My journey begins as it did to Norfolk a year ago, with me humping my rucksack from my Stratford flat across the Angel Road Bridge to Stratford railway station. Last year’s Angel Road Bridge, however, has been replaced by a new one; a wider, longer curving structure fit to serve the traffic needs of the soon to be opened Westfield Shopping Centre and the Olympic games that will be taking place on my doorstep in a year’s time. I liked the old iron bridge better; it was a shorter, less toilsome walk. The new one, however, is a popular ramp for late night roller-skaters. Nearing the station, six canada geese in V formation fly over, towards the nearby River Lee.
It is about 7.30 am as I dodge my way along pavements teeming with commuters and building site workers to make my 7.45 Norwich train, which comes in on time. I change at Colchester and then again at Ipswich, where tannoy announcements and helpful station staff guide me and other travelers over the platform bridge to the 9.13 train to Lowestoft that’s waiting at platform 1A. There we settle in for the 1 ½ hour journey to the easternmost railway station in the British Isles.
Going through some nice, undulating Suffolk countryside, now softly sunlit, the train chugs along, never speeding up that much before slowing down for successive stations. Westerfield, Woodbridge, Melton, Wickham Market, Saxmundham, and Darsham come and go, townsfolk wait and watch at level crossings as the train passes through. The train’s pleasant progress is spoiled somewhat by a screaming infant, whose mother stoically ignores her and continues chatting to her friend as the child writhes in its pushchair and shrieks extravagantly.… Halesworth, Brampton, Beccles, Oulton Broad South, finally Lowestoft and we can all escape the row and make our way off the train.
Before I went on my Norfolk walk last year my friend Patrick Arbuthnot gave me a copy of The Rings Of Saturn by WG Sebald. Sebald was head of German Literature at UEA twenty years ago when Patrick’s wife Gerlinda taught there. The Rings Of Saturn records a journey on foot through coastal Suffolk, and connects its people and places, past and present, with historic world events and places (Belsen, Waterloo, Bosnia, pre-revolutionary China) and wider historic themes (war, prosperity and decline, human folly, genocide). I’ve read this strange and haunting book a couple of times in the last year, and it is my intention to look through it during this morning’s journey to remind myself of places of particular significance that I’ll soon by passing near. With the screaming child and the usual other train journey distractions I have made poor progress with my revision, so at 10.45 am, with plenty of time in the day before me, I spend about an hour sitting in the sunshine on the platform reacquainting myself with Sebald’s Suffolk : the Sailor’s Reading Room in Southwold, the decaying splendour of Morton Peto’s Somerleyton Hall, the great mediaeval town beneath the sea that was Dunwich, the site of the Secret Weapons Research Establishment in Orford Ness. As I read, the crowded station around me gradually empties, and then slowly begins to re-populate itself with fresh travelers. Satisfied that I’ve read what I need to, I carefully ease my rucksack onto my shoulders and start on my way into town. Not wishing to be burdened with the book on the rest of the trip, I leave the Rings of Saturn behind on the bench, with a paper bookmark inside saying “read me”. I will buy another copy when I get home.
It is about 7.30 am as I dodge my way along pavements teeming with commuters and building site workers to make my 7.45 Norwich train, which comes in on time. I change at Colchester and then again at Ipswich, where tannoy announcements and helpful station staff guide me and other travelers over the platform bridge to the 9.13 train to Lowestoft that’s waiting at platform 1A. There we settle in for the 1 ½ hour journey to the easternmost railway station in the British Isles.
Going through some nice, undulating Suffolk countryside, now softly sunlit, the train chugs along, never speeding up that much before slowing down for successive stations. Westerfield, Woodbridge, Melton, Wickham Market, Saxmundham, and Darsham come and go, townsfolk wait and watch at level crossings as the train passes through. The train’s pleasant progress is spoiled somewhat by a screaming infant, whose mother stoically ignores her and continues chatting to her friend as the child writhes in its pushchair and shrieks extravagantly.… Halesworth, Brampton, Beccles, Oulton Broad South, finally Lowestoft and we can all escape the row and make our way off the train.
