Danes Dyke. It looks like a natural feature, a massive cleft in the landscape such as associated with the creation over millennia by the erosive power of a river making its way to the sea. It is in fact a human fabrication, an earthwork some two and a half miles long with 18 feet (5.5m) embankments and a defensive ditch to the western side some 60 feet (18m) wide. Learned types are split on its origins with the longstanding theory of an attempt by Iron Age Man to make the Flamborough promontory a fortress but now thought to be modern, well at least seventh or eighth century to discourage those rampant Vikings.
The scale of the civil engineering is blurred by the vegetation on the steep sides of the 'v' cut but still very impressive. Not so the steeply angle mud steps up the far bank as a continuation of my coastal walk. There is some shelter from the incessant gale until you pop out again into the bright January sunlight at the top of the eastern lip of the hole. More of the same buffeting and badgering in the fierce winds along a stretch of narrow field headland at the cliff edge. I adopt a practice of lopsided walking with one foot in the slightly lower crop level and one on the edge of the path so that if tipped off balance by the forces of nature I can dramatically throw myself into the muddy field. There is a reward for attempting a turn about into the wind with a fantastic view towards Bridlington although after two hours trekking it still seems to be the same distance away.
The path continues eastwards with a trend for an upward slope, albeit gentle and hardly discernible. This is understandable in that by the time the coastline turns north some one and a half miles ahead the cliffs will have risen from 125 feet (38 metres) to over 250 feet (76 metres).
The gradient hardly warrants a mention although my legs may have something to say about that in the morning.
The flaps on my Russian hat require constant adjustment as they are tugged at and loosened from a snug sitting on my ears. The noise from wind, waves and agitated vegetation is deafening and on the rare occasion of meeting another soul on the path it is a matter of shouting a greeting or pleasantry at the top of our voices. In any other environment this would be considered rude or downright aggressive. In a head down stance the appearance of someone else, suddenly and without prior warning, in the same airspace is rather startling.
A few family groups are gathered around a bench at the many viewpoints over the bay and when summoning up enough courage to peer down over the cliff edge I can see others wandering about amongst the rocky shelf below. They have a good deal of time before being threatened with being cut off by the next high tide.
I reach the top of another valley cutting, this time South Landing. It seems empty and a contrast with what I recall seeing in a book of sepia tinted photos of great activity with fishing boats and crab pots in the halcyon days at the commencement of the 2oth century. It is not until I am half way down the uneven concrete staircase that I can see the large modern RNLI boathouse but firmly shuttered and secured. Large signboards provide an indication of the treacherous nature of this part of the Yorkshire Coast which may not be obvious to those arriving on a hot summers day with an inflatable airbed and poor swimming ability. The emergency telephone numbers to summon the inshore rescue boat or the bright yellow RAF Helicopter are prominently displayed.
In the quiet valley the only sound is the starchy rippling of the Lifeboat flag on its oscillating white painted pole just outside the information centre.
Up the other side I am beginning to feel the extent of my physical exertions especially after the usual excessive indulgences over the Christmas and New Year period.
I pause to read a commemorative sculpture to Oswald, the Patron Saint of fishermen. The eroded chalk monument has also been hijacked by an extract from the legend of Sir Marmaduke Constable, a local notable but perhaps more for his untimely and grisly demise after swallowing a toad which is supposed to have then eaten his heart. Definitely a euphemism for a nasty death from siphylis more like. The spin doctors were around in the 1500's evidently.
In the near distance the twin towers of lighthouses are visible. One is the rough and slightly leaning 1674 chalk structure now an ancient monument and the other the important and functioning Trinity House landmark designed in 1806. The sweeping beam has attempted to warn vessels from the rocky reefs for a couple of hundred years and can be seen from many miles inland on a clear night.
I do not fancy the last section of the cliff top walk being by now a little shell shocked by the weather and so strike inland along a thorny hedgerow. The vegetation traps the prevailing wind with more cacophonous racket and I enjoy little respite even though now travelling in a different direction from before.
This route by comparison is a bit boring but does require concentration due to the mud and debris in my way. The sight of a car , up on the village road and passing across my view reminds me that I am still in 2014 after being party to all of the history and heritage of the area.
It is also a strange sensation for my feet to feel tarmac and I am a bit giddy and unbalanced by it as though attempting to find my sea legs.
There is a small bungalow café just by the Coastguard Station. It is the only thing open to serve food on January 3rd and although the Lighthouse Car Park is full with vehicles these are mostly camper vans with their occupants having their own brew up and picnic fare. I have the corner table in the café to myself with the best ever tasting baked beans on toast. They are not Heinz but nevertheless a close and welcome alternative version, perhaps Lidl or Aldi.
I partially undress so as to get the benefit for when I resume the final part of the walk. I never did understand the phrase "to get the benefit" in such circumstances. I easily steam up the double glazing around me with the escape of moisture and residues from discarding my layers of clothing.
In the shelter afforded by a tin and pink asbestos slate seaside building I become drowsy and my limbs begin to cool and stiffen. It is time to get out of there as I sneakily lick clean my plate of the pale and less than tomato-ey sauce and pay the very reasonable £2.50. The café owners could do with a lesson in free market economics as being the only establishment up and trading on the headland I would have willingly paid at least £2.75 for the pleasure.
For the first time in four to five hours I am heading westwards and into the face of the still potent wind. The narrow footpath alongside the main road is featureless and demoralising after the adrenalin rush brought about by the perceived peril and excitement of the cliff path.
After 2 miles of hard surface slog I reach Flamborough village and seek refuge in the bus shelter. It is another 30 minutes before the double decker arrives for the short but welcome ride back to the holiday cottage.
I have a sense of achievement from my travels even though on a large scale map it is barely represented. The wind continues to blow hard and I notice that the mannequin of Father Christmas at the village display looks decidedly fed up with hanging around, in the open, well into the New Year.
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