In the hot June sun, mapless above the rooftops of Hastings Old Town, I’m faced with a decision: which way? Swallows dart overhead and the clouds bloom white and pale grey, like the sky from an old railway promo poster. I head for the top of East Hill, past the icecream truck and a small hollow filled with reeds and yellow flag irises, and find a west-facing bench to eat my lunch. Halfway through my baguette, I look up and see that Eastbourne has disappeared. By the time I’ve finished, Bexhill has vanished and a dark ribbon is moving across the sea towards me. Church bells carry on the wind, sounding an alarm. I hear the distant rumble of thunder.

I don my raincoat and set off to explore. It feels high and bleak, perhaps all the more so because it was in full sun only minutes before. The stormfront cuts across the sky, stretching out over the channel to a smudged horizon. A fat, sludgy raindrop hits me on the back of the head. I follow rabbit highways through fields towards the shelter of a young oak. The sound of the rain increases in volume and deepens in timbre from shishi-shishi-shishi on the grass to tosha-tosha-tosha as I approach the trees.

I find a bench and watch birds, unfazed by the weather, wheeling around of the cliffs on the other side of Ecclesbourne Glen. Lightning sparks. A monster crack of thunder makes the ground tremble underfoot. A boat races against the storm towards Hastings, white sails pale against the cloud. I’m glad I’m not on board.

And then, as quickly as it began, the storm abates, leaving the air fresh with petrichor - the smell of soil after rain. I head up to Rocklands Lane and further into Hastings Country Park. Here, the grass grows lumpy with dock and thistle, the latter festooned with cuckoo spit. Trails dive into the brambles, masked by nettles, buttercups and cleavers. I follow one into the scrub, ducking under an arch of blackthorn and ash, to find a hidden shelter. Another leads into a world of ferns and tiny waterfalls, submerged in shadow.

Wandering without aim, I follow a path awash with pink campions and emerge in another clifftop field. Redheaded sorrel waves in the wind and troupes of tall ribwort plantain, the seedheads in flower tutus, bend gracefully above the grass. Looking back towards Hastings, I see I’m on the other side of Ecclesbourne Glen: here are the gulls wheeling and the jackdaws flicking and diving on the wind. Beyond the safety fence, sea pinks cling to the cliff edge. I lie down for a moment to listen to the sea on the rocks far below. Half an hour later, I wake up.

I meander a little further east, but soon feel like it’s time to turn home. Cutting through the woods, I follow paths that could be human but might just as well be made by deer. At one point I find myself walking amid slow swirls of hawthorn petal confetti - May is over and her flowers are falling.

Back on East Hill, there’s a point at which it seems the grassy path could carry me straight into the sea. This is one of those invitations that can never live up to its promise, I think - a soft road onto a wide plain that shimmers green as mermaids. And yet, when it is time to leave, that is the path I take. What better way to go?

The sun is high in the sky and it already feels like midday as we walk down through the pretty village of Northiam. We pass hawthorn hedges wearing their first blossoms and cross the River Rother at a narrow bridge, admiring the boats moored below.

Our path takes us downstream along the calm valley, through fields adrift with wildflowers - pastel blue forget-me-nots, sunny dandelion flowers and fuzzy dandelion clocks, delicate pink milkmaids (a.k.a. cuckoo flowers or lady’s smock) waving on their long stems and bold yellow wild mustard flowers echoing fields of rapeseed nearby. When we stop for lunch, we add a few foraged leaves to our sandwiches: milkmaids are a kind of peppery cress and wild mustard is also edible.

Relaxing on the sunny riverbank, the day feels long and lazy, as though the hours have slowed to a halt. The call of skylarks and the whistle of the heritage steam train on the Kent & East Sussex Railway adds to the feeling that the years have been wound back. When we finally drag ourselves away from our dozing, a herd of curious steers is gazing down at us from the track above.

But within half an hour, the sky has clouded over and a chill wind is blowing up from the marshes. At Blackwall Bridge, we re-cross the Rother and join the Sussex Border Path. Maintenance of this 150 mile long distance path has recently been taken over by the Ramblers, and new waymarkers direct us over rolling fields, down hedge-lined farm lanes and through bluebell woods.

We stop in an idyllic grove beside a reed-lined pond for our afternoon tea. Sheltered from the wind, we fall asleep, lulled by the rumble of a tractor ploughing a nearby field. We wake to a splash in the pond and a quiet rustle in the reeds - my partner says he sees a water vole, but my eyes are not so keen!

The last section takes us through Beckley and back to Northiam. We hang over a hedge to watch a delightfully furry pig at Swallowtail Hill farm, negotiate a series of increasingly treacherous stiles, admire an overgrown orchard and are followed by a friendly dog.

