It’s a lovely bright sunny summer morning. I have tea and porridge for breakfast in the sunshine. My tent, pitched near the pathway to the camp facilities, is attracting a bit of attention on account of its smallness, in a campsite full of all the latest in camping extravagances. Once chap comes by and tells me that his daughter is fascinated by how little I’m travelling with, and that she thinks I’m “really hardcore”. Hmmm, I think, thanks for sharing that with me; not often a man comes up to you and tells you his daughter is fascinated with you. Anyway, move on.
I amble up into the town, past stylish “cottages” and smart townhouses that are characteristic of Southwold, many neatly set on a grassy common. It’s another “Chelsea-on-Sea” as people like to call it (Brancaster village in Norfolk that I visited last year is another) thought people here are more predominantly representative of the traditional conservative type than those of trendy SW3. There are plenty of tea rooms; this week’s theatrical event is proudly advertised by a banner spanning the high street.
My first stop is the Sailor’s Reading Room, which having stopped at yesterday appears to be an ideal place for me to write up notes of my journey so far. Yesterday I was in no great position to appreciate the place, but today it comes into its own. The reading room has been here since 1864, built in memory of an officer from the Battle of Trafalgar, it was intended as a place for sailors, coastguards and lifeboatmen to meet, away from the pubs and other distractions. Today it is still frequented by local seafarers, working and retired.
I amble up into the town, past stylish “cottages” and smart townhouses that are characteristic of Southwold, many neatly set on a grassy common. It’s another “Chelsea-on-Sea” as people like to call it (Brancaster village in Norfolk that I visited last year is another) thought people here are more predominantly representative of the traditional conservative type than those of trendy SW3. There are plenty of tea rooms; this week’s theatrical event is proudly advertised by a banner spanning the high street.
My first stop is the Sailor’s Reading Room, which having stopped at yesterday appears to be an ideal place for me to write up notes of my journey so far. Yesterday I was in no great position to appreciate the place, but today it comes into its own. The reading room has been here since 1864, built in memory of an officer from the Battle of Trafalgar, it was intended as a place for sailors, coastguards and lifeboatmen to meet, away from the pubs and other distractions. Today it is still frequented by local seafarers, working and retired.
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| Sailor's Reading Room, Southwold |
Though you can see pictures of the exterior of the Reading Room on the web, photographs are expressly forbidden inside, and in any case my camera is still very sick, so here is a little description.
The inside of this brick built single storey building has a vaulted ceiling (following the line of the roof) and is divided into two halves, front and back, by a wooden partition wall. The front part that you enter from the front door is the Reading Room itself, and on the other side through a wooden door in front of you is the games room, which is open only to members, with access by a combination lock. On the right as you go in, there is a long wooden table with room for ten chairs around it (four down each side, and one at both ends). On it are newspapers and a few books, including Southwold: An Earthly Paradise by Geoffrey C. Munn, an excellent large format pictorial book of essays covering the history, industry and art of the town. On the right hand wall are also a number of upright easy chairs of the type you might expect to see in an old people’s home. On the other (left) side of the room, there is another table with benches around it, which has a number of glass cases with ships models and archaic fishing tools on display in them. And further to the left against the wall are more glass cases which contain more ship models and tools, as well as pictures and photographs and objects of curiousity or interest relating to the local seafaring industries. On the wooden dividing wall aforementioned, there are mounted four quite large ships’ figureheads. The first is male and in admiral’s uniform, and may be intended to represent Nelson, though if so the resemblance does not seem a very good one. The other three figureheads are of the more traditional female variety. Every other bit of wall space that can be reached is covered with photographs and pictures, mainly of sailors, though pictures of ships, boats and their crews are also up there.
I sit, read Munn’s Southwold, and write my notes. For a while, two old seamen, presumably members, come and sit down to talk to each other about goings on in the town. One bemoans the lack of activity in preparation for the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee in 2012. Tourists and sightseers pop in and out too, looking around and dropping money in the collection box as they go out (the Reading Room is run as a charity and funded by voluntary contributions). One gentleman, seeing me writing at the table and supposing me to be there in an official capacity, thanks me as he leaves. It’s nice to feel part of the furniture for a while and I don’t trouble to correct him.
When the afternoon comes, I head out into the town and find a few things in the Co-op to eat (high street supermarkets in Suffolk are invariably Co-ops). I walk past a newsagent and see the newspaper headlines - EURO CRISIS SENDS SHARES CRASHING - is this the beginning of the double dip recession?
Southwold has two tall landmarks, one is the white lighthouse rising from the heart of the town by the promenade, and the other a concrete water tower slightly inland on Southwold Common. It is in front of the water town that I stop and eat a cornish pasty for lunch. At the foot of the water tower is the circus tent for the Wild West Show, and after my lunch I walk round it where horses and llamas graze behind temporary fences.
