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A Naked Nutter and an Election

Stage 232, 19th November: Hoo St Werburgh to Kemsley

It was a cold, misty but thankfully dry start back on the Saxon Shore Way. For a change I found myself following a shoreline, even if was only the shore of the River Medway. Nonetheless it was better than a sea-wall with no sea in sight or unkempt sticky fields with pylons for a view.  DSCF5903This short stretch of narrow sandy shingle took me through the quaint villages of Lower and Upper Upnor and on towards Strood and Rochester with the peculiar sight of a dilapidated former Soviet Navy submarine moored and gently rotting away in the foreground to the misty cathedral and castle framed background of an ancient town and former city.

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Rochester was purportedly one of Charles Dickens’ favourite haunts and a place where he based some of his novels. Having seen the grim and bleak reality of much of the marshland recently I could certainly vouch for the Dickensian heritage. But today Rochester was famous for something much more pressing. By-election fever was in town and there were clusters of heavy lens clad photographers hanging about trying to get a snap of some political heavyweights due in town to fight their corner. I noted equally numerous clusters of eastern european immigrants hanging about on street corners too and had a passing suspicion that maybe they had been planted there by the UKIP candidate. UKIP were favourites to win and in this neck of the woods the lot sitting in the blue corner would only be fighting an opponent from another blue corner.

Rochester, Chatham, Brompton and Gillingham all merged into one another and though the Saxon Shore Way insisted that I take the tourist route to pass by a castle, a cathedral and the odd museum or two,  I saw through their cynicism and wandered straight into the high streets to try to get a feel for the real Medway towns…. and maybe sneak in a quick pie from Greggs.

As I left the Gillingham suburbs the Saxon Shore Way lost its way a bit and headed inland for me to enjoy the pleasures of a few more muddy fields and paths through to the bleak backwaters of Iwade and Kemsley hiding in the mainland shadows of the huge industrial plants over on the Isle of Sheppey. Ian had somehow found an open campsite with hardstanding, we were the only residents and we kept the doors locked.

Stage 233, 20th November: Kemsley to Whitstable

I barely skirted Sittingbourne and the huge paper mill at Kemsley. Now it was the turn of a grass topped sea-wall alongside the River Swale and a view out to the Isle of Sheppey. It was nearly ten miles of a dreary dull backdrop on a dreary dull day with only the boating haven of Teynham and the Swale Marina to break the monotony and give some respite to my numbing brain. But even the most picturesque villages can look dull on a grey late autumn day and Teynham was no exception.

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The sea-wall ended as I dipped sharply inland at Faversham where Shepherd Neame, the oldest brewery in Britain, lay temptingly in waiting.  I resisted the urge to nip in and opted for the joys of thick brown slippery wet fields back out towards the coast at Seasalter. Yes, it was coast. Not river bank, not marsh, not farmland but coast, proper coast with waves – admittedly small ones –  breaking against the shore. However, Ian had texted to forewarn me of a bizarre and disturbing sight to steer well clear of. In searching for a campsite (so he claimed) he had come across a rather large, greasy man sitting naked in his car in a public car park and watching pornography.  By the time I got there the man in the blue Proton had fortunately dressed himself but was still sitting there idly leering into the distance towards a nearby block of public toilets. I resisted the call of nature and pressed on quickly giving him my hardest “pervert” scowl as I strode passed. It was a subject of much mirth between Ian and I, as we likened his appearance to someone we both knew, but in truth it was a little disturbing and if he had still been naked when I passed by I think a call to the local constabulary would have been required.

Whitstable was my next town and last stop for the day. This small seaside town is renowned for its oysters but had recently become the predominant haunt of trendy Londonites. As a result, house prices had soared and though the quaint old pubs still existed they looked a little expensive for a quick pie and a pint.

Stage 234, 21st November: Whitstable to Kingsgate

Today I had the rare pleasure of keeping my feet dry and giving my boots an opportunity to fully dry out for the first time in, what felt like, weeks – if not months. Not only was the weather dry but so were the esplanades, promenades, paths and concrete topped sea-walls that I kept to all day. It was now more of a gentrified North Kent coast. The cleansed and modernised Herne Bay sea front set the tone and this continued unabated as I dropped out of sight from the town below the low cliffs of Bishopstone.  Cliffs! Yes, Cliffs at last!

