Some had retained their original appearances but with fresh coat sof pale blues and yellow and yellow paint. Other places looked like the old houses had been demolished and replaced with totally modern and clean lined properties. Glass, stainless steel, white walls or walls clad in various pastel shades of grey more akin to New England than old England. All of these seaside properties had, providing they had a first floor, extensive ocean views. The bungalows just looked out to their long gardens and the back of the bank I was walking along.

A little further on there was a development of low apartment blocks and town houses built around a central square. By the time I came across this site I had had enough of walking as best as I could along the stoney path. I wanted a cut through the housing to the road that ran back to the car park. At this particular development there were entrances but they were no good to me. Each of them had security signs saying the site was private property, was monitored by cctv, no public right of way and trespassers would be prosecuted. In other words, ‘keep out’.

In my coddiwomples around the country I have seen similar signage but here on the Sussex coast there was something that made me feel uncomfortable. That discomfort was compounded by the frequency with which the signs appeared within such a short distance. They were an ‘in your face’ declaration that this was an enclave of privilege and privacy, a ghetto of wealth. If it was then the faded paintwork, worn out lawn and water stains seeping down walls from overflows had been denied the attention they deserved.

I did eventually find a path that cut through to the road along which were more signs of exclusivity but not exclusive enough to prohibit pedestrians from outside of the enclave.

The houses and apartment blocks, the roads and those signs will eventually disappear without leaving a trace. It may be soon as a result of rising sea levels caused by global warming or some other cataclysmic event. Yet after they and Ronnie Woods have disappeared there will still be fossilised sharks teeth glistening in the brown sand after the tide has retreated. There may even be a couple sitting in their car having breakfast overlooking the water because there was no dining room at their hotel.

‘No, it can’t be”’the lady gasped in astonishment.

‘Look, he walks just like…’

‘Same build and everything. Even his clothes.’

‘What is Keith Richards doing wiping tables down here?’

Spring 23