There are a few moments of confusion - when we miss a turning, or when the way is overgrown with rapeseed - but soon enough the path deposits us back in Northiam at journey’s end.

Today, as a hazy blue sky blurs into the horizon behind Hastings Pier, I aim find out! We're going to walk as far as we can (or as far as we can be bothered), hopefully all the way to Eastbourne Pier.

It’s the kind of weather these old seaside towns are designed to be viewed in. Even the most run-down buildings with their peeling yellowed paint look happy and mediterranean. We pass the ocean liner inspired art deco Marine Court (which was the tallest block of flats in the country when it was built in 1937) and dip down onto the beach at just the right point to find Banksy’s “Tesco” stencil behind its plastic sheet. After Grosvenor Gardens, the houses give way to brightly coloured beach boxes. We weave between them, deciding which one we’d like to own.

Dog walkers are out in force, but the canine hordes haven’t deterred the birdlife: as well as the usual herring and black-headed gulls, we see dozens of busy little turnstones (more interested in turning the De La Warr’s lawn than the stones on the beach) and a small falcon riding the wind over Galley Hill. Our most unlikely sighting comes later in the day when we find a pheasant strutting up and down the beach around a ragged Martello tower at Sovereign Harbour.

At the tail end of Bexhill, we stick to the shingle. Everyone seems to ignore the various signs about this or that section being private beach. If it’s all private, I wonder where the all-England coastal path will run when it finally makes it to East Sussex?

We approach Cooden Beach, hopping over the sea-weathered wooden groynes, and notice an excavator and several trucks on the shore. This is part of our never-ending dialogue with nature: every year, the sea slowly moves tonnes of shingle and sand eastwards along the shore, and every year humans and our machines pick it up and move it back so the beach doesn’t disappear.

We follow the road for a time, curving inland through the levels around the sluice. Behind the sea defences, out of the wind, the air is still and quiet. Sheep and cows chew lazily at us over fences. It could almost be summer - it’s only wanting for ten degrees and some leaves on the trees.

After a quick lunch at The Star Inn, we head back out to Normans Bay and the pebbly beach. It’s slow, noisy progress along the stones. My ankles start to feel like I’m being rattled by a jackhammer and it’s impossible to maintain a conversation over our crunching footsteps. We keep an eye out for Martello towers, instead. Seventy-four of these big, near-conical fortresses were built along the coast between Folkestone in Kent and Seaford in East Sussex in the 19th century (there were 140 built in Britain in total). Of these, only a third remain, with all of the 23 from Pett Level in the east to Normans Bay in the west having been demolished, destroyed or lost to the sea.

At Pevensey Bay, we pass little shingle gardens full of lobster pots and driftwood sculptures and, in contrast, a huge, gleaming, white-walled, locked-gated complex that juts arrogantly out into the beach. We disturb a bumblebee and see our first two butterflies of spring.

A long line of multi-story apartment blocks looms out of the haze. Being an out of season weekday, there’s hardly a soul to be seen in Sovereign Harbour (apart from that pheasant). The place feels eerily abandoned and the repetitive square lines and blank windows seem to hold echoes of Prora - the huge Nazi-built holiday camp. It’s not the most pleasant thought, and I take it as a sign that it’s time for afternoon tea. We laze around on a big bench at the marina, watching shags diving for food, and stay for a bit longer to see a boat coming in through the lock. There’s no rush - the sun is still out, and our destination is just around the corner.

Back on the shoreline once more, Eastbourne finally reveals itself through the thickening haze. The sunlight hangs in silver curtains, producing ever-fainter layers of rooftops, church spires, high-rises and, barely visible, the South Downs. Looking back, there’s no sign of Hastings and only the faintest of smudges to indicate Bexhill - but I know they’re there, and I now I know that yes, I could walk the bay in a day.

It’s hard to imagine what the locals must have thought of Bodiam Castle when it appeared on the scene in 1385. Even now, through modern eyes accustomed to epic feats of architectural engineering, it’s a wonderful sight: the round towers rise sheer from the surrounding moat and the stone walls glow pale gold in the sun. And it’s still a surprise to come across it, nestled amid vineyards, hops farms and white-tipped oast houses, looking out across the lush pasture of the Rother valley.

The winter sun sparkles on the frost as we head east from the castle along a farm track, crunching ice beneath our boots. It’s a glorious day under a big, blue sky, and we’re not the only ones outside enjoying it.

To the north, the square tower of St Nicholas church at Sandhurst Cross hoves into view. As the river twists away to our right, we cross Kent Ditch and head uphill, leaving East Sussex behind.