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From St Mary’s Church and the roman fort at Reculver I was now on the Thanet Coastal Path and a concrete sea-wall took me along for an hour into Birchington. I now had my first proper sighting of chalk on the Kent coast and though they might not be the spectacular white cliffs of Dover they were still white cliffs and the path stuck firmly to their feet, meandering around the small headlands and hiding the town from view. I briefly emerged at Westgate Bay and Margate only to hide again as Cliftonville sat somewhere above me. The buildings now at the foot of the cliff told me a different story to the comparative wealth I had seen over the day. Cliftonville was rundown, decrepit and in dire need of regeneration. It certainly had an elegant if not grandiose past but it had lost that guilt edge and now sat at the bottom end of Kent’s towns of desire list.

An early start to allow Ian to head back to Berkshire for some rare time at home meant that I finished early and made my last formal crew change of the entire walk. I could have happily spent much more time in Ian’s company. We spent the evenings having devil’s advocate discussions about the world’s problems and by talking complete nonsense about any other trivia that might come to mind. We were always good at talking rubbish together and things hadn’t changed, other than a large reduction in alcohol intake. I was grateful to him for giving up his week to support me and though he managed to remain connected and get some work done, I don’t think it was as much as he had intended. Former work contact and long-standing friend, Mike, now took over and he picked me up and ensconced me back at his house in Birchington for some R&R and a new base camp.

 

Miles to Date:  4,807.2    Ascent to Date: 523,724 ft

 

 

 

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Wrestling mud to the Thames

Stage 229, 16th November: Hullbridge to Shoeburyness

Ian and I arrived in Hullbridge to be greeted by an old friend of Cousin Mike, Graham, who strangely wanted to meet up with me, the nutter who had completed nearly 4,700 miles but still wanted to do 350 more. It was a quick but much appreciated greeting and as he wished me well I made my way back to the sea-wall.

The sea-wall walk wasn’t as long-lived as expected. The Environment Agency had closed it half a mile further along due to a collapse. It wasn’t a good start to the day. I doubled back to find a route through to the road so that I could continue my journey East and back down the River Crouch. It was also a huge frustration that the EA couldn’t be bothered to warn me about the closure at Hullbridge. It was by no means the first time I’d come across closed paths with no forewarning or diversion in place and I put it down to laziness.

The road walk wasn’t much fun either. It was another one of those narrow winding Essex lanes which had become overrun with fast-moving traffic and more of it than was ever intended. Thus I tried to cut back to the sea-wall a few times, but to no avail. A plethora of ‘Keep Out’ signs kept me well back and the English land privacy disease was on full show.

I stayed on the road to Canewdon where I stopped to check if I could find another way back towards my planned route. I met up with a speedy woman who had been walking behind me for a while. She introduced herself as Jacquie and pointed me a mile further up the road.  We took the option to walk together for 15 minutes and as two keen hikers we compared notes with a degree of mutually agreed nerdiness. Conversation was easy and welcome as I hadn’t walked with anyone for a while and sometimes, not always, it’s a real treat.

I cut off and down the Roach Valley Way as Jackie continued towards the marina at a noticeably quicker pace than me. Via deep trouser spattering mud I made my way to pretty Paglesham and after some more deep mud I met up for a quick chat with Leah, Simon and Merlin their golden retriever, who clearly enjoyed the gooey mess and whose bottom half was black with the stuff. Rather than having to bath a dog the rest of the afternoon was, for me, a series of wet muddy lanes and, yes, muddy paths and exceptionally muddy fields to Little Wakering. The rain which had started as drizzle gradually bulked itself up to become steady and heavy for the last two hours of a grim afternoon. A dark pavement walk straight into the warmth of Paul’s house in Shoeburyness to find dinner waiting and a hot shower was a big hit. Ian pointed out how this part of Essex was apparently the driest part of Britain and almost formally qualified as a desert. Alas, this fact was lost on me.

