The A259, the coast road from Folkestone to Emsworth, 170 miles of tarmac that hugs the English Channel like a fraying ribbon, climbs a gentle rise, and suddenly the sea is there: grey-green and glittering, the Isle of Wight a smudge on the horizon, the chalk cliffs of the Seven Sisters rising from the water like a geological exclamation mark. You have been driving for three hours. You have not touched a motorway. The south coast of England, driven slowly on the roads that existed before the M27 erased the coastline from view, is one of the most rewarding road trips in Britain, a journey through seaside resorts, smugglers’ villages, and the geological autobiography of a coastline that has been retreating for 10,000 years.

The South Coast Road Trip: Folkestone to Land’s End (in Stages)

Folkestone to Rye (25 miles, A259): The creative coast. Folkestone, the revived seaside town, the Harbour Arm (a Victorian railway pier turned food-and-drink destination, the Champagne bar in the old signal box, the lobster shack on the boardwalk), the Creative Quarter (the cobbled Old High Street, artists’ studios, the quarter was seeded by the Roger De Haan Charitable Trust in the early 2000s and has transformed the town). Rye, a medieval hilltop town, the Mermaid Inn (cellars dating from 1156, the pub rebuilt in 1420, the fireplace that has been burning for 600 years), the cobbled streets so steep you clutch the handrail, is the overnight stop. The Lamb House (National Trust, the home of Henry James from 1898 to 1916, the garden where he wrote The Golden Bowl) is the literary pilgrimage.

Rye to Brighton (45 miles, A259): The Sussex coast, Hastings (the fishing fleet still active, the net huts, tall, black, wooden structures on the Stade, the beach where the boats are launched, one of the most distinctive seafronts in England), the Seven Sisters (the chalk cliffs between Seaford and Eastbourne, the walk from Birling Gap to Beachy Head, the highest chalk sea cliff in Britain, 162 metres, is 4 miles of clifftop drama, the lighthouse at the foot of Beachy Head a red-and-white toy from this height), Brighton (the Pavilion, the Lanes, the pier, the Brighton Palace Pier, opened 1899, the fairground rides, the doughnut stand, the view back to the seafront at sunset when the lights come on and the city glitters like a seaside illusion).

Brighton to Portsmouth (50 miles, A259, with a detour): Arundel, the castle (built 1067, the home of the Duke of Norfolk, the family that has been England’s senior Catholic peers since the Reformation) rises above the River Arun like something from a children’s storybook, is the detour inland. Chichester (the cathedral, the spire visible from the sea, the Roman palace at Fishbourne, the largest Roman residential building north of the Alps, the mosaic floors, Cupid on a dolphin, the Medusa, are the finest in Britain) is the cultural stop. Portsmouth (the historic Dockyard, HMS Victory, the Mary Rose, the view of the Solent from the top of the Spinnaker Tower, 170 metres, the glass floor a vertigo test) is the maritime climax.

Portsmouth to Weymouth (80 miles, M27/A31 then A352): The New Forest (the ponies on the road, they have right of way, legally, since the New Forest Act of 1949, the ancient woodland of the Ornamental Drive, the pub at Burley, the Queen’s Head, serving venison from the forest), the Jurassic Coast beginning at Studland (the chalk of Old Harry Rocks, the first of the geological landmarks that stretch 95 miles to Exmouth). Lulworth Cove and Durdle Door, the limestone arch, the beach beneath it, the swim in water that is cold (16°C in August) and clear and bracing, is the highlight of this stretch. Weymouth (the Georgian seafront, the harbour, the sand sculptures on the beach) is the overnight stop. The fish and chips at Bennett’s on the harbour, the haddock, the batter crisp, the chips proper (thick, floury, golden), is the meal that was promised.

Weymouth to Land’s End (150 miles, A35/A30): The West Country, Lyme Regis (the Cobb, the harbour wall immortalised by Jane Austen and John Fowles, the fossils on the beach), Dartmoor (the tors, the ponies, the prison museum, the sense of entering a landscape that is older and stranger than the gentle Devon countryside), Cornwall (the A30 slowing as you cross the Tamar, the palm trees appearing, the Gulf Stream effect, the microclimate of the Cornish Riviera, the roads narrowing, the hedgerows closing in). Land’s End, the westernmost point of mainland England, the Longships lighthouse offshore, the Atlantic stretching to the horizon, is the destination. The signpost (£11 for the photograph, the distance to New York 3,147 miles) is the tourist cliché. The view, the Atlantic, the sky, the sense of having crossed an entire country along its southern edge, is the reward. The journey back, on the A30, past the engine houses of the Cornish tin mines, through the Devon lanes, will feel like leaving another country. In a geological sense, you are.