THIS IS FINDON VILLAGE - Camping Under Gunfire

14th September 2006

Dear Valerie.

Here's a Lychpole story, and one of my favourite memories. Nigel and I regularly spent whatever spare time we both had exploring the Cissbury environs. We always seemed to find something new and fascinating.

As the mid 1970s went by we both became more philosophical and became content to just sit on the ramparts, gazing dreamily into the hazy distance. We talked about the mysteries of the universe and the meaning of life.

In 1977 Nigel was 17 and I was 15 - our uncertain futures lay before us and we knew our days at Cissbury were numbered. There were plans for me to go to Canada after finishing school. Nigel was already done with school and in disillusionment had thrown away his blazer and tie.

We often sat in the Cissbury dusk, looking down at the twinkling lights of Worthing, feeling like a couple of outsiders.

Late one evening in August we were up at the Ring and watching the far off silhouette of Chanctonbury sinking into the gloom. A dewy chill descended upon us and stars began to wink in the heavens above. The air was so still we could hear peoples' voices drifting up to us from Findon village. Nigel looked at me and said

"It's too bad we have to go back. I think we should plan to camp out here".

"We don't have a tent" I said.

"We need two tents" he said, and then he pointed a finger at Sally who was sitting nearby "because I'm not sleeping with her!"

Pleased with the attention Sally leaned forward and licked his finger, making us both laugh.

"Okay, two tents" I said. "Where are we going to get two tents?"

"Well, tomorrow we'll go downtown and buy them" replied Nigel.

I mentally went over my financial situation, which was rather bleak - the 75p in my pocket was all I had. Then I remembered that Nigel always seemed to have lots of cash due to his generous dad. Maybe that generosity would extend to me.

Mid morning the next day Nigel phoned my house and told me to come and see him because the tent problem had been solved. I discovered that earlier that morning Nigel had bought himself a special backpacking tent which had space-age aluminium poles, an inner shell, sewn-in groundsheet and a bright orange flysheet. He pitched it in his front garden and it looked very futuristic.

Then he presented my tent. This was an old floppy thing his dad had once used when he was in the Scouts. It was a sickly green in colour, had heavy wooden poles and patches of smelly mildew. Nigel saw me staring at the guy-lines, which were all tangled and knotted.

"Don't worry about those" he said. "Scissors are in the kitchen and there's a ball of string in the shed."

The plan was to leave later that day so I went home and dad helped me put together a "survival kit". Because he was on his way to play golf he then gave me and my luggage a lift to Nigel's. Our two dads looked dubiously at the mountain of stuff we had ready for our adventure. It was the only time they ever met each other.

"You should put saddle-bags on Sally" Nigel's dad said.

I remember my dad laughing as he got back in his car and drove off.

With old rucksacks, shoulder bags and overstuffed pockets we ventured forth. We left a lot of canned food and pots and pans behind as we decided we could make two trips. My tent and a rolled up blanket were heavy enough.

At the top of Tenants Hill, where there was a crossroads, we took a break.

"Let's not camp on Cissbury" Nigel said. "It's too exposed".

"What about this way?" I suggested, pointing eastwards. "There's Lychpole Hill over there and there's lots of bushes".

"Okay - let's go, but we'll need to find a fairly level spot" Nigel said.

Sally seemed as anxious as we were to explore this new direction. The path soon curved to the left and cut diagonally down through the trees and bushes of Lychpole Hill. Halfway down we left the path and stumbled about between the thick scrub, looking for a suitable grassy clearing that was not too exposed.

"We need complete privacy" Nigel said. "I don't want dog walkers or farmers staring at me in the morning. Also someone might nick our stuff if we are away".

With this criteria in mind we finally found a large enough clearing surrounded by bushes on all sides near the bottom of the hill (not far from where the dew pond is today). The ground was lumpy with rabbit burrows and not completely level but it was good enough.

We threw our stuff down with gasps of relief and felt strangely very light. Like a pair of hydrualic pistons our legs seemed to spring back to their normal length. Nigel started to jump up and down like a yo-yo, holding his head high like a periscope.

"What are you doing?" I said.

"Testing for visibility" he said. "It's perfect here. Complete privacy. Okay lets get the tents up."

This took all of two hours. Nigel chose the best spot for himself, and seemed a little worried about the bright colour of his new tent. I was left with a patch of ground that resembled a miniature battlefield - all trenches and craters.

All I had for a ground sheet was a blanket. All this while Sally enjoyed chasing the numerous rabbits that had come to watch our activities. Once basecamp was established we then explored our surroundings, satisfying ourselves that our location was indeed very secret.

Then we walked back to Nigel's house where his mum cooked us fish and chips and Sally had her supper. We returned to our tents in the early evening, carrying a few pots, some water and some cans of food. We sat around a little gas stove and made tea while all around us Lychpole Hill sank into an eerie gloom. Sally retired early and was soon snoring on the blanket.

"What a place this is" Nigel whispered. "I wonder who owns this land or if anyone ever comes here. If feels so abandoned and empty. Why is it called "lynchpole"?"

"I think it's "lych" not "lynch", and I don't know" I replied.

We talked and talked as the night wore on. Strange nocturnal sounds of all kinds kept us speculating on their origin - sounds we had never heard before as this was our first real night on the downs. We eventually retreated to our tents at some unknown hour. Zipping up his door Nigel cocooned himself in his new tent. Sally was in a deep sleep in my "canvas cave" and she grunted as I claimed the blanket. The pungent smells of grass, mildewy canvas and yellow lab blended into one and I immediately feel asleep.

We awoke to the barrage of nearby gunfire. Several pellets rained down and popped on on our tents. We seemed to be surrounded by at least three gunners. Presumably they weren't aware of the campers in their midst as we were so well hidden among the bushes. Rabbits were scurrying everywhere and we heard pheasants whirling about in a panic. There were voices, dogs barking and the clunk of reloaded barrels, then more gunshots -

BANG BANG! - BANG BANG!

they were so close. I huddled next to Sally not daring to more a muscle. She had reluctantly woken up but seemed indifferent to the noise of the guns. What if a spray of pellets should come through the bushes, accidentally aimed at us?

Nigel unzipped his door and in his underwear staggered to his feet, a look of complete rage on his face. More gunshots shattered the morning air and a few bits of wadding floating down into our space. There was a gunner just the other side of the bushes. At the top of his voice Nigel yelled

"Hey you idiots! There are people here!"

The shooting stopped but strangely there was no reply. We expected a trio of armed men to crash through the bushes into our camp to tell us to "get lost!"

But after a few minutes we heard voices and laughter a further distance away. We then sneaked up to a spot on Lychpole Hill where we could cautiously peer over the bushes. Along the fenceline at the bottom we saw four people and two dogs walking away towards the right. Three shotguns were over their shoulders, glinting in the early morning sun. I said that they must have been as surprised by Nigel's shout as we were by their shooting.

"I don't believe that" said Nigel. "Those buggers knew we were camping here all along."

"Maybe they saw your orange tent" I said.

Nigel looked at me sharply, then said reluctantly "Yeah. Maybe."

Andrew.

Andrew Miles, Guelph,
Ontario, Canada.