Stage 230, 17th November: Shoeburyness to Stanford-Le-Hope

I left Paul’s front door and made for the sea-front. With the recent number of estuaries and marshes a sea-front walk was almost a welcome novelty. The front at Southend-on-Sea wasn’t quite the usual tacky seaside town I was expecting. Yes it had the usual array of amusement arcades, cafes and trinket shops but in this instance they all seemed to sparkle and gleam with brightly coloured signs, fully functional lights and a pavement devoid of chip wrappers, empty coffee cups and fag ends. “Sowfend” seemed wealthier than most of the seaside towns I had seen and the surrounding housing seemed to attract prices only suited to a town within easy commuting distance of London.

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At Leigh-on-Sea I met up with Woody again who had driven Snickers back into England just over six weeks ago. He pounded a few miles out with me, giving me a fully guided tour of Hadleigh Country Park, his work place. It was a brief but lovely meeting and grand to have some company again if only for a short distance. We shook hands at Benfleet and he returned home to construct a potting shed.

I quickly suspected that the potting shed was an excuse and that Woody knew something I didn’t as I joined the Thames Estuary Way and rediscovered the statutory thick and very wet mud edging the marshes on my side with heavy industry edging it on the other.  The pathway wasn’t fully marked on my map but it was waymarked on the ground so I took a gamble and followed the finger-posts across muddy fields, along mucky tracks, down soaked paths and flooded lanes. I finally emerged at Fobbing to cross a brand new road into the new London Gateway Port and make my way to meet Ian waiting nervously in a less than salubrious car park, which looked as if it doubled as the local drug dealers hang out. We left the car park with the haste of a US Vietnam War helicopter pilot evacuating troops from a landing zone and made our way to the safety of Paul’s place back in Shoeburyness.

Stage 231, 18th November:  Stanford-Le-Hope to Hoo St Werburgh

We returned to Stanford and I was hastily dropped at the landing zone to disappear into the drenched wilderness of Essex once again. The pylons crackled and fizzed loudly above my head in the misty morning air as the former Coryton oil refinery and the new London Gateway port disappeared into the murk over my left shoulder.

Over the entire walk I had passed so many former industrial complexes. It was ex this, closed that and decommissioned others seemingly telling a sad British industrial tale. The port of London Gateway was a refreshing development on a very grand scale and one that was seemingly moving apace as opposed to the empty promises of a new energy park (wind-farm construction site) I’d seen at many barren and dormant former industrial yards.

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I made it to a treacherous lane into East Tilbury and found the sea-wall to follow-up river via the fittingly closed Tilbury power station. I made my last few Essex steps passing Tilbury Fort, supposedly the best preserved 17th century fortification in the country. A sparsely populated passenger ferry took me over to Gravesend and Kent took a bow.

Though another significant milestone had been passed, my entrance into Kent soon became all too familiar. Once out of the Dickensian back alleys Gravesend, I was soon on very familiar, very muddy ground of a sopping sea-wall.

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If it wasn’t for a brief meeting and affable moving chat with Chris and Anthony, walking the Kent county coastline, I probably would have sulked away the entire afternoon as I slipped and slid my way around to Cliffe Fort.  I then kept to my brief and stuck to the formal mainland by skirting the Isle of Grain and crossed more exceptionally muddy fields as I zipped from one village to the next.  The muddy clay soil cloyed to my boots until they were heavy with freshly thrown dinner plates stuck to their soles. They were washed clean in the flooded sections and recoated several times before I met up with Ian at Hoo St Werburgh sporting a thick layer of brown goo from the knees down.

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Another Sanity Test

Stage 226, 12th November: Heybridge Basin to Bradwell Waterside

It was a brief mile or so up the River Blackwater to Maldon and then a sharp turn to head back down it again, giving me a whole day in the company of a wide and muddy tidal river. I spent the next couple of hours dodging showers as I managed to walk East across the front of the first big black cloud approaching from the Southwest, which dropped its contents on Maldon now some distance behind me. The next two smaller ones hit me, but not enough to dampen my spirit and barely enough to really need the waterproofs I had put on in readiness.

It was very much an iPod day and any thoughts of a river being soothing company were lost as the monotony of the flat landscape became a soporific reality. A brief rainbow across St Lawrence Bay and Maylandsea woke me and an adder was the most sociable of creatures I saw all day, though I wouldn’t say that the hiss it gave me was a friendly greeting. I was amused by the sight of a riverside pool with a dozen plastic duck decoys bobbing around like corks. As I approached these were supplemented by two flapping and equally plastic ducks mounted on poles at the water’s edge. Finally I came across some camouflage netting and the barrel of a gun as a duck shooter scowled a begrudged greeting my way. I think I’d just ruined his day. He even had one of those plastic whistles that sound like a mumbling Donald Duck. I thought I looked ridiculous.