Before I went on my Norfolk walk last year my friend Patrick Arbuthnot gave me a copy of The Rings Of Saturn by WG Sebald. Sebald was head of German Literature at UEA twenty years ago when Patrick’s wife Gerlinda taught there. The Rings Of Saturn records a journey on foot through coastal Suffolk, and connects its people and places, past and present, with historic world events and places (Belsen, Waterloo, Bosnia, pre-revolutionary China) and wider historic themes (war, prosperity and decline, human folly, genocide). I’ve read this strange and haunting book a couple of times in the last year, and it is my intention to look through it during this morning’s journey to remind myself of places of particular significance that I’ll soon by passing near. With the screaming child and the usual other train journey distractions I have made poor progress with my revision, so at 10.45 am, with plenty of time in the day before me, I spend about an hour sitting in the sunshine on the platform reacquainting myself with Sebald’s Suffolk : the Sailor’s Reading Room in Southwold, the decaying splendour of Morton Peto’s Somerleyton Hall, the great mediaeval town beneath the sea that was Dunwich, the site of the Secret Weapons Research Establishment in Orford Ness. As I read, the crowded station around me gradually empties, and then slowly begins to re-populate itself with fresh travelers. Satisfied that I’ve read what I need to, I carefully ease my rucksack onto my shoulders and start on my way into town. Not wishing to be burdened with the book on the rest of the trip, I leave the Rings of Saturn behind on the bench, with a paper bookmark inside saying “read me”. I will buy another copy when I get home.
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| Lowestoft Station |
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| Lowestoft Town Centre, midday |
I head for the town’s London Road high street, where there is the familiar mix of retailer chains, banks and charity shops you find in most English towns. I have promised myself some lightweight binoculars for this trip, having missed a lot without any last year in Norfolk, so I go into Jessops camera shop and quickly select a light and compact pair for £50. The acne faced shop assistant explains the merits of their 3 year extended warranty package and then affects astonishment when I decline to part with the additional £14.
Out on London Road, an elderly Christian evangelist is weakly attempting to interest passers-by in an even more dubious form of cover; “an insurance policy against death” – namely The Bible - a copy of which he feebly waves about, attracting only blasphemous indifference from passers by. A little further along a group of alcoholics gathers to pass the time of day at a bench and drink strong alcohol. They are old, young, disabled, wasted - drink brings them together.
Out on London Road, an elderly Christian evangelist is weakly attempting to interest passers-by in an even more dubious form of cover; “an insurance policy against death” – namely The Bible - a copy of which he feebly waves about, attracting only blasphemous indifference from passers by. A little further along a group of alcoholics gathers to pass the time of day at a bench and drink strong alcohol. They are old, young, disabled, wasted - drink brings them together.
Turning away right towards the sea I pass the Marina Theatre (“TONIGHT – THE HOLLIES“) then come out to where a huge white wind turbine turns slowly on the harbour front. Opposite and dwarfed by it, the Bethel Seaman’s Mission is now home to the Lowestoft Players. Next door is a bingo hall, where smoking security officers watch over mobility scooters parked out front. Round the corner there is a scruffy but still interesting and attractive parade of offices and shopfronts for businesses connected with the fishing and seafaring industries. Columbus Buildings’ old tiled façade depicts an armada of sailing ships with flags from many countries. A chandler’s shop appears closed but there’s a fading sign with a website address and phone number in the window. Next door there are signs of life in the Colne Shipping Company Office. The fishing industry in Lowestoft may be nothing to what it was, but it is still here.
I walk round the curve of the harbour, over a bridge and back round towards the South Pier. Yachts nestle in the harbour marina. There is little sign that their wealthy owners are bringing prosperity to the town. Too many of the people of Lowestoft going past appear down at heel and in a poor state of repair, like much of their surroundings. Bad diets, bad teeth, bad breath, and some very bad tattoos, all in evidence.
