🌊 Chasing Tides: A run to the edge of the world

(and back again, I hope...)

👋🏻 Hello, I’m Anna 👋🏻 An adventurer, author of six books and Restless Mumma to three small humans. Each week I write about adventure, travel, daily chaos and the inner workings of my noggin’ 🧠⚡️

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Chasing Tides: A run to the edge of the world

Once upon a time, in a land not very far away (my living room), I watched a BBC documentary about a piece of Britain that was being lost to time; to the tides and the sea. A peninsula of land in Yorkshire, which reaches out from the mainland like a long boney finger, and across the Humber estuary for three and a half miles. No wider than fifty metres in some places, it has a fascinating human history and is home to hundreds of migrating birds.

I was intrigued by this spit of land, called Spurn. An ever-changing landscape, being battered by the North Sea — that seemed exciting. As if it were a shifting portal to adventure, a place that would never quite be the same again.

After watching the documentary, I looked Spurn up on a map. It was, in no uncertain certain terms, a bloody long way from Gloucester. An eight-hour round trip. The chances of me going there were slim (I had one kiddo at the time) and they got even slimmer when my brood expanded to three.

But Spurn stayed there. In a little corner of my mind. Patiently waiting.

So when, a few weeks back, I accepted a speaking gig up in the North East of England, a little voice in my head shouted. ‘Remember me? Come and say hello!’ It was Spurn.

It’s 8am on a Sunday morning as I load up the car and prepare to leave for the long drive north. Jamie is on kid juggling duty for the day and Nannie Annie and Grandad Don are pitching in to help him out. I feel a pang of discomfort at leaving. Weekends are usually for family time. But my inner adventure fire is burning brightly today. It sets light to any guilt and turns it to dust. I’m freakin’ going.

The plan, when I make it to the Yorkshire coast, is to run the 3.8 miles from the mainland, to the end of Spurn head, and back again. A seven-and-a-half(ish)-mile jaunt in total. I’ve checked the tide times so as not to get caught out and it should all be straightforward. But as is often the case with doing something new, in a new place — there are some unknowns…

I’m relying on the traffic to be okay getting up there. On the running terrain not to be too testing (I try to ignore online reports of ‘long slow slogs on deep sand’). And I’m relying on my ability to read a spreadsheet of tide times.

And yet, I am buzzing with excitement. Jamie can see it.

‘You’re giddy!’ he says, lifting Rocky into the hire car so that he can have a quick play and beep the horn before I leave.

I am giddy. I feel like a kid on a school trip. Except my school coach is a rented burnt orange Vauxhall Corsa, and I’m far more eager to be on the move than I ever was in one of our yearly secondary school visits to The Science Museum. Mostly because I’ve signed my permission slip.

It’s a smooth drive up.

Despite telling myself that I won’t stop, the lure of a few cheeky coffees is strong, and my bladder is weak. So I make a few stops. I listen to podcasts. I play a Country Mix album on Spotify and get strangely emotional while singing Beyond by Leon Bridges at the top of my lungs — when I feel this overwhelming sense of freedom and a return to myself. My curious, excitable, adventuresome self. There she is. Travelling north at what feels like warp speed — fresh air, sand, and sea ahead of her.

It’s early afternoon when I park the car near the Spurn Discovery Centre and on getting out the first thing that hits me is the smell. Perhaps it’s because I’ve been cocooned for much of the day in the car, breathing in stuffy, recirculated air, but it’s smells like rainforest. That damp, earthy aroma that comes from being surrounded by vegetation. It’s mixed with salt too — warm, briny tropical air.

I slip into my running gear while sat in the driver’s seat of the car (a technique I have honed over the years), sling a backpack on, which contains water and a few snacks, and do a quick nip to the cafe loos. On the way out of the toilet, I pass a Yorkshire Wildlife Trust stall with two men stood behind it.

‘You look bright!’ Says an older man with a bald head.

‘Well, you know, I do try’ I smile and it’s only then that I look around. The wildlife workers are in black polo shirts and the handful of walkers out the front of the cafe are all khaki-clad. In my yellow top, blue visor and with pink hair — I stand out like a sore thumb.

‘Going to the lighthouse, are you?’ The bald man asks.