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Maylandsea, Mayland and The Stone were places which offered little of interest other than the odd boatyard and a few nondescript houses for me to throw a passing glance towards.  However, the light of the now rapidly setting sun cast a shallow winter warmth across the water to the nuclear power station a few miles away at Bradwell. The marina near Bradwell Waterside looked as if it might have given me some smart or antique boats to look at but sadly the sun had long gone by the time I got there and all I wanted to do was have a shower and get something to eat.

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Stage 227, 13th November: Bradwell Waterside to Creeksea

I was immediately back on the sea-bank again and started the day listening to the Anglo-Saxon shouts of the workers decommissioning the nuclear power station. Their words were soon silenced as distance grew and a cold wind blew in making me pull my woolly hat down low. The sea-bank and occasional stretches of concrete topped sea-wall continued in long straight sections interspersed with gentle curving ones and occasional sharp detours around a small inlet or sluice.

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To break the tedium a lovely golden retriever bounded up to me from distance with two terriers trailing behind. After a barked greeting we were best of pals in seconds as Lennon stood on my foot and leant against my thigh slobbering as I compared ailments and doggy traits with his owner, Pam.

A few miles of real seaside didn’t last as I took a turn up the River Crouch. It brought little change to the terrain or the scenery and only a few huge thudding explosions from the range over the estuary at Foulness gave me any interest. I had a passing thought that I might have just seen a large chemical incident and briefly worried as a heavy rusty coloured smoke cloud skimmed across the bay in my direction. The cordite smell reassured me as the rest of the day sunk into obscurity.

By the time I arrived in Burnham-on-Crouch the cold wind had brought in some rain and I counted four sailing / yacht clubs along a clearly prosperous but short waterfront. The large marina half a mile further on was full of brash displays of wealth but with summer long gone I barely noticed any activity. The only noise was a strangely comforting one and I liken the sound of the wind drumming the rigging against the yacht masts to that of alpine cow-bells.

Stage 228, 14th November: Creeksea to Hullbridge

Heavy rain had been forecast from home and it arrived early morning to wake me and drip into Snickers bathroom a little too easily. Paul and I checked the skylight for leaks. What skylight? Was this another case of “It just fell off”?

With Snickers now an open-topped vehicle, Paul had a job on his hands looking for an urgent replacement and I headed out into the rain hoping his plastic bag patch wasn’t a long-term fix.

I continued up the River Crouch following yet more sea-bank and wall. The rain on my back wasn’t too much of a problem but the thick gooey mud underfoot was and every step seemed to make my feet slip away in random directions. Progression was slow.  By late morning the rain had eased, but I knew the mud would stay with me till Southampton now that the sun was weak and grass growth had slowed. It was the first time that I had really thought of the end. My family and friends had been mentioning it for a while, but I saw that as a minor irritation and had been in denial, trying to concentrate on one day or, at the outside, one week at a time. With over 90% of the walk complete I had entered the nervous nineties and the slow muddy progression would probably be mirrored in the clock ticking away in my head. I was preparing myself for a few mentally testing weeks. It really didn’t help that the whole walk up river via South Woodham Ferrers and back down again via the antique traders kingdom of Battlebridge was a featureless walk.

I ended the week with the sun going down over the pylons and yet more sea-wall to Hullbridge. Paul cheered my mood considerably with a newly fitted second-hand skylight. By the sound of his day it was entirely possible that his blood pressure had been tested a smidge. In my eyes he was a star for getting it fixed so quickly.

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Rest Day, 15th November: Shoeburyness

With the salubrious nature of our campsite, the slug populated showers and cold damp toilets by torchlight encouraged an early start. I dropped Paul off at Wickford station and I said my heart-felt thanks as he boarded a train for London with, I suspect, some relief to escape my slightly surreal, cold and muddy world. It had been a tough week for finding stopovers open to receive a motorhome and for driving the lanes of Essex with impatient drivers pushing their way through. The behaviour of drivers had changed hugely over the last few weeks and with every step closer to London the driving was undoubtedly getting faster, more aggressive and less courteous. It’s not a trait I like of the Southeast but it is a comment on how busy this part of Britain is and how overcrowding breeds an uncaring selfishness.

