Sitting by the shingle with a coffee and a Danish (and a piece of bread pudding) before climbing up on to Seaford Head the beauty of this February day is breathtaking. The sea is calm, grey-blue, fading into sky at the edge of sight. Gulls careen through the clear air and holler their freedom. To the right is the grey bulk of a Martello tower, and stretching out behind it the seafront villas and apartments of Seaford, the flattering light of this dazzling day masking the shabbiness of their sometimes careworn facades. The town isn’t the smartest or most chic of seaside destinations, but it holds the key to a vast store of memory within. I am, in any case, very fond of its between-the-wars suburban architecture; the green-tiled villas and white curved liner-style facades seem so suited to this Sussex coast under the backdrop of the South Downs. If Brighton is youthful Bohemian excess and Eastbourne is genteel retirement, then between them, at Peacehaven, Saltdean and Seaford, is the suburban, middle-aged version of the seaside dream; quietness, healthiness and fresh air, a Betjeman fantasy of ruddy cheeks and jolly normality and walks on the front.

Now the coffee is finished, so I turn left and walk towards the cliff rising up at the end of the front, and soon feel the extra pressure in my lungs as the gradient is attacked. But it feels so good to have my feet planted on the chalk again, and every step higher reveals more of the Downs around, so that the effort is unnoticed. I feel gloriously loved and alive, surrounded by warmth and life. Over the summit and one of the quintessential English landscape vistas is revealed; the delicious waveform, green icing on pure white cake, of the chalk cliffs between Cuckmere Haven and Belle Tout, the Seven Sisters. Walking on the springy turf along the top and heading east towards Hope Gap the sunlight bounces back with increasing intensity from the sheer chalk walls. The low winter light saturates the colours and confounds sight; it could be June if not for the patches of icy drift in the fields beside the track. Snow dusts the green flanks of the Downs flowing inland from the Sisters towards Lewes, but a summer-like haze rims the unbroken deep blue sky. Hands feel the chill of the frozen air, but the face glows in the heat of the sun. I walk among spirits from the past yet feel invincibly alive. I know that the clean white face of the chalk wall in front of me means that this landscape I love for its permanence is disappearing in front of my eyes, slice after slice slipping into the insatiable sea. I feel ineradicable sadness at the terrible toll life is taking on those close to me, and huge happiness at the love I feel directed at me.

Earlier, from the keep of Lewes Castle, the Downs, perspective distorted as the sinuous shapes melded into a tenuous mist, took on the aspect of vast and distant mountain ranges; clothed as they were in snow, the pallid border of a land of ghosts. Now, here by the crumbling cliff edge of Seaford Head the air is joyously clear and fresh, giving life with every breath taken in. I can smell spring coming; drawing near, bearing hope in a blaze of new growth. The grass is fresh green, newly created this moment. Less than two hundred feet above the sea, but the feeling is of walking in the sky, feet barely touching the dense and resilient turf. Forward motion is effortless, more akin to flying than walking. Nothing is what it seems, everything is something else. Negative is positive, cold is warm, permanence never lasts, the ephemeral is eternal.

On the way back down to Seaford, heading for the railway station, the path passes through a golf course, empty of golfers and full of dogs walking with their companions, and joins a suburban road, the villas lining the north side basking in the glory of this divine afternoon as the sun sinks westward. In the quiet I feel an immense peace flowing through me; I feel at home, and long to return to a home filled with love. I know my father and brother and mother were happy in this place, if only for a while, and I think some of their happiness still lingers. We survive as memories held in store by those who outlive us; the more a person is loved, the more a person cares for others, the stronger the memory and the stronger the survival once that person leaves.

This life is searing pain and fierce joy, this life is utterly meaningless and profoundly meaningful. What we think is important means nothing, the things we overlook mean everything. A glance from a loved one means more than any money or status or success; to have the ability to be transfixed by the beauty around us is to be in receipt of a priceless gift. Don’t waste these things; they can be gone before we realise. Enjoy every second, both bad and good, because it’s all we have.