A wander and a pint

It sounds quite odd for someone who was born and lived in the badlands of the Essex/Hertfordshire border his whole life to have such a love and affinity with Yorkshire. Things in the sky fascinated me, from Peregrine falcons to stories of duelling fighter pilots. I became a keen birder, ornithology was the longest word I knew at that point and I still love wheeling it out at every available opportunity. So Yorkshire became a favourite destination; my dad didn’t mind the driving, there was plenty to see and do and it was cheap. And I always found myself contented, drowning in my oversized raincoat and armed with my trusty pair of binoculars. Our little family of three weren’t exactly professional ramblers, but we liked to wander, safe in the knowledge there was a pub nearby for my parents to while away a few hours.

The basecamp for our expedition to Spurn Point is Joe’s hometown of York, a city I know very well. I still have my felt Norman helmet from the Jorvik centre and, embarrassingly, it still fits. Naturally, Joe and I wander the cobbled streets and venture into many of the city’s watering holes. The House of Trembling Madness for a sour, then to the Market Cat to explore its range of Thornbridge brews. The following morning though, it’s all business, with walking on our minds. We carefully load up the car with photography equipment and then we begin our odyssey.

Upon arrival, we are met with a stiff, cool breeze that rattles our cheeks, instantly shaking the cobwebs away from the night before. Spurn Point is an eerie place, a coastal wilderness where nature has taken back control. What remnants of humanity remain have either decayed or been whittled away by erosion. The fact there are a few abandoned ex-military bunkers and pillboxes dating back to the First World War makes it feel even more eerie and sinister. The only building intact is the imposing black and white lighthouse that stands proudly resolute. There are signs everywhere, warning wanderers to always watch the tide as the ‘washover’ can quickly bisect the point, stranding unaware walkers. Mother Nature is very much in charge here.

The wind continues to rattle, blowing sand up into our faces. We wade through long grass to the beach, where we stand in silence for what feels like an age. I keep rushing my binoculars up to my eyes, thinking I’d glimpsed a whale or a dolphin, but it’s just the waves playing tricks on me (combined with my dreadful eyesight). As we turn to head down the coast, a lone doe gazes at us from the long grass on a bank across from us. A peaceful Mexican standoff ensues, as the waves blow in and petulant seagulls squawk above us. She pops her head down to graze and we slink off to explore once more.

Crawling up the deceptively steep sand dunes is tough work, but a mere warm-up for the next exercise. For £4, you can ascend the tallest lighthouse in Northern England, the panoramic views more than compensating for the five minutes of gruelling uphill struggle.

We drift on for miles, on instinct and curiosity, from hide to hide, ticking off species of bird and butterfly as we go, while scanning the horizon for any activity at sea. Understandably, we have both worked up a thirst at this point, so it is only fitting that our last port of call should be the nearby Crown and Anchor pub, a stone’s throw from the visitor centre. Guzzling down a pint of bitter, I realise that my reset button has firmly been pushed. Even with sand in my eyes and my legs feeling like they are on fire, I can’t help but feel relaxed, for the first time in weeks. I am as zen as a Shaolin monk watching the waves rock back and forth. The simple but effective technique of ‘the wander and a pint’ has worked its majestic magic once more.