Take a walk on the wild side (sort of)

YOU know back in the bad old days we wouldn't have even got past that pub," says Michael.

"You're right," says Jon. "Come to think of it, that works day out we had, I didn't get past that pub."

Michael, Jon, Geezer, Dan and I are struggling up the steps that lead from the beach at Hastings to the Country Park that stretches over Fairlight Cove and off across into Kent towards Dungeness and the Five Ports. It seemed a good way to spend a rare sunny day. Five blokes in their mid-thirties walk nine miles from Hastings to Rye, as recommended by a Time Out guidebook. But already we are dithering.

For a start there's been the lastminute panic-buying of food, rucksacks and hats, as if we were crossing the Sahara. Where once we scrabbled desperately for alcohol, now sunscreen and water are the order of the day. We're more worried about covering our heads than getting out of them.

We move through the holidaymakers, eye up the novelty rock, bemoan the lack of anything fresh to eat and head for the tall, black fishing huts that signify the end of civilisation and the start of our adventure. Reaching the top, Dan sits on a fence and breaks out a spliff, and Jon points across the town to where the satanist Aleister Crowley once lived. The sun is shining, some of us have children, but we're still under the influence of narcotics and the devil. Some things never change.

Before long the sight of the green clifftops spreading out ahead of us kicks a spring into our steps and we are soon passing a sign pointing us into rougher land. Ahead lie bracken, prickly bushes and hills; a shudder of apprehension runs through the group.

WE look like a cross between Dad's Army and a bunch of nippers bunking off school. There are two khaki fishing hats and an old gas- mask bag on show and Geezer and I have lowered the tone by showing up in shorts and trainers clutching plastic bags. We are more suitably attired to be washing car windscreens on Marylebone Road than starting up a new chapter of the Ramblers' Association. Right now, the only rambling is coming from Dan as the dope begins to take effect and he tells us a revolting story about a woman with teeth like Stonehenge.

We walk and we talk; there's something about the freedom of the country that makes our anecdotal stupidity all the more acceptable. As we look out over the glinting channel with picture-book yachts bobbing along, a gentle wind gliding across our beer bellies, the cares of parenthood, jobs and looking for jobs are left behind in East Sussex.

At the first deep glen there's a division in the ranks - Michael and Dan opt to circumnavigate the valley rather than endure the hill opposite. After a debate about whether there should be money on who gets to the radar in the distance first, both groups set off, and then arrive 15 minutes later and wait for another 30 as each party sits on opposite sides of the radar station.

There can be fewer better places to sit and gaze off the shore of England-even if our mobile phones are now re gistering French phone networks on their displays. It's hot up here but the sea is remarkably calming. We approach Fairlight Cove and marvel at the real- estate opportunities on the edge of the cliff. Only to discover that the properties of like-m i n d e d opportunists were lying in ruins halfway down the headland towards the beach.

While the houses with the finest views also boast the more boring architecture, in amid the woods and tracks of the cove we find Californiastyle wood-panelled cottages. In the distance, Dungeness hosts some of the country's most expensive sheds, but up here there are some excellent hideaways.

We stop for lunch at The Smuggler, at Pett Level, where white- fronted Victorian cottages and terraces nestle into the hill like pillboxes. The food at The Smuggler is excellent; fish and chips, steak pies and crab salad and drinks are demolished and then we're off along the seafront. To our left are the increasingly modern block houses, one of them owned by Tom Watkins, pop impresario and former manager of Bros. The guy two doors along is selling his place for Pounds 900,000. "I've already refused an offer of Pounds 850,000," he tells me. "The older plots go for Pounds 350,000, then people build up, like we've done."

Just as we're contemplating a straight march along to Rye, the guidebook suggests veering inland, following the old canal up towards the town of Winchelsea.

We soon find ourselves in a hayfever-heavy overgrown farm track staring at giant black-andwhite livestock. "Look, panda cows!" Jon points out, and we stop to have our pictures taken like tourists. With eyes and legs prickling from long grass and pollen, Dan and I take the opportunity to join the swans in the canal.

Anywhere else I would have enjoyed the strange warm water spots, but being so close to Dungeness left me with misgivings.

Five hundred years ago, all this was sea and Winchelsea a major port; now the power station looks like a modern fortress. We wind through country lanes until we hit a pub. So far no one has moaned or demanded more alcohol, but there is a silent acceptance that we won't go the extra three miles to Rye. A day's walk in the country has been achieved, another step towards maturity, many of them uphill.

We head for the train track and sprawl like unwanted luggage on the empty platform - and realise that patience, like trains, comes naturally if you wait long enough . Time Out's Country Walks near London Vol 2 costs Pounds 10.99. Stockists: 0800 068 0050, www.timeout.com/shop

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