The view now runs the full extent of the Seven Sisters, undulating over ridges and dry valleys some four miles to beach head. It is breathtaking Even on dull day the cliffs are startling white, as if a sea monster had risen fro the deep and taken a giant bite out of England’s coast. The reason for this purity is that the Seven Sisters have been left to erode, the sea pushing them back by full three feet a year. Rocks fall regulary into the sea below, churning the water into a milky froth. The images are ever changing. At one point the cliff is a single blemish, a teardrop of sandstone.
The cliff walk is dangerous. The edge is rough, crumbling and unguarded, the chalky soil slithery when wet. Since the topmost covering of earth is just a few inches thick, it can support no large flora. Chalkland is thus the preserve of small rooted species in their hundreds, with rarities beyond the familiar campions, trefoils and vetches thriving in this windy, salty, splendid, untrammelled place. The story I just told was from a fisherman