I decide to explore the part of the Suffolk Coast Path that I missed yesterday by taking the shorter route down the beach. I take the A1095 going north out of Southwold, and then take a right turn into the next-door village of Reydon, a pleasant enough settlement of houses old and not so old. While I’m lost for a moment, looking for the a Suffolk Coast Path marker, an elderly walker, in his 70s I’d guess and wearing light shorts, a polo shirt and trainers, comes pacing my way, and I ask him directions. About the location of the Suffolk Coast Path he knows nothing (as is usually the case with people you meet out walking), but he’s an experienced and enthusiastic walker and talker, and I listen for ten minutes or so to his various accounts of walks he’s taken around and about the county, and the health benefits to be had thereby, and then about bicycling, and then about the new bicyclie he is on his way to buy. I strain to follow what he’s saying on account of his thick Suffolk country accent, and while I half-listen to his rambling narrative I surreptitiously scrutinise his wiry, veiny legs and knobbly knees. Eventually we part. He is the only walker I am to see all day.
The path goes along Covert Road through the middle of Reydon. On the left are some little almshouses in a gated square, grouped around neat lawns, rose bushes, and a statue in the middle of an old woman, seated and with her hands occupied on her lap, perhaps with needlecraft or some other suitable occupation for an old maid or widow woman. A pretty setting; but each house has a christian exhortation in bold black lettering on white stucco backgrounds above the doorways - “BE KIND SWIFTLY”, “DO UNTO OTHERS…” enough to make it intolerable, surely, for any sane person to live here.
I go right down a narrower road leading to the charmingly named Smear Farm, where new houses are being built next to the existing, and very modern looking, farmhouse. Then comes a path, which is overgrown and nettly, going alongside pastures. The spongy path goes up a hill a way, and it is slow progress until I get to the road, which going left heads for South Cove.
Over the crest of the hill the hedgerows disappear and an expanse or reedbeds open out on both sides. At a small bridge that crosses a wide stream leading into Easton Broad I stop and admire a huge swan nestling majestically in the reeds, preening itself. Its once orange bill is bleached with age, almost white.
The inside of this brick built single storey building has a vaulted ceiling (following the line of the roof) and is divided into two halves, front and back, by a wooden partition wall. The front part that you enter from the front door is the Reading Room itself, and on the other side through a wooden door in front of you is the games room, which is open only to members, with access by a combination lock. On the right as you go in, there is a long wooden table with room for ten chairs around it (four down each side, and one at both ends). On it are newspapers and a few books, including Southwold: An Earthly Paradise by Geoffrey C. Munn, an excellent large format pictorial book of essays covering the history, industry and art of the town. On the right hand wall are also a number of upright easy chairs of the type you might expect to see in an old people’s home. On the other (left) side of the room, there is another table with benches around it, which has a number of glass cases with ships models and archaic fishing tools on display in them. And further to the left against the wall are more glass cases which contain more ship models and tools, as well as pictures and photographs and objects of curiousity or interest relating to the local seafaring industries. On the wooden dividing wall aforementioned, there are mounted four quite large ships’ figureheads. The first is male and in admiral’s uniform, and may be intended to represent Nelson, though if so the resemblance does not seem a very good one. The other three figureheads are of the more traditional female variety. Every other bit of wall space that can be reached is covered with photographs and pictures, mainly of sailors, though pictures of ships, boats and their crews are also up there.
I sit, read Munn’s Southwold, and write my notes. For a while, two old seamen, presumably members, come and sit down to talk to each other about goings on in the town. One bemoans the lack of activity in preparation for the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee in 2012. Tourists and sightseers pop in and out too, looking around and dropping money in the collection box as they go out (the Reading Room is run as a charity and funded by voluntary contributions). One gentleman, seeing me writing at the table and supposing me to be there in an official capacity, thanks me as he leaves. It’s nice to feel part of the furniture for a while and I don’t trouble to correct him.
When the afternoon comes, I head out into the town and find a few things in the Co-op to eat (high street supermarkets in Suffolk are invariably Co-ops). I walk past a newsagent and see the newspaper headlines - EURO CRISIS SENDS SHARES CRASHING - is this the beginning of the double dip recession?
Southwold has two tall landmarks, one is the white lighthouse rising from the heart of the town by the promenade, and the other a concrete water tower slightly inland on Southwold Common. It is in front of the water town that I stop and eat a cornish pasty for lunch. At the foot of the water tower is the circus tent for the Wild West Show, and after my lunch I walk round it where horses and llamas graze behind temporary fences.