We pick our way across a muddy field and through an even muddier wood. A frantic volley of gunshots erupts close by and, realising it’s a party of duck shooters, I briefly consider turning saboteur. Instead, we push on, appreciating the open views towards Sandhurst with its clock tower and windmill.

At St Nicholas, the congregation is leaving after the Sunday morning service. We sit in the churchyard for a while, drinking in both the view and a thermos of tea, trying to keep warm in the wind.

Inside the church I read about the bells, including the John Bell, which was cast in the late 15th Century, cracked in 1961, then repaired with new technology and re-hung in 2009. We also admire a window constructed of salvaged fragments of old glass and prayer cushions decorated with everything from hovercraft and Boeing jets to badgers and biblical quotes.

From Sandhurst Cross, walkers can take the road straight back to Bodiam, but we venture on to join the Sussex Border Path.

If the first half of the walk was characterised by big things - castles, skies, views, churches - then the joy of the last section lies in the details. The first crocuses are blooming, joining snowdrops and daffodils at the side of the road. We pass a well-used badger sett. Multicoloured lichen adorns a fallen tree and a bright orange jelly-like fungus emerges from a fallen branch.

After weaving our way over the hills, we slip down a narrow path beside a vineyard to emerge back at Bodiam Castle, just in time for lunch at the the National Trust tea rooms.

A walk through the woods from Battle to Sedlescombe is a delight in every season. After a quick hop down Marley Lane, the walker dives into Battle Great Wood, wanders through coniferous and deciduous plantations, emerges at the other side with an appetite for a delicious pub meal at the Queens Head (some of the best chips I've ever had) or tea and cake at Blackbrooks, then returns through the fields and woods to Battle.

In spring, new growth turns the woods bright green and bluebells peep between the trees. In summer, bird calls ripple across the balmy afternoon, while water mint and wildflowers nod alongside the broad rides. In autumn, wind whips the leaves into a frenzy, and multitudes of colourful fungi push through the pine needles beside the meandering, unofficial paths. In winter, perhaps after a hard frost, robins, tits and finches are easily spotted flitting through bare branches.

In fact, the only weather this walk is not suited to is consistent, heavy rain.

It had been raining heavily and consistently all night and morning when we struck out for Sedlescombe, but we were swaddled in waterproofs and ready for an adventure. We were not, however, ready to wade down the gushing, knee-high river that had taken over the path down into the woods. “Never mind,” we thought as we dripped back up to town. “We’ll drive to Blackbrooks and do most of the walk in reverse.” But at that end, a deeper-than-wellies lake blocked the road. What to do?

Determined to get our woodland fix, we drove to the Battle Great Wood carpark and set out once again. Unsurprisingly, we had the woods almost entirely to ourselves. Just one dog walker passed us. “Aren’t we brave?” she said.

Ditches and ponds had burst their banks. Across the clay paths, rivulets made patterns that reminded me of aerial views of huge rivers and deltas. My shoes squelched with each step and I remembered a number of people got stuck in this mud for hours last year before being rescued - the tracks have now mostly been restored after the forestry operations.

We surprised a squirrel, which scampered away. Bright yellow specks of gorse blossom flickered at the edge of the path. The patter of rain on my hood kept time with my steps.

And then, all too soon, we were back at the car. It hadn’t quite been the pub walk we’d envisaged, but we’d had fun. And the hot cuppa awaiting us at home had never tasted better!

The follies were built by John (“Mad Jack”) Fuller, who was Squire of Brightling in the late 18th and early 19th century. As well as fostering an aura of eccentricity, Fuller was a philanthropist, member of parliament, patron of the arts and sciences, plantation owner, vocal supporter slavery and noted drunk.

After parking in Brightling, the Tower is our first stop, just a short way over the fields and between the hedges. A sweeping view opens up as we walk, with the dark green Netherfield Woods running down to the bright blue mirror of Darwell Reservoir and the Rother valley beyond. Fuller is rumoured to have built the tower to spy on Bodiam Castle, which he bought in 1828, but while I climb the wobbly ladder at the top of the tower to look out the window, I have not brought my binoculars to test this theory.

Back into the fields, it’s possible to see the next two follies: the round Temple on a low green hill and the thin triangle of the Sugarloaf, which could almost be the spire of a church on the horizon. The Temple lies at the centre of our circular walk, but after heading down past the Ox Lodge sign, over the duck ponds and up past the barn, we’re as close as we can get. Did Fuller host wild gambling parties here? Rumours abound, but we may never know for sure!

