There’s a very specific kind of optimism that only a young surveyor can muster at 4:30 in the morning, heading north and a bit east with a flask of coffee and the promise of a sunrise over the North Sea. Late 90s. No emails pinging, no live corrections on a tablet, no lightweight kit that actually considers the human spine. Just a job to do and a coastline to measure.
I’d set off on those drives convinced I’d cracked life. The roads were empty, the sky slowly lifting from black to that soft orange glow, and for a brief moment you’d think, this is it… getting paid to walk along one of the best coastlines in the country. The North East coast has a way of doing that – all calm, all promise, all quiet beauty before it reminds you exactly where you are.
By the time I’d pulled up, though, reality would start creeping in. The ritual began. Boxes out the van. Tripod. Base station. Cables everywhere. Then the main event – the Leica SR530 GNSS, proudly slotted into its backpack. A marvel of its time, no doubt, but ergonomically designed by someone who clearly had a grudge against the human sciatic nerve. Once it was on, it sat perfectly… right where it could do the most damage after about 40 minutes of walking.
Still, there was a certain pride in it. You were geared up. Properly equipped. Ready to map the shifting sands as part of coastal erosion monitoring – work that actually mattered, even if it didn’t feel glamorous when you were knee-deep in it.
The pole, mind, was light. That was the one small mercy. But everything else? A web of cables hanging off you like you’d lost a fight with a bundle of extension leads. Any vegetation wasn’t just an inconvenience; it was a personal insult. Every bramble, every tuft of grass, every bit of scrub trying to grab hold and remind you who was in charge.
And then the weather would turn.
It always turned.
You’d step onto the beach and for a fleeting moment it still held together – a bit of sun, a decent breeze, maybe even the illusion of a pleasant day ahead. Half an hour later, the North Sea would decide you’d had enough joy for one morning. The sky would close in, the wind would pick up just enough at first to raise suspicion, then without warning you’d be in the middle of a full-blown gale.
Fine sand, lifted effortlessly, driven straight into your face. Not just annoying – surgical. Straight into the eyes, into every bit of exposed skin, stinging like it had a point to prove. Then the sea would join in, flinging salt spray at you like a rabid dog, just to make sure the sand had something to work with.
And of course, the rain. Not a polite drizzle. Proper stair rods. The kind that soaks you in seconds and then settles in for the day. Sometimes mixed with hail for good measure, occasionally sleet just to keep things interesting.
Late April.
Brilliant.
Somewhere in all this, you’d be trying to keep the controller alive, wrapped in a crinkled plastic bag like it was the last sandwich at a school trip. Buttons barely responsive, visibility gone, hands freezing, and you still had to log clean, accurate data like everything was absolutely fine.
And the mad thing is… it was.
Because underneath all of that – the discomfort, the weather, the absolute battering from the elements – there was something properly good about it. You were out there. Properly out there. No shortcuts, no shortcuts in thinking either. Just you, the kit and the job.
You earned every point.
These days, you see lads flying up and down beaches on quad bikes, wrapped up like they’re heading for the Arctic, barely breaking stride while the kit does half the thinking for them. Efficient? Absolutely. Sensible? Probably. But there’s a part of me that would still rather do it the old way – walking it, feeling every step of it – than sat frozen to a quad bike getting bounced along like cargo.
And here’s the thing… 30 years on, our lads are still out there doing it. Same coastline, same wind, same sand finding its way into places it shouldn’t. The kit’s better, the outputs sharper, the process quicker – but the environment hasn’t softened one bit. If anything, it feels like it’s got worse.
So, who had the better deal?
The ones now, covering miles without breaking sweat, getting the data quicker and getting home sooner… or us, trudging every metre, fighting the elements, knowing we’d earned every single point the hard way?
Truth is, I’m not sure there’s a right answer.
But I know which one I’d choose.
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