I stop outside the South Pier “Family Entertainment Centre”. Children dash about between the water fountains squirting out between the pavings near the pier entrance, laughing and shouting, whilst parents and people in wheelchairs look on. I ease off my pack onto a wooden bench outside a seafood stall, and buy myself a small polystyrene tub of cockles. A cockney family at the table next to me argue among themselves while I finish my rubbery and tasteless snack, which leaves a grey liquid of water, vinegar and black pepper in the bottom of the tub. I could almost be persuaded that seafood really is as revolting as some people think it is. Further along I compensate myself with a whipped ice cream cone on the promenade as I re-commence my walk.
It is a hot day now at the peak of the English Summer holiday season. The fine sandy beach below the promenade is peppered with scantily clad young holidaymakers making the most of the fine weather. On the prom there are more of the same, but also many elderly people, people in wheelchairs and scooters, and working people. An asian woman in her private nursing home uniform goes by.
My destination is Kessingland, a large village 3 or so miles down the coast. Despite my heavy pack, I overtake 3 lads in t-shirts who I overhear are planning to “get ‘ammered” tonight. As I go past I attract their unwanted attention; “he ain’t gonna pull t’noit” quips one. Another makes a remark about a kaftan - presumably some insinuation that with my beige fishing hat, my longish curly red hair, my navy blue short sleeved cowboy shirt, green shorts, and Caterpillar walking boots, I look like some kind of hippy. On a promenade full of a great many human odds and sods do I really merit their attention? My only response to them is to tilt slightly forward and thunder on, and to steadily put distance between myself and them. I go down a narrow alley alongside some holiday flats on the front, across a grassy expanse atop some cliffs, and regain the path further on. This takes me along Pakefield Cliffs, past the old Pakefield Church, with pretty flint cottages opposite the church gates.
I walk round the curve of the harbour, over a bridge and back round towards the South Pier. Yachts nestle in the harbour marina. There is little sign that their wealthy owners are bringing prosperity to the town. Too many of the people of Lowestoft going past appear down at heel and in a poor state of repair, like much of their surroundings. Bad diets, bad teeth, bad breath, and some very bad tattoos, all in evidence.
I stop outside the South Pier “Family Entertainment Centre”. Children dash about between the water fountains squirting out between the pavings near the pier entrance, laughing and shouting, whilst parents and people in wheelchairs look on. I ease off my pack onto a wooden bench outside a seafood stall, and buy myself a small polystyrene tub of cockles. A cockney family at the table next to me argue among themselves while I finish my rubbery and tasteless snack, which leaves a grey liquid of water, vinegar and black pepper in the bottom of the tub. I could almost be persuaded that seafood really is as revolting as some people think it is. Further along I compensate myself with a whipped ice cream cone on the promenade as I re-commence my walk.
It is a hot day now at the peak of the English Summer holiday season. The fine sandy beach below the promenade is peppered with scantily clad young holidaymakers making the most of the fine weather. On the prom there are more of the same, but also many elderly people, people in wheelchairs and scooters, and working people. An asian woman in her private nursing home uniform goes by.
My destination is Kessingland, a large village 3 or so miles down the coast. Despite my heavy pack, I overtake 3 lads in t-shirts who I overhear are planning to “get ‘ammered” tonight. As I go past I attract their unwanted attention; “he ain’t gonna pull t’noit” quips one. Another makes a remark about a kaftan - presumably some insinuation that with my beige fishing hat, my longish curly red hair, my navy blue short sleeved cowboy shirt, green shorts, and Caterpillar walking boots, I look like some kind of hippy. On a promenade full of a great many human odds and sods do I really merit their attention? My only response to them is to tilt slightly forward and thunder on, and to steadily put distance between myself and them. I go down a narrow alley alongside some holiday flats on the front, across a grassy expanse atop some cliffs, and regain the path further on. This takes me along Pakefield Cliffs, past the old Pakefield Church, with pretty flint cottages opposite the church gates.
