In October 2020, a powerful storm named Storm Alex wreaked havoc on the Dorset coast, causing fallen trees, flooding streets, and prompting cruise ships to seek shelter far from Weymouth Bay. Amidst the chaos, an ultrarunner named David Andrewartha embarked on a challenging run along the length of Chesil Beach, equipped with essential medical supplies, energy gels, and a packet of Haribo Starmix. The 18-mile stretch of treacherous shingle, already difficult to run on under normal circumstances, was now made even more perilous by 65mph winds and relentless rain. However, David had more than just the storm to contend with; he was also racing to outrun his grief and guilt. The loss of his mother to cancer weighed heavily on him, and he felt guilty for not being fully present during her final days. He hoped that running on Chesil Beach would provide the resolution he sought. He explained, “What motivated me to push through the pain and danger was the knowledge that, no matter how difficult it was for me, it paled in comparison to what my mother had endured.”
David hadn’t planned to run during the storm, but he saw it as an opportunity to set a new record time and raise money for charity. Surprisingly, only two people had attempted the run since the previous record was set in 1963, despite Chesil Beach’s fame and popularity. Yet, this enigmatic and desolate part of the English coast held many contradictions. While it was celebrated in postcards, paintings, and literature, notably Ian McEwan’s novella, “Chesil Beach,” it remained largely unknown up close. Unlike the irregular and ever-changing southern English coast, Chesil Beach stood out with its straight, graph-like alignment. Stretching for 18 miles, with saltwater on both sides for eight miles, it presented a unique and captivating sight.
Chesil Beach was accessible mostly from a distance, with Simon Jenkins recommending a specific vantage point for the best view in his book, “England’s 100 Best Views.” Up close, it presented challenges for visitors, with restrictions in place from May to August to protect nesting birds. The beach’s central section was closed during this time, and for the rest of the year, access was restricted to a narrow strip near the shore. Walking on the loose and sinking shingle, constantly buffeted by the waves, required careful navigation and occasional closures due to an adjacent firing range. Determined to experience Chesil Beach, I arrived after the equinox, as the walking season was coming to an end. The weather was overcast, and as I parked my car at the southeastern end of the beach near Portland, I noticed dilapidated fisherman’s huts, remnants of a bygone era. Many years ago, a man known as a beach dweller lived here, sustaining himself by fishing and burning driftwood. However, the huts were empty as I passed by.
Moving along the coast, there was no sign of anyone else. Walking Chesil Beach required commitment due to the absence of exit points for eight miles, surrounded by saltwater on both sides. The English Channel lay to the left, while the Fleet, a brackish lagoon, separated the beach from the mainland, with its widest portion known as “Littlesea.” In this southeastern half of Chesil Beach, one found oneself in a remote wilderness amidst the bustling holiday coastline of southern England. Walking along this stony desert for five to six hours meant temporarily isolating oneself, just within sight of the mainland’s caravan parks. Thomas Hardy, in his novel “The Well-Beloved,” compared the experience to being led by Moses in the biblical Exodus, with the sea on one side and waves rolling high on the other.
Researching recent accounts of those who had walked this unique stretch, I stumbled upon David’s story in a Cornish newspaper and decided to reach out to him. He described feeling transported outside of history during his run on Chesil Beach, where the only way forward was to push through the pain. Describing the shifting landscape, he explained, “You’ve got water on either side of you, so you can’t turn back. The only options are to reach the end, find a helicopter or boat, or succumb to the elements.” Over time, the pebbles on the beach had been shaped and graded by longshore drift, with larger stones at the southern end resembling cricket balls, gradually transitioning to finer pebbles in the northwest. Chesil Beach was a tangible manifestation of the intersection between time and matter, reminding me of an hourglass. It was said that local sailors could determine their location based on the size of the pebbles in their hands. As I embarked on my walk, progress felt elusive, with the first three miles feeling twice as long. My knees ached, prompting a tea break by a padlocked hut, possibly a relic from World War II when Chesil Beach was used to test bouncing bombs. Seagulls flew overhead, and the rhythmic sound of the waves brought a sense of tranquility. While some may find walking Chesil Beach monotonous, I found it calming. The pebbles, untouched by human feet, evoked the serenity of a Japanese Zen garden. Angela Thomas, from the Dorset Wildlife Trust, described the ever-changing nature of Chesil Beach and the multitude of discoveries one could make while traversing its shingle. She said, “Every week brings something new on Chesil Beach.”
Chesil Beach has an intriguing origin story, with local legend suggesting it was formed by the devil to walk across the sea to the Isle of Portland without getting wet feet. Academic consensus, however, attributes its creation to the debris left by melting glaciers during the last Ice Age, which was subsequently shaped by waves over time. Artist Paul Nash described Chesil Beach as “a sea-wall constructed by the sea against itself.” Walking along its length, one could witness the remarkable blend of geological history and natural forces at work. Despite its allure, Chesil Beach remained relatively unknown, a hidden gem waiting to be explored.
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