In which this English coastal stroll is such the best (England part II).

If you'll remember, I spent a long weekend in England back in May (and have clearly been pretty busy since then). The second leg of the adventure was significantly drier and picturesquer than the first, and came with the added perks of an abundance of scrumptious sea air and a don't-give-a-damn-about-the-time attitude. My friend and I did some research into potential hikes the night before and decided on a route circling around part of Chichester Harbour, which included a segment on a local ferry. After a big breakfast and lunch-packing sesh, we plotted a course to the coastal speck of Dell Quay and were on our way.   

The trail began in a lush green field bordering a luscious bay -- the tide had gone out and left all its seaweedy greenery behind, photosynthesizing to the max. Boats snuggled in the sand, snoozing sleepily while awaiting the sea's return. The wind, on the other hand, was blowing energetically in great gusts and bounds. It was delightful.

Random confession time: I enjoy slipping into a British accent when exchanging words with people in the UK, like when checking out at the grocery store or making a quick comment on the weather when passing fellow walkers in remote places. Being able to blend in a bit with my environment is always satisfying, that feeling of "tee hee, they think I'm from here!", or of just being able to shed my foreignness for a while, which of course only works in populations with other tall, blonde people. Anyway. I did that when we were approached by a passing couple while I was contemplating a dramatic tree on our path. The woman commented that she always enjoyed looking at that tree, and when I realized after a few words that she was intent on conversing for a little longer and would probably ask where we were visiting from, my stomach half-pancaked in embarrassment and I did my best to casually slide back into a neutral-American-or-slightly-German-maybe accent, knowing that I couldn't fool any locals with my play accent that could be best described as "Classic British lite". She then looked confused when we said we were coming from Germany, but then the conversation continued pleasantly and when we each said goodbye I was relieved to have escaped making too much of a fool out of myself. And the tree was lovely.

From there the path continued around the bay through sun-dappled and wind-bent groves, along the outskirts of villages and springtime flower explosions. One guard dog with a delightful view was photogenic for a moment, and then threatened to jump the wall and eat our livers on biscuits for tea. We didn't stick around.
 

Once in West Itchenor, we asked a woman who was out walking her dog where to find the ferry and if she knew how often it ran. She was very friendly and said something along the lines of, "Oh, he's probably out there in the bay now, going around. You just go out to the end of the pier and wait 'til he comes, or give him a call." Then she complained about the more turbulent weather they'd been having, saying that it was usually glorious in those parts. Compared to what we'd experienced just a few miles north the day before, it was already pretty glorious, but of course it's all a matter of perspective. She pointed us in the right direction at the end of the street and off we went to find the elusive ferryman. 

We quickly found the pier and saw the ferry toodling around the bay, so sat on a bench to wait until it toodled back in our direction. Soon we noticed some teenagers headed to the pier who looked like they had a plan, so we followed them and sure enough, the little boat came chugging back to pick us all up. They all seemed to know one another and the driver confirmed he'd take us to over to the Bosham side, so we climbed in and sat down with the rest to enjoy the ride. About two very short minutes later, we pulled up next to a soft, excessively green strip of land, paid the small fee, and climbed back out to continue our hike along the ambiguous, amphibious path... I was delighted. 

By this point it was picnic time, and though the clouds building behind us were disconcerting, we opted for a bench with a view of the village of Bosham and watched the sun and shadows race across the bay, playing tag on the 15th-century church spire. Later we walked into the village as I wanted to peek inside the church, but apparently it wasn't open for peekers that day.
 

Had to do a double-take when passing this house, and then had a good giggle or two (see below).

The greens, the blues, the salty wind, the landscape, the sky, the poofy clouds and soggy footpath through the bay -- it was all so different than the scenery I usually live in, and on that day it was all so spectacular. 
 

The trail (once we found it again) then cut across land for a while, crossing variously greening fields 'til meeting water again. At one point we found a lovely napping spot above the water and snoozed in the sunshine as a cuckoo sang nearby. 
 

Feeling restored, we continued north towards Fishbourne and then circled back south towards Dell Quay, making our way through marshes and a little forest bordering the bay. 
 

It was late afternoon by the time we got back to the car, and as we still had a little umph and urge to see more sea, we drove oceanward to windy West Wittering Beach, where colorful cabins held their ground while the sand was carved into intricate patterns all around them. Once we were sufficiently exhilarated but also tired and cold and blown about and caked in sand, it was time to call it a day and go fill the kitchen with cooking smells and salsa music and cider sipping, and commenting over and over about what an excellent day it had been.
 

We had quite a distance to go and a lot of traffic to get through the next day if we wanted to get on our evening flight in a timely fashion, so after a lazy morning of packing and breakfast and a last stroll around the neighborhood ponds, we headed up through the Downs, eventually zooming to a halt along packed motorways and toodling along back roads through whatever cute little towns the GPS sent us through to avoid traffic jams. By the time we got back to the car rental place, the relaxed, ample time we had planned on had somehow dissipated into an underlying urge to constantly check the time, but we got where we needed to be and everything worked out fine in the end.

After slowly funnelling through line after line (queue after queue) at the horrifically packed and strictly Stress-Only Zone that is Stansted Airport, we tucked into the plane for the journey back to Hamburg. The patchwork countryside glowed greenly as we climbed and then gave way to the dark waters of the Channel. We continued up as the sun came down, the air shimmering golden in its descending light, then signed off with a final goodnight over the Elbe River. A perfect close to another grand adventure.