The residents had, as usual, created a seasonal display on the triangular grass verge formed by the splitting of Main Street and Back Street just across from the public car park on the cliff top and diagonally opposite the temporarily mothballed Model Village.
Through the night I had, from the rented cottage, been disturbed by the roaring gale force winds coming in from the sweeping bay bringing squalls of heavy and persistent rain.
As with much of the UK coastal regions over the period of 1st to 3rd January 2014 there was a high level of alert with the prospect of tidal surge whipped up by a very low pressure system. Twenty Four hours prior to my arrival at the cottage some of the other guests had almost been swept off the promenade walkway by a rogue torrent after they had miscounted to anticipate that mega-seventh wave in the series bombarding the diminishing beach.
Their cagouls, hanging on the hallway coat rack were speckled with white residue being a combination of whipped up salt spray and the chalky solution formed by the clash of boulders and rocks of the cliff line itself.
The harsh conditions seemed more menacing to me in the darkness of the early morning, in particular the for now unseen origins of noise, a rattle of shutters on the boarded up seaside chalets, the flapping of asbestos slate tiles on bungalow roofs, the rolling motion of a plant pot across a south facing terrace and apparent mayhem, in the form of a scaled down tornado amongst the properties in the Model Village.
As daylight came from the east, over the horizon of the bay, my disturbed sleep of the night became more of a distant memory, a nagging tiredness. I could make out Santa in the street display. He was still in his wooden sleigh under the festooned lights in the boughs of a straggly tree, but slightly slumped as though he too had endured a fatiguing and interrupted last 12 hours.
The TV News was full of near apocalyptic images of seafronts awash with flood water, surges of river as they overtopped their courses, tidal bores heading upstream past idyllic country houses now fully inundated.
Most of the damage was on the south and western side of the UK but the pulsing directional arrows on the Met Office map were heading cross-country to my part of the East Yorkshire Coast. Reporters, finding it difficult to stand upright and speak against the background noise of wind and waves hinted that the worst was yet to come on the next scheduled tide.
After my breakfast I peeked out through the cottage windows which had a distant view of the bay. I was expecting a dark, stormy sky to accompany the cacophony of the winds. Anything less and the day would consist of staying indoors, playing boxed games, cards and catching up on the DVD's stacked on the TV unit.
I was surprised to see a blue, cloudless and inviting sky.
On went walking boots, raincoat and Russian ear flap style hat. The narrow alleyway behind the surrounding houses and bungalows provided a short cut to the cliff top. It was sheltered and quite still but with an occasional blast of cold air at the narrow gaps between fence lines and outhouses.
Stepping out clear of the building line brought me into direct and unprotected contact with the rushing wind and I had to momentarily steady myself by a bit of fancy footwork and shifting of my body weight. Turning left brought me into the wind-tunnel-like conditions and I was driven and hustled along in the air current.
Thankfully I was running parallel to the precipice of the boulder clay topped chalk cliffs, if not being pushed slightly inland. Any other prevailing direction and I would have quickly curtailed my intentions for a hike towards the landmark feature of Flamborough Head.
The first part of the walk is most genteel. The headland is wide, flat and with close cut grass flanking a smooth tarmac path. In the summer season you have to have your wits about you to give way to the quiet passage of the motorised Land Train which plys between Sewerby and Bridlington. In January the only hazard on the path is from fast moving mountain bikes, cavorting mad dogs and walkers looming up out of the dazzling low sun in Baron Richtofen style. There is a cricket pavilion and pitch, an enclosure with a herd of deer massed at the far end to gather shelter and then the scaffold enclosed façade of Sewerby Hall, a major visitor attraction.
Beyond these vestiges of civilisation are the open fields and the narrow muddy public footpath which would extend for the next 5 miles of my journey.
The clay topping was in places treacherously slippery but within a few metres, the exact contrast in dry dusty soil. This was inexplicable to me but no doubt down to the porosity of the soils and exposure on the south facing aspect.
The cliff line was followed closely by the path. I am not the best where heights are concerned but peeking over the tufty grass parapet revealed low slung and slumped sections above the lower vertical chalk face so at least anyone toppling over the edge may have their fall arrested by the shallower slope.
The tide at the foot of the cliffs was receding fast leaving a rocky shelf of pools and plateaux interspersed with freshly washed and glistening banks of sand. Topography along the path varied from flat to either a slight incline or downward slope.
It was essential to concentrate hard on each footfall because of the buffeting effect of the gale force wind. The sleeves of my coat and legs of my loose fitting trousers oscillated in the gale as a further distraction.
After an hour or so my back and kidneys felt as though they had been shot blasted whereas the right side of my face felt sunburnt and raw.
At a crest in the path there seemed to be more sky than physical land. It was if a huge hole had developed ahead of me and what I could now see was the far edge of a crater like opening in the cliff line.
I had reached broadly the mid point of the planned walk at the gouged out dry valley of Danes Dyke.
The view out to sea at the base of the timber fronted steps was breathtaking.
I felt a bit guilty that the rest of the country was in a state of emergency........
to be continued......
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