We slither our way down the fields and through the ankle-deep mud in the woodland making quite a racket, which might explain why our wildlife tally boasts only a few curious sheep and one robin.

Next stop: the Sugarloaf and a flask of tea. This folly was supposedly built when Fuller made a drunken bet that he could see the spire of the neighbouring church from his window. When this proved untrue, he quickly ordered the Sugarloaf built on this spot to win the wager. Apparently, the folly was inhabited until the 1930s, and we can see where the beams for the second floor would have been set into the walls.

After all that mud, we welcome a bit of road walking. The road runs along a long stone wall, which Fuller commissioned after the Naploeonic wars at a time of high unemployment, ensuring the livelihood of many locals. We spot the Observatory, but decide against the detour for a closer look - we subsequently also miss out on seeing the Needle. However, by all accounts the Observatory never worked particularly well, and the Needle is a fairly plain obelisk, so we don’t regret it.

Instead, we head back into the woods and pick our way along a permissive path until we emerge into a field and find ourselves above the temple on the opposite side to before. In the distance, the sea glinting in the low winter sun. Behind us is the first folly Fuller built: a gothic Summerhouse. The view is spectacular, with the Temple below us and the sea in the distance, glinting in the low winter sun.

We follow a horse ride through the woods to Fuller’s house, then step through a Secret Garden-esque door into the churchyard. Fuller’s final resting place, built 20 years before he died, is known, for reasons that soon become obvious, as the Pyramid. Two centuries later, his legacy is as remarkable and ostentatious as ever.

Unfortunately, there's no pub in Brightling, but the Netherfield Arms, only a short drive away, is a cosy and exceptionally friendly spot for lunch.

Camber Sands evokes visions of sunny days, bright beach towels, fluorescent buckets and spades, children’s faces smeared the colour of ice lollies and adults’ shoulders stained lurid pink with sunburn. Tucked into the elbow-crook of the coastline before it reaches out to Dungeness, Camber offers the only decent stretch of sandy beach for miles, and summer crowds flock here accordingly.

But on this bleak November morning, it is almost deserted. A handpainted advertisement for deck chair hire recalls summers past; a grey wind whips in off the sea. We rug up and wander to the water over the rippled sand, weaving a pattern with our footprints. Here, at low tide, the sea recedes for hundreds of metres. As the sand dries out it’s blown inland by the prevailing wind to join the Camber dune system.

We dawdle west along the beach, looking at shells, seaweed and tidewrack from across the Channel, then clamber up into the dunes. We follow rabbit trails through microclimates of sound: here, the hiss of the sea and the wind; there, the chatter of birds on the golf course; now, a bowl of silence and deep-rooted marram grass pointing to a quiet sky. These dunes are gradually accreting, getting bigger. We make the heroic five-metre climb to the highest point and survey the landscape. 

A light mist smudges out the bulks of Dungeness nuclear power station and the cliffs at Fairlight, but Rye is clearly visible, and the harbour arm at the mouth of the River Rother juts out into the sea, black against the silvery water. These dunes were used for military training in the Second World War, and a number of fortifications are still visible on golf-course, some gazing resolutely out at the small platoon of wind turbines across the marsh, others subsiding drunkenly into the shrubs, perhaps still celebrating armistice.

This is a simple walk: turn right on the beach at Camber, then right again at the river, and it’s almost impossible to lose your way to Rye. 

A little egret - dazzling white against the tidal mud on the riverbank - picks a fight with a herring gull and wins. A line of birders gazes at a murmuration swooping and bending above Rye Harbour Nature Reserve. Undistracted by avian life, a closely-supervised toddler heaves stones into the river and cackles.

Near the Harbour Master’s office, the path joins a sealed road running on a dismantled narrow-gauge railway through the golf course. The Rye & Camber Tramway opened in 1895 to carry golfers to their sport and closed to the public in 1939. The rails are still visible at some points, and the brightly painted shack behind the Harbour Master’s office is the old station. 

At high tide, the wharf at Rye Harbour across the river has the capacity to take ships up to 90 metres long and sees imports and exports ranging from stone to talc to wheat. Today, it is quiet. We pass a pillbox stuffed to the ceiling with rubbish bags. A robin chases a chaffinch. We join National Cycle Network Route 2 for the final stretch into town.

At Rye, we linger over a delicious and well-deserved hot chocolate at Knoops (mine is infused with lavender), then find a viewpoint to look back over the walk. It’s hard to imagine, but several hundred years ago our entire route would have been underwater. Medieval maps show that Rye was originally located on a bay called the Rye Camber - from which Camber takes its name. Knowing what I do about global warming and rising sea levels, I wonder how long it will be until it is covered in water once again.