I picked up old uni pal Ian a couple of hours later and we headed over to stay with his brother Paul in Shoeburyness. An afternoon watching England lose to South Africa at Twickenham was a rare treat and looking at a large television screen was an alien experience with the colours and camera work almost hypnotising me into a restful doze on the sofa.

Miles to date: 4,678.2   Ascent to date: 519,282 ft

 

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The Only Way is….

Rest Day, 8th November: Harwich

A week of hot baths and comfort was over and it was back into Snickers in an attempt to re-establish the routine I had lost from being pampered by my family. Not that the comfort was unwelcome, far from it, but the increasingly long distance shuttling to and from my start / finish points had added dead-time into my day. With time a precious commodity I had begun to feel like I was hurrying to finish my walking in order to get back to base at a reasonable hour and then rushing to get everything else done before bed. But it was my choice and on reflection I wouldn’t have done anything different.

I said my goodbyes and deepest thanks to Steve, Anita and my mum, who undoubtedly still viewed me as her youngest little boy doing something a little bit silly but who also liked to follow my every step with worry. It was then on for a very big and beautifully presented breakfast at a seaside cafe in Lowestoft before heading down for the long drive to Harwich to meet up with Amanda from the SIA and her boyfriend Moz. Together we picked up my next driver, Paul, from Harwich and we all headed back to Snickers for a cuppa and a natter before Amanda and Moz made their way home and Paul settled into my rather strange little world.

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Stage 223, 9th November: Harwich to Clacton-on-Sea

It had rained heavily all night and the morning still had some more to give. Thankfully it was gradually easing. Once I was out of Harwich it was sea-bank again until I reached Irlam’s Beach where I darted inland to navigate around the marshes of Hamford Water Nature Reserve. The trail took me across fields and almost as far inland as Little and Great Oakley. Five miles later, I was back walking the tops of sea-bank again, which gradually grew in height as the coast closed in.

At Kirby-le-Soken I took the road down towards Walton-on-the-Naze and regained, what I had started to recently consider, as a rare sea view and I positively revelled in the ease of a promenade walk. This continued down to Frinton-on-Sea. Not that I could see anything of Frinton. My view inland was endless rows, sometimes four deep, of beach huts. I’m told Frinton is a lovely little town. For me it looked more like a rather cutely painted shanty town perched on the sea’s edge.

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The promenade became sea-wall before the wall gave way to more promenade as Holland-on-Sea and Clacton-on-Sea approached. I was beginning to wonder why they had to name all the towns around here as being ‘on something or other’. I thought it might be overstating the obvious.

Stage 224, 10th November: Clacton-on-Sea to Colchester

It was a lovely crisp morning and nearly twenty-four hours of dry weather had certainly helped ease the squelching sogginess under foot. Clacton promenade continued for a good couple of miles before more sea-wall took me to Jaywick. As I approached Jaywick three women overtook me at pace. I was miffed that my statistics for being overtaken had been trashed in one group hit, but as they stopped a few hundred metres further up the path I wasn’t sure whether I should count them as a legitimate overtake (I have). I stopped for a quick chat and their jaws dropped noticeably jaws when Vanessa, Jane and Naomi heard of my little venture. I did wonder how long this trip would have taken me if I had kept up their pace and as they returned for their egg and bacon sandwich, I continued on at my steady 3.2 mph pace.

The sea-wall became sea-bank again as signs warned me of an upcoming Naturist Beach. Considering the chill breeze the beach was understandably and, to my utter relief, empty. Even the thought of letting everything hang loose in this weather was enough to shrink-wrap a polar bear and my bear was very cosy thank you very much.

Sea-bank gave way to muddy farmland for a few miles before I returned to the waterside at Brightlingsea, now a mottled brown colour from the thighs down. I was progressing at speed and was hoping to complete my planned 23 miles before dark. Alas an OS error in marking a ford crossing of Alresford Creek spoilt my plans. The tide was well in and I had a strong doubt  that anything other than a mudskipper would even try to ford here when the tide was out. So three more miles via a little bit of unplanned and unavoidable trespassing meant that Wivenhoe could only be seen in the dark. It was a shame as the ancient port looked like it had a very pretty quayside without being overly quaint or contrived. At least the path out of Wivenhoe was fast and even under foot. The only thing to worry about was approaching cyclists making their way home with overly bright 10,000 watt lights shining their way but blinding me and anyone else going towards Colchester.

