Undercliff Walk

My brother Geoff and his wife Ella, now in their seventies, retired, seeking a new lifestyle and warmer climate, recently moved from post-industrial Manchester in northern England to the seaside city of Brighton on the sunny southern coast. I visited them in late September and they showed me the sights. We took a long walk on the last afternoon of my visit, starting at the pier, with its colorful carnival atmosphere, and headed east on the promenade along the broad pebble beach, past the Brighton Wheel, to the Volk’s Electric Railway, a Victorian era novelty that carried us in an open car at a stately pace past the volleyball courts and nude beach to the edge of the marina and its countless piers and docked vessels within the sheltering sea wall. 

The Undercliff Walk begins just beyond the marina and stretches for miles along the narrow strip of shore between the high tide mark and the base of flint-studded chalk cliffs that curve out of sight beyond distant bluffs. The warmth of the day was magnified by the reflection of the sun off the water and white rock face, and we soon shed our windbreakers and sweaters. At the Ovingdean Steps, where a lantern-jawed woman was selling iced cakes under a striped awning, we ventured closer to the water, sat against great blocks of cut stone embedded in the beach, and ate sandwiches that Ella had wrapped in brown paper. 

The warmth of the sun and rhythm of breaking waves lulled us into drowsiness. Geoff lay down on the smooth rocks, tipped his hat forward over his eyes, and napped. A hang glider sailed silently above the cliffs, riding the updrafts, tacking back and forth. Further down the beach, children played in patches of sand at the tideline, laughing as they raced the incoming surf. Geoff slowly roused himself, pale and squinting against the light, and we continued our walk. A mile or so further on we climbed the gravel path to Rottingdean, where we had tea and scones in the shaded garden of a tile-roofed tudor once owned by the 3rd wife of Henry the Eighth. 

Weeks later, when leaves were falling in Upstate New York, I downloaded the photos that Ella had taken. I was struck by how fragile we looked against that landscape of sun and sea and stone. One photo captured an image of me, shading my eyes, looking toward the water, next to my brother dozing in an umbral shadow incongruous against the brilliant backdrop of the cliffs and stone. Ella must have snapped it the instant the sun was eclipsed by the glider as it passed overhead, unnoticed in the moment and gone in an instant. 

Of all the photos she took, that’s the one I printed and display on my bookcase, to remind me.

Rob Tyler lives in a barn on 30 acres of scrubland in Upstate New York. His short stories and flash fiction have appeared in The Piker Press, Jersey Devil Press, The Chamber Magazine, 10 By 10 Flash Fiction Stories, Pif Magazine, the Schuylkill Valley Journal and elsewhere, and have been produced as podcasts by Disturbing Frequencies, a project of Rochester Speculative Literature Association, and by Manawaker Studio. When not writing, he can be found wrangling his feral cat, pulling up knotweed by the roots, or shooting pool at the local watering hole. More at robwtyler.com.