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| London Road, Lowestoft |
My route is signposted along its way by small blue circular markers with “Suffolk Coast Path” in yellow lettering and a big yellow arrow in the middle to indicate direction. At a small suburb of railway carriages converted into holiday homes, one of these markers point me inland and at a roundabout adjacent to some industrial units another directs me left onto a continuation of the London Road. On a telegraph pole I notice a poster for the “ALL AMERICAN WILD WEST SHOW” that’s on in Southwold. This might be an interesting diversion when I get there. Further on I go past the Pontins Holiday Camp at Pakenham. I am reminded of a bleak Easter “holiday” I had six years ago with my daughter at Pontins Camber Sands. Surely it’s only a matter of time before these worn out old holiday camps go out of business.
Heathland Beach Caravan Park where I’m staying is, thankfully, as good a campsite as you will find. The owners in the reception and shop are genuinely welcoming and friendly, there’s a really nice swimming pool (with a water chute kids!) a fishing lake, a bar, good facilities, and they are only charging me £10 for a night. After pitching up I chat to my elderly neighbours in a camper van for ten minutes, then go along a field to the beach, accessible via scaffolded steps down the cliff. Six years ago flint tools from 700,000 years ago were discovered in these cliffs, which establish this as one of the earliest inhabited parts of Britain. It’s hot and sunny and I take a dip in the sea (cold!), and try out my new binoculars.
There is something very satisfying about looking at things with binoculars; it’s like your own secret silent movie show, (silent because what you see it to distant to be heard), allowing you to be observing but unobserved. Of course, a degree of circumspection is required when pointing binoculars in the direction of people and their children, especially when they are scantily clad on a beach, so I mostly train my glasses on birds and distant objects. Even watching a common bird like a gull is fascinating and absorbing as you follow it in flight, on the water or feeding, picking out the details of its appearance, movement and behaviour. On the horizon I follow a white yacht, and then a fast moving small grey naval vessel, a gunboat or frigate.
Having eaten little more than the cockles and ice cream I had earlier, I walk into Kessingland around six o’clock to get something to eat. On my way in on the London Road I assume I am approaching some charming seaside settlement, but I am disappointed. I take a left turn at a sign pointing to “local shops” and “FISH AND CHIPS” and approach a large estate of 60s built houses. Two boys walk by, and the eldest one, about ten years old and eating a bag of chips, eyes me with disgust. A moment or so later I hear a few choice but indecipherable Suffolk profanities shouted in my direction. Maintaining the policy of non-engagement I employed earlier on Lowestoft promenade, I press on in search of the chip shop, through the extensive estate of what is now probably former council housing. A small shopping precinct presents itself, consisting of the chip shop, a convenience shop, and one closed down. In the chip shop, a young man with bad complexion and a gaunt, asymetric face takes my order and gives me a raffle ticket with the number 36 on it. He reminds me of the banjo picker in Deliverance. Waiting for my haddock and chips I sit at a table and look at the East Anglian Daily Times; a knife amnesty is being offered by local police at the moment. When my number comes round I take my fish supper wrapped and leave the shop hastily, to look for a nice spot by the sea to go and eat.
But the sea isn’t nearby, I have walked further inland than I supposed, and now I walk blindly down one street after another, through houses and bungalows, my warm white packet in hand, annoyed. I left my bottle of water in the chip shop. Damn! A people carrier car goes by, with a family inside, and idiotic hoots of derision fly in my direction as they go round the corner. What is it with this place? I live in Newham, East London. I’ve lived in Camden, Kilburn, Hackney, Islington, and I never get a peep out of anyone, barely EVER! I go for a nice walk in Suffolk, and they are practically queuing up to have a pop at me. Good grief!