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Stage 225, 11th November: Colchester to Heybridge Basin

Another dry day and my boots could relax in the knowledge that they might get to dry out properly. The first mile out of Colchester was very promising but the next few miles weren’t so great as a heavy dew gave them a hefty drenching as I walked across a few fields to start my inland trek around another military range near Fingringhoe. This inland detour unfortunately gave me few route options other than to stay inland and do some serious road walking for the first time in ages.

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The first few lanes were pleasantly empty and easy walking as I strolled through Peldon, Little Wigborough and Great Wigborough. Then I joined the B1026 and I could feel the tension rise in my bones as I walked along a fast and reasonably busy country road with a tiny verge often edged with overhanging bushes and trees pushing me into the oncoming traffic. To make matters worse Essex let itself down as (yes this is true) two Mercedes driven by bleached blonde women, both on their mobile phones, cut things a little finer than I would have liked. I’m sure that booking their next orange skin spray, boob job or tattoo could have waited till they parked, but then again they were probably already late for their manicure. Sorry Essex, but I was angry and ranted to myself that someone should do something to locally to help curb air-headed fakery, it’s a horrible disease that is spreading across the country and I think it might have originated here.

I was mightily relieved to eventually leave the road for a quieter lane at Tolleshunt D’Arcy. It had felt like twenty exhausting miles, even though it was probably only about five or six. I was also almost overjoyed to see the water again as I closed in on the sea-wall at the top of the River Blackwater and Heybridge Basin. The river would be my company for the next day and I was happy at the prospect of soothing companionship.

 

 

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Up River, Down River

Stage 220, 5th November: Hollesley Bay to Felixstowe

An overnight thunderstorm and thrashing rain wasn’t conducive to a good nights sleep and I knew that today would be a long one. An hour-long drive back to Hollesley Bay from our continued stop at Southwold meant an early start, but by the time I set off walking it was already 08:30. It was also still raining, heavily.

My first big estuary walk of three in three days began with a trip up the River Deben to Woodbridge. With every step I became increasingly bedraggled as the rain seeped in. There are very few things one can wear that truly keep out persistent British rain and my boots failed first again. Fortunately my waterproofs have performed comparatively well, so my core remained dry even if my extremities were soggy, but nevertheless the walk up river was not a pleasant experience. The inclement weather also kept people inside and with the exception of a shooting party knocking pheasants out of the sky at will, I didn’t meet a soul.

As I reached Melton and Woodbridge the rain eased. The Dutch influence in the architecture at the Woodbridge Tide Mill tempted my camera briefly out of its damp case, but not much else did all day. The rain followed me, if lightly, down river but it was now on my back and certainly wasn’t making me any wetter.  That was a bonus.

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On a better day the village of Waldringfield would probably have been very picturesque and from here I was soon back on top of a flood-bank threading its way through the maze of gullies and ditches of Spinny Marsh. Further into the marsh the path became less well-trodden and increasingly muddy. A mile in and the flood-bank melted into a muddy slurry, it had been washed away. I swore, turned back and in the increasing gloom of late afternoon found another inland route down to Old Felixstowe where Steve and mum met me out of the darkness sitting in the empty car park of an isolated pub. If ever there was one, it was a very strange place to meet my mother, especially with more than twenty-seven miles of mud on my boots and trousers.

Stage 221, 6th November: Felixstowe to Shotley Gate

A very brief meeting with James, an old cricket club pal, in the same car park saw me off around the town of Felixstowe to begin the trudge up estuary two, this time the River Orwell. Felixstowe has the biggest container port in Britain and the huge 24/7  logistical operation was very much in my face as I waited for a huge freight train carrying thirty or more containers to cross my path.

