Visiting Beacon Mill

On every trip to Sussex Beacon Mill stands dark on the skyline, and there've been several times I've tried to get up there to take a closer look but have been thwarted. The last visit, though, was the time everything came together to make it possible, and it's formally ticked off my list, but like so many of these interesting places, I left feeling like there was much more to explore.

The mill isn't often open to visitors, but was during our sojourn, so we got the chance to go inside as well as admire its brooding exterior. 

The mill - a grade II listed smock-mill - was constructed in 1802 and in continuous use until 1881. It then fell in disrepair and was allegedly used by smugglers for signalling purposes before undergoing several restorations, the most recent being in the 1990s.

The Friend who was on duty at the entrance was keen to test our knowledge to make sure we'd read all the boards properly, but Never mind the weight of a bag of corn, tell us about the skeleton! I cried and so he did.

When the foundations were first dug, two workmen unearthed a skeleton complete with a sword. (Of course they did, all exhumed bodies have to be tribal chiefs with an impressive weapon, the story demands it.) (Although this isn't entirely implausible, since there are believed to be at least two Anglo-Saxon long barrows on the site.)  The men claimed they went into town for something to eat at lunchtime and when they came back, it was gone. More likely, said the Friend, that they found someone they knew who might buy it, and that's where it went. We Shall Likely Never Know.

I wanted to go for a prowl over the hill so the Offspring sat on a bench for a bit and then sheltered from the spotting rain in the cafe. 

It's been so dry and hot this summer, most of the wind-stunted flowers were a  frazzled brown, and I made a note to return earlier in the season another year. There were still a few butterflies about and lots of bumbles ... 

... white-taileds mostly, I think, but also a Common Carder bumble bee with a very high whine on milkwort (also common). 

Sadly there wasn't enough time for much more than a quick gathering of impressions.

Looking west over Rottingdean village and the Church of St Margaret, where the ashes of Edward and Georgie Burne-Jones are buried

Looking east towards Brighton

Back down on the beach - because there always has to be a sit-down on the beach with an ice cream - I gathered the day's quota of treasure:

a jackdaw wing feather from the hill

a lump of chalk also from the hill, a hagstone, and a pebble that looks quite a bit like a toffee and is pleasing to hold

Looking towards Saltdean

The South Country IV : Halnaker Holloway and Windmill

Apparently, Halnaker means half-naked. (Just thought I'd get that out there.) Or rather, that's what the hamlet, which lies four miles north-east of Chichester, was called in mediaeval times. Upon reflection, it might well mean something else altogether, but I've no idea what.* 

Anyhow, we were there because a) the traffic on the coast was still too heavy to bother pressing on to Selsey, and b) Halnaker holloway had popped up in my Facebook newsfeed by chance the evening before, and I'm suggestible enough to think that means we were supposed to go there. 

So we did. 

What's a holloway? Well, it's a path that has been worn down by rain, feet, hooves and wheels for so many centuries that it's sunk down into its landscape. This one is probably getting on for ten feet below the surface of the surrounding fields. (Some are twice as deep.)  The best - this one included - have trees that arch and meet over the top, so that in the summer they're like green tunnels. 

It was also the chance for Bryony to make paint from somewhere historically very resonant. (Luckily, I had some dog poo bags handy.) 

The holloway leads up a hill to Halnaker windmill, from where there's a good view down to the coast and over to Chichester. On the way up we passed a chalk pit ...  

... and the fields gave the impression of being frosted with the stuff. 

Bryony took some more samples. 

When we got to the top of the hill, it was too hazy to see the sea ... 

... and the windmill's sails had been removed for restoration. 

Even so, it was worth the climb to take in lungfuls of still quite wintry air and listen to the relentless krikking of pheasants. 

I'd assumed the octagonal brick enclosure near the windmill was a WWII anti-aircraft gun emplacement, like Purdown Percy on Purdown, but it turns out it was one of several High Frequency Direction Finding Stations in the vicinity.   

(What? ... Oh, I dunno - something to do with determining the position of aircraft by exchanging high-frequency radio signals, apparently.)

The sun was setting, though, and it was time to make tracks back to the car and home along the M4 with enough inspiration to write a half-decent poem. 

The holloway was getting darker but a clump of distant daffodils provided light at the end of the tunnel. It's getting more spring-like by the day. 














My friend James Giddings adds: ‘Halnaker’ does mean half-naked in modern Swedish, but I didn't think Scandinavian words were common in the South Country. ‘Bær’ would be the most common word for naked in Old English, but ‘nacod’ was also used, with the implication of ‘too poor to afford clothes’. A compound adjective with ‘healf’ would be what you'd expect: ‘healfnacod’.

‘Hal’ would be a noun meaning a secret place or hideaway, but with an accent, it could be an adjective meaning ‘healthy’. ‘æcer’, meaning ‘acre’ might be the second part of the word, and ‘hel’ (to hide or bury) as a verb has an ‘n’ ending in some grammtical forms, so it could mean ‘hidden acre’, ‘helenæcer’.