Walking Home to Watch the Football
JOSHUA GEER grew up in Hastings and now lives in London working as a financial journalist. He also writes about walking, adventure and psychogeography
I have two homes: Hastings and London. The latter I chose, the former I didn’t. My fondness for both is equal.
Linking these places of my heart on foot has always been a desire. Whenever I make the journey by car or train, I wonder what it would be like to traverse the unkempt nature and neat suburbia that lingers in between.
So, when my dad asked if I wanted to watch Hastings United play at home one January afternoon, it seemed like the perfect excuse to finally make the pilgrimage. I asked one of my oldest friends to join me. Max, who grew up in nearby Stonegate, is not only one of my best mates, he’s also brilliantly available.
Originally, we planned to go ‘door to door’ from Hackney to Hastings. But 65 miles over three days was a stretch with only a day and a half to spare. So, we trimmed the route to 43 miles, starting at Orpington (the edge of London).
We arrived just before 09.00, dodging angry commuters in BMWs and Range Rovers as we crossed the A224. Soon we veered off-road, cutting across a golf course and into open fields. The sun was bright, the January air mild. With city stress behind us, we revelled in the simple task ahead: just walk.
Optimism was short-lived. Caught in a thorn bush outside a Ministry of Defence lab, we had to sneak through someone’s back garden to escape. Thankfully, their guard dog was a yappy Chihuahua, not an XL Bully.
Crossing the M25, we climbed a steep hill to Sevenoaks. Here sits Knowle House, a fifteenth-century estate nestled just 25 minutes from London. We were in red trouser territory now.
Skirting Knowle’s grounds, we asked directions from an elderly couple on a power walk. Clad in carbon poles and streamlined specs, they looked Everest-ready but kindly pointed us the right way.
To save miles, we endured road stretches. Particularly hellish was the sliver of pavement between Sevenoaks and Tonbridge, where lorries screamed past – inches from our heads. If one hit us, we’d be roadkill before we knew it.
Arriving in Tonbridge around 13.00, we searched for lunch. Tonbridge is a sprawling blob of houses that make up the breadth of English society. In the space of a couple of miles, you can walk from the streets of upper-middle-class commuters to areas of deep poverty. This is harshly represented by Iceland and Waitrose, which share a carpark in the town centre. Not fancying a frozen lunch, we opted for Waitrose and ate outside the town’s thirteenth-century castle ruins, basking in the sun.
The school rush hit like a wave, with shrieking children, honking cars and parents on a mission. Three miles from Frant, darkness fell with startling speed. Ten miles of woods ahead made retreat seem wise. We cheated and hopped on the train to Stonegate.
Back on foot, we had a final three-mile stretch to Burwash, lit only by one bike torch and a full moon. Angry barks from a nearby farm spurred us on. In the next field, eyes blinked back at us… probably sheep, we hoped.
Eventually, the glow of Burwash appeared.
After a short walk down its sleepy eighteenth-century high street, we stumbled upon our pub-meets-motel accommodation. The air inside the inn was thick with the aroma of wood smoke and ale, a comforting warmth against the crisp night. The interior was an odd mix of old-fashioned charm and budget updates, a bit rough around the edges, but in the flickering glow of the fireplace, it was undeniably cosy.
A fresh-faced barkeep, still in his teens, led us to our accommodation out back. The motel-style room, a miniature echo of American roadside motels, was undeniably a bit shabby. The peeling wallpaper whispered tales of forgotten guests and budget constraints, the kind of setting that wouldn’t be out of place in a horror flick.
But after a 30-mile trek, the threat of fictional slashers paled in comparison to the very real need for a hot shower and a soft bed.
Suitably refreshed, we emerged back into the inn, which was buzzing with the energy of locals enjoying pints and playing darts. During the day, we had fantasised about regaling the patrons with tales of our walk. But awkwardness and exhaustion conspired to keep us quiet and by 22.00, our eyelids were drooping.
The sun bled rudely through the curtains the next morning. My feet throbbed! Three large blisters punished me for poor footwear choices. We patched up and hobbled on. The fresh air cleared our heads.
The second day (13 miles) was hillier but gentler. We wound through villages and quiet lanes. Yesterday’s sprawling suburbs gave way to quaint cottages and muddy hedges.
Lycra-clad cyclists zipped past with weekend-warrior energy; horse riders trotted along, aloof and composed.
By now, conversation had dwindled. Energy was low, coffee elusive. But then, a familiar sight: Battle Abbey.
Once the site of the Battle of Hastings–and, more importantly, my first job. I remembered the tourists, the hedge trimmers and the haughty stares from private school kids. Reaching Battle felt like a strange full circle. We’d reversed William the Conqueror’s path. We refuelled at Costa, unlike William, and pushed on.
As we neared the end, one thought stuck with me: the incredible cost-to-adventure ratio. For the price of a train ticket and some sandwiches, we’d had something extraordinary. A helpful reminder of what can be found right on our doorstep.
The Hastings sign brought wide smiles. Dad and his mate were waiting, and soon we were lost in the roar of the football match. Kids mimicked memories of my own youth; the same familiar faces jeered and joked from the stands.
To the casual observer, our arrival was just another Saturday afternoon. No trumpets, no red carpets, just a quiet satisfaction that resonated deep within. The game itself, with Hastings United cruising to a win was a fitting end to our walk.
The train journey back was a more frustrating exercise than the walk itself, thanks to a two-hour delay. But even that couldn’t dampen my spirits. A walk with a mate, blisters and all, had been an adventure that far surpassed the £20 train ride. And that, as they say, is priceless.
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