Once out of the docks, I was worried that the ground would still be saturated from the rain of yesterday. However, the weather was on my side as bright sunshine and a gentle breeze did its best to dry the surface under foot. I stayed river side with only brief inland forays to change the scene. As I closed in on my river crossing at the Orwell Bridge near Ipswich, I interrupted two women for a brief chat as they reminisced and strolled their way along the waterfront with a can of beer in hand. It was the only chat I would have all day and their company, even for five minutes, was a blessing in this surprisingly remote part of the Suffolk coast.

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The river downstream of Chelmondiston village held an equally bleak but fascinating sight as dozens of old barges and boats, once trendy houseboat conversions, now stood in various states of decay. The odd one or two were still in use and well looked after, but the majority were now looking ready for reclamation by the river, their wooden stages and hulls tilting and rotting in the mud.

DSCF5686The light was fading fast again and time was running thin as I rejoined the flood-bank for another floodlit view of Felixstowe docks from the opposite side of the river. Even at distance, the noise was just as deafening as it was this morning. Every klaxon, every bell and every reversing alarm echoed across the water and the neon lights of the port were bright enough to throw a glowing light across my path as I turned into another peculiar outpost at Shotley, sandwiched neatly between Felixstowe and Harwich, my next destination.

Stage 222, 7th November: Shotley Gate to Harwich

My third estuary in three days was that of the River Stour and the rain was back, this time with a very sharp and blustery wind. Luckily the rain didn’t stay long and by 11:00 the sun had made an appearance. The sun and breeze of yesterday hadn’t been particularly effective at drying the ground or the grass and the rain of last night and this morning had now made things extremely slippery and muddy under foot. With the added wind factor buffeting me around, progress up river was slow and after a brief dip inland to the roads and tracks showing off the enormous houses of Stutton with their private tennis courts, I eventually made it to The White Bridge and my crossing into Essex. Suffolk had been a soft and gentle county, a pretty county, a county maybe worth further exploration. It had also been another flat one and Essex promised little different.

Manningtree and Mistley brought me simple roadside path walking, but as the light faded the paths vanished and I resorted to following the Essex Way inland and not risk a fast, winding and busy road verge. I was rewarded with a fire-ball sunset, which faded all too quickly as the weakening late autumn sun hastily dropped over the horizon. With darkness the route into Harwich seemed to go on for ever. I had underestimated my time out for the day and I arrived well after dark and much too late to effectively see the ground under my feet. From now on, earlier starts were needed for any day over twenty miles long. My last three had all been over twenty-five and walking in the dark, either roadside or along remote sea-walls or cliffs isn’t clever.

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The Far East, a Bikini and a Sat Nav Dog

Rest Day, 1st November: Corton, Lowestoft & Southwold

MILES TO DATE:   4,444.4         ASCENT TO DATE: 511, 328ft

With no facilities at the campsite, the planned long lie-in wasn’t as long my ageing body would allow, but a big supermarket breakfast was always going to go down well. Sharpie headed off via Lowestoft railway station with yet more thanks for our second series of Max and Paddy’s ‘Road to Nowhere’ and I began my next week of less beer but more comfort and luxury. I parked Snickers up at Southwold and waited for my brother Steve, his wife Anita and my mum to turn up for their week supporting me from a holiday flat in Southwold. Snickers would get a few days rest as I took advantage of my family and their hospitality. The first night was a welcome pub meal and a few pints of Adnams. So much for the beer consumption.

Stage 217, 2nd November: Corton to Southwold

As I was now in Suffolk, it wasn’t long before I was at my last major compass point, which came and went without much fanfare as I passed a plaque buried in the sea wall at Ness Point, Lowestoft.

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From there it was a short distance into town and out again to walk along the promenade of the South Beach. It was here, as I was snacking my morning twix, that an attractive young lady briskly jogged her way from the surf and up to a public shower by the beach huts. Considering it was a chilly November morning, she was dressed in nothing more than a bikini and a “You’re brave” comment from my lips was greeted with a cheeky grin as I passed by. I walked along another twenty paces to see three old men sitting on a bench. One of them muttered at me “She’s here every day y’know”. I had a strong suspicion that they were too.