Going down Rider Haggard Way (the novelist was a resident once, I learn) and past red brick retirement bungalows, I finally get onto the coast path. But high hedges divide me from a satisfying sea view, and I settle at the edge of a field to eat my meal. The fish is good, but there is something incongruous about eating chips in a wheat field. In the middle distance I can see the rooftops of Kessingland, and coming from the same direction I can hear, from time to time, the chimes of an ice cream van, playing the tune of the Sailor’s Hornpipe. A black labrador out for a walk attempts to share some of my dinner - it doesn’t succeed.
Heathland Beach Caravan Park where I’m staying is, thankfully, as good a campsite as you will find. The owners in the reception and shop are genuinely welcoming and friendly, there’s a really nice swimming pool (with a water chute kids!) a fishing lake, a bar, good facilities, and they are only charging me £10 for a night. After pitching up I chat to my elderly neighbours in a camper van for ten minutes, then go along a field to the beach, accessible via scaffolded steps down the cliff. Six years ago flint tools from 700,000 years ago were discovered in these cliffs, which establish this as one of the earliest inhabited parts of Britain. It’s hot and sunny and I take a dip in the sea (cold!), and try out my new binoculars.
There is something very satisfying about looking at things with binoculars; it’s like your own secret silent movie show, (silent because what you see it to distant to be heard), allowing you to be observing but unobserved. Of course, a degree of circumspection is required when pointing binoculars in the direction of people and their children, especially when they are scantily clad on a beach, so I mostly train my glasses on birds and distant objects. Even watching a common bird like a gull is fascinating and absorbing as you follow it in flight, on the water or feeding, picking out the details of its appearance, movement and behaviour. On the horizon I follow a white yacht, and then a fast moving small grey naval vessel, a gunboat or frigate.
Having eaten little more than the cockles and ice cream I had earlier, I walk into Kessingland around six o’clock to get something to eat. On my way in on the London Road I assume I am approaching some charming seaside settlement, but I am disappointed. I take a left turn at a sign pointing to “local shops” and “FISH AND CHIPS” and approach a large estate of 60s built houses. Two boys walk by, and the eldest one, about ten years old and eating a bag of chips, eyes me with disgust. A moment or so later I hear a few choice but indecipherable Suffolk profanities shouted in my direction. Maintaining the policy of non-engagement I employed earlier on Lowestoft promenade, I press on in search of the chip shop, through the extensive estate of what is now probably former council housing. A small shopping precinct presents itself, consisting of the chip shop, a convenience shop, and one closed down. In the chip shop, a young man with bad complexion and a gaunt, asymetric face takes my order and gives me a raffle ticket with the number 36 on it. He reminds me of the banjo picker in Deliverance. Waiting for my haddock and chips I sit at a table and look at the East Anglian Daily Times; a knife amnesty is being offered by local police at the moment. When my number comes round I take my fish supper wrapped and leave the shop hastily, to look for a nice spot by the sea to go and eat.
But the sea isn’t nearby, I have walked further inland than I supposed, and now I walk blindly down one street after another, through houses and bungalows, my warm white packet in hand, annoyed. I left my bottle of water in the chip shop. Damn! A people carrier car goes by, with a family inside, and idiotic hoots of derision fly in my direction as they go round the corner. What is it with this place? I live in Newham, East London. I’ve lived in Camden, Kilburn, Hackney, Islington, and I never get a peep out of anyone, barely EVER! I go for a nice walk in Suffolk, and they are practically queuing up to have a pop at me. Good grief!
Going down Rider Haggard Way (the novelist was a resident once, I learn) and past red brick retirement bungalows, I finally get onto the coast path. But high hedges divide me from a satisfying sea view, and I settle at the edge of a field to eat my meal. The fish is good, but there is something incongruous about eating chips in a wheat field. In the middle distance I can see the rooftops of Kessingland, and coming from the same direction I can hear, from time to time, the chimes of an ice cream van, playing the tune of the Sailor’s Hornpipe. A black labrador out for a walk attempts to share some of my dinner - it doesn’t succeed.
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| Suffolk Coast sustenance |
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