‘I hope so’

‘Well then, I hope so too.’ He smiles, but then his face turns serious. ‘You checked the tide times?’

‘Yeap.’ I’m trying to sound confident, although now I’m concerned that I’ve misread the timetable. I’m itching to get going and I can feel the nerves kicking in, so I take a few steps down the dusty road away from the cafe. ‘Do you think I’ll be alright — make it there in time?’ I ask as I move.

‘Ah, now… that depends how fast you run?’

‘Well, I like a challenge’ I call over my shoulder.

‘I thought as much. Have fun!’ the bald man calls after me.

Although I’ve described Spurn Head as a spit, it is now, technically, an island. Yorkshire’s only island in fact. There used to be a road which ran out to the lighthouse at the end, but in 2013 a wild storm washed away the part of the road closest to the mainland. The 1km area destroyed by the storm now gets covered at high-tide and is called ‘The Washover’.

It’s a dramatic name and I like it. When I was reading up on tide times and deciding when to begin the run, there was a lot of chat on discussion forums about The Washover. As if it were a mythical beast with the ability to thwart adventure plans. I can hear the sinister, deep voiceover now…

“She had a dream, a dream to run, but can she make it past The Washover?”

Since the 1960s Spurn has been looked after by Yorkshire Wildlife Trust. It’s a playground for wildlife enthusiasts and I pass bird watchers on the road to the beach, long-lensed cameras slung over their backs, looking up at the sky as they walk.

After five minutes of running, the road ends and I enter The Washover. It’s a wide beach, covered in a mix of golden and red sand, dotted with pebbles and rocks. Straight away, my pace slows. Running on the deep sand feels sluggish.

Despite being conscious of the ticking clock — I keep stopping. Because I can’t help myself. There are so many fascinating things to look at. I descend into a toddler-like behaviour — darting from the trail every few seconds to inspect a beautiful pebble on the beach, a cluster of shells, a lump of smooth white rock — sculpted by the sea.

A pile of red bricks further down the beach to my left catches my eye and I detour from the trail to take a closer look. There’s still mortar between the bricks and the water has softened their once sharp edges. I assume it used to be part of a building. It looks post-apocalyptic, as if a blazing sun has melted a house, and I’m looking at the aftermath.

At the shoreline, beyond the brick piles, are dozens of wooden posts, a sea defence from centuries past. They remind me of a piece of art at Crosby Beach — Another Place by Antony Gormley. Where one hundred cast iron statues line up along the sand, facing out to sea, gathering barnacles.

Leaving the beach, I follow the trail back up onto the old road, which is lined with long grass. It’s still warm — pushing 25 degrees and muggy. All of that slogging on the deep sand means that sweat is now pouring from my brow and trickling down my back, so I take a drink, and watch two white butterflies dance in front of me.

Running on, I pass the high tide shelter — another Spurn landmark — a sanctuary for anyone who gets caught out and doesn’t make it back before the tide comes in.

Ahead of my visit, I imagined this hut might be a nice place — a warm and comforting tiny house by the sea. I’d conjured up images of the Refugios of European mountains or the backcountry huts of New Zealand, but this building looks like a garden shed. Which makes sense, I suppose. A luxurious cabin would only encourage people to cut it fine with the tide times. And it has character, at least.

Leaving the one-star high tide shed behind, I forge on along the old road, flanked on either side by dunes, and I continue to see butterflies. White ones, orange ones with black spots, brown ones and a strange little kind which is pastel green — I almost mistake it for a leaf fluttering by on the breeze.

As I run, I glance up at the lighthouse in the distance. It’s getting steadily closer, and it’s not long before I hit a sweet state of flow.

Every half mile I pass a numbered post and sign pinned to it which says in scary red letters ‘Have you left enough time to return before high tide?’ I try not to take these personally, even if the red lettering makes me feel like I’m being told off.

In between these signs are pieces of information about the history of Spurn as a military base. There’s plenty of gun bunkers and things to see here if you’re a war buff, but I realise that I’m far more drawn to the natural side of Spurn’s history — less so to the human.

These things are, of course, intertwined. I’ve seen that already at Spurn. The bricks on the beach were a nod to the collision of humans and nature, so too is the road I’m on. It’s cracked and worn in places. Although the speed bumps are still visible, red sand covers large patches of it, as if nature is attempting to reclaim it. Clawing it back into the sea.