I decide to explore the part of the Suffolk Coast Path that I missed yesterday by taking the shorter route down the beach. I take the A1095 going north out of Southwold, and then take a right turn into the next-door village of Reydon, a pleasant enough settlement of houses old and not so old. While I’m lost for a moment, looking for the a Suffolk Coast Path marker, an elderly walker, in his 70s I’d guess and wearing light shorts, a polo shirt and trainers, comes pacing my way, and I ask him directions. About the location of the Suffolk Coast Path he knows nothing (as is usually the case with people you meet out walking), but he’s an experienced and enthusiastic walker and talker, and I listen for ten minutes or so to his various accounts of walks he’s taken around and about the county, and the health benefits to be had thereby, and then about bicycling, and then about the new bicyclie he is on his way to buy. I strain to follow what he’s saying on account of his thick Suffolk country accent, and while I half-listen to his rambling narrative I surreptitiously scrutinise his wiry, veiny legs and knobbly knees. Eventually we part. He is the only walker I am to see all day.
The path goes along Covert Road through the middle of Reydon. On the left are some little almshouses in a gated square, grouped around neat lawns, rose bushes, and a statue in the middle of an old woman, seated and with her hands occupied on her lap, perhaps with needlecraft or some other suitable occupation for an old maid or widow woman. A pretty setting; but each house has a christian exhortation in bold black lettering on white stucco backgrounds above the doorways - “BE KIND SWIFTLY”, “DO UNTO OTHERS…” enough to make it intolerable, surely, for any sane person to live here.
I go right down a narrower road leading to the charmingly named Smear Farm, where new houses are being built next to the existing, and very modern looking, farmhouse. Then comes a path, which is overgrown and nettly, going alongside pastures. The spongy path goes up a hill a way, and it is slow progress until I get to the road, which going left heads for South Cove.
Over the crest of the hill the hedgerows disappear and an expanse or reedbeds open out on both sides. At a small bridge that crosses a wide stream leading into Easton Broad I stop and admire a huge swan nestling majestically in the reeds, preening itself. Its once orange bill is bleached with age, almost white.
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| Near South Cove |
The path leaves the road to the right to cross an area marked on the OS map as “Rough Walking”. The reeds are as high as my head and the path is a platform made of wooden sleepers meshed together with chickenwire; as my boots clonk along the wooden path, I wonder what marshy mess lies below. Further down I find out; the path is waterlogged in some places, and at one point I step forward hoping to feel the wooden path a few inches below to support me, but instead my left foot sinks straight down to my ankle into the mucky squelch below. Fortunately my right foot following finds something more solid and I’m able to heave my left foot out. Five minutes on and the path becomes grassy and overgrown with nettles and brambles too, and these crowd in and nag at my bare legs that show between my wooly socks and shorts. Then I come to the end of the reedbed, and climb up a little hill towards an fine oak tree and sit and look across the reed beds to where Easton Broad is before the seashore. Gaggles of geese rise from the invisibe pools from time to time, making a distant racket. With my binoculars I pick out a pretty bright brown bird with a lighter breast, sitting atop the branches of a bush, perhaps a bearded tit. I sniff my marsh mud saturated boot and sock - it smells rank and rotten.
Going back the way I came, I am lost in my thoughts. It is a beautiful day, which after yesterday’s rain comes as a great relief, but the sunshine has not entirely brightened my mood. I ponder my preference for travelling alone. As a child on holidays I would often wander off and explore on my own, rather than play with other kids. It is better, I have thought, to do a walk like this alone, because you are free to manage your time without compromise or consideration for the wishes of another,without needing to please or consider anyone else, and to come and go on impulse. The downside to the solitary approach is, of course, that you can get lonely, and being alone you may be inclined more to introspection, which, depending on events and the vaguaries of your mood, may not be happy. Today I question my inclination to be alone; why do I want to do this, rather than go and have fun with other people? Do I really want to be doing this? Right now, as I walk back dodging oncoming cars along this winding high hedged road, the answer is not really, frankly, no. But I don’t know what I want, and the clockwork hiking toy that is me keeps going, spring coiled, tramp, tramp, tramp, by field and farm, tramp tramp, back towards Smear Farm, then on to Reydon.
In Reydon again, I am in want of a cold drink, or some fruit, or an ice cream, or something; something comforting, or refreshing. Inside the village grocers shop that I hadn‘t seen when coming the other way, a ripe peach in my basket selected from the rack outside, everything inside me stops. Over the speakers in the shop, clear and sweet, Neil Young’s “Needle and the Damage Done” is playing. A song of love and loss, pain and grief, so beautiful, so familiar, and so meaningful to me and to my music loving community, at such an unexpected and incongruous time and place, with me somewhat physically and emotionally drained - I am stunned. I walk the aisles of the shop, enraptured, crushed but alive. Drinking in the music and the moment, I take deep breaths and purse my lips to choke back the tears.
Back at Southwold, early evening, I bump into a couple outside a pub near the white lighthouse and the Adnams brewery, who know me from my Sunday music event Come Down and Meet the folks. We have a couple of jars on the bench outside in the sunshine, then they’re off, and I grab a couple of tinnies at the Adnams shop in town, going past the great Adnams brewery on the way, and then buy some cooked chicken in the Co-op, which brewed up in one of my packets of chicken noodle broth makes a passable chicken stew back at the campsite.
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| Adnam's brewery, Southwold |
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| Southwold |
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