I’ve been running for 45 minutes when I make it to the lighthouse. I had expected to stop here. It’s a fabulous lighthouse — white and black in thick, neat stripes — fresh out of a kid’s drawing. There’s a sign offering tours and even a cup of coffee, but my legs are loving being in motion and they don’t want to stop. So I truck on past, further down the road to a set of small brown brick houses — once home to the families and of R.N.L.I lifeboat crew.

I follow the trail onwards, down the side of the buildings, past a pile of old tires, some fishing nets and a pyramid of lobster pots. The old road soon gives way to sand again as I continue on through chest height bushes and pop out at a set of dunes above a beach.

There’s a signpost with distances to places around the world: Sydney, Copenhagen, Land’s End and I take a moment to zoom out and think about where I am on the planet. I like doing that, it makes me feel humbled, small. It’s a comforting feeling.

Walking through the dunes, I pass long grass swaying in the breeze and head onto the beach. With each footstep, I sink, ever-so-slightly, into honey-coloured sand. In front of me, the sea stretches towards the horizon — glassy blue beneath a cloud-filled sky.

It’s a calm place to be, although there’s a gentle wind and it’s creating ripples on the water’s surface. Sunlight is breaking through the clouds and dancing on the tops of the small waves, making the sea glitter like a trove of scattered diamonds. ‘Wow’ I think, because it feels like I’ve run to the end of the earth.

Sand turns to pebble at the shoreline, and I stop there to close my eyes for a moment. I’m enjoying the soundscape. The crunch of trainers on wet pebbles. Waves lapping gently at my feet. The low hum of an offshore container ship. When I open my eyes, I notice that there’s a thick line of thunderous cloud to my left. It looks brooding. Charcoal coloured and heavy, and I wonder if that rain is coming my way.

Letting out a long sigh, I turn away from the water and check my watch — it’s 3pm. I’d love to stay longer and I think I’ve still got a decent amount of time to make it back over The Washover but I’m not 100% sure, so I decide to get a wriggle on.

Just then, a small group of people appear over the dunes. I didn’t pass them on the trail, so they must have arrived in one of the 4x4 lighthouse tours; I think. I smile and say hello as I pass them and one man, with a grey beard and wearing a faded red cap, seems distracted. He’s staring wistfully at the water.

‘It’s wicked, isn’t it?’ I say, wincing at my choice of words. What am I, a child of the 80s (oh wait, I am) He looks away from the sea and at me, as if I’ve drawn him from a blissful daydream.

‘It is indeed… wicked.’ He smiles. ‘It feels like the edge of the world,’   

‘I know, it’s like being in a movie. Enjoy!’ I shout over my shoulder as I take off running.

I’m still smiling as I leave the beach. This is only a spit of land in Britain. And compared to other more dramatic landscapes around the world, it’s small-fry, and yet here we are. A stranger and me, connecting over how fabulous it all is — sharing a sense of awe.

The run back feels longer than the run out, and I’m not charged with nearly as much nervous energy. I need a boost, so I pop my headphones in and let a running playlist shift my feet along.

I know I’m going to make it back in time now, so I enjoy stopping here and there to look at things I didn’t notice on the way out; the silk tents of caterpillars clinging to bushes, a giant butterfly sculpture behind the lighthouse, the yellow-green flowers of sea buckthorn, and a patch of magenta Rugosa Roses in the dunes.

The sand on The Washover feels deeper to my tired legs and when I make it back to the carpark I’m caked in sweat. An assortment of small flies are stuck to my neck and arms, I have a fine layer of red dust on my legs and my mouth is claggy and dry. But I feel like a goddess.

I’m beaming with gratitude that I’ve made the time to take this little trip.

Reassured because, no matter how old or supposedly grown-up we get, curiosity never leaves us. Even if it hides for a while until the stars align, and there’s a sliver of time, and we’re able to hire a burnt orange Vauxhall Corsa and drive the length of the country to greet it.

❤️👇🏻 P.S: tapping that little heart icon down there helps more people to see this post. It also automatically tops up my writing juju by sending happy-vibes through the ether. Magic eh? ✨