My chuckles stayed with me for a while as I made my way down the sea front and the sandy shingle beach, hiding Pontins holiday camp from my view. It was then down to Benacre where very soft sands and another National Nature Reserve pushed me inland to follow the Suffolk Coast Path. The path was hardly coastal and I ventured much further inland than I would have liked. It had an aversion for roads of any kind and skirted Pottersbridge Marshes through woodland and the village of Reydon, but eventually I arrived on the outskirts of Southwold as the light was fading with no time or tidal opportunity to search for locally renowned amber on the beach. With the nights closing in rapidly, light chasing was going to be an issue again, something I hadn’t really done since my first few weeks back in February. February felt a lifetime away now.

Stage 218, 3rd November: Southwold to Aldeburgh

September and October had been fairly kind to me weather wise but with a chill damp start I knew things were due to change. The middle class enclave of Southwold with its boutiques, delicatessens and expensive eateries didn’t look quite so inviting in the drizzle and the muddy track through Southwold harbour had lost some of its twee visitor appeal in the grey late autumn chill. Nonetheless, the place felt at ease as if relaxing after a long season of busily sucking up income from visitors platinum credit cards.

From here I kept seaward of the equally wealthy Walberswich and after a brief shingle beach walk it was inland via a reed bed boardwalk and woodland tracks heading for Dunwich. All along an unmade track “Surrey by the Sea” continued as exclusive attractive and sometimes huge houses tucked themselves into the trees. I imagined that property prices around here might be out of my league.

At Dunwich I was back on the beach and I stepped down the steep shingle bank to find easier firm sand at the waterline. I stayed here as the beach edged passed Sizewell nuclear power station taking me all the way to Aldeburgh. My first visit to Aldeburgh was a quick seafront one and a chat with a lovely woman, taking photo upon photo as she walked, reaped a very welcome donation. Within seconds of tucking the donation into my pocket and after threatening with drizzle all day, the heavens truly opened. It caught me off guard and I had no time to don my waterproof trousers, so it was head down for the last ninety minutes as I walked the sea bank looping up the River Alde to meet up with Steve waiting back on the other side of Aldeburgh. The skies cleared as I approached the car waiting to take me back for a very welcome hot bath in Southwold and the sunset warmed my soul if not my rather wet and very chilled hands, legs and feet.

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Stage 219, 4th November: Aldeburgh to Hollesley Bay

I continued up the River Alde, now via a soft woodland walk towards Snape. This would be one of many river estuaries and marshes for me to get around over the next couple of weeks and progress across the map would be slow. My progress was slowed a little more as I came across a quivering and whimpering scruffy little dog trotting along the path in front of me. After inspecting his collar I came to the conclusion that Tom Tom the dog was lost. I picked him up and backtracked to a nearby car park. There I met a woman just arriving to walk her dog. Together we knocked on a local door and called the phone number on Tom Tom’s collar, but to no avail. We put him in her car and walked off down the path together to see if we could meet up with his owner. Sure enough, we did. She seemed utterly unconcerned as apparently Tom Tom frequently lingers to sniff his way slowly through the woods. Her other two dogs bounded passed and I left feeling both relieved and a little deflated that he probably wasn’t lost at all. I should’ve guessed that a dog named Tom Tom was unlikely to ever be lost, even if he might have found himself down a dead-end path.

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Soon I was heading back down the River Alde and, in places, a badly flooded path tempted me to cut inland for the villages of Sudbourne and Chillesford via Tunstall Forest. The fields were full of pigs. Pigs, pigs everywhere and if wasn’t pigs it was turf growing country. The Suffolk farming landscape was very different to the huge industrial arable land in Lincolnshire.

From Butley I returned to the waterside. Now it was the River Ore and I only managed a distant glimpse of the sea as I followed the sea-bank along the river running a strange parallel course to the coastline beyond. I met Steve with my mum parked up at the eventual river mouth. The sea had returned but was still a good distance out beyond high and wide shingle banks. This was a remote, bleak coast, another Dickensian coast, but not an unattractive one.

 

 

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California Dreamin’

Stage 214, 29th October: Sheringham to Happisburg

Until today nobody had quite completed a full day of walking with me. JH was to break that record and it made for a very welcome unplanned change to have his easy conversation and company for every step.

Indeed, all was very pleasant today. The weather was more suited to mid August than end October with warming sunny spells and only a brief very light shower to barely dampen our boots. The walking was undulating if not steep, with easy low cliffs and a brand new way-marked section of Norfolk Coast Path to follow.

Cromer came and went quickly with its short but rather grand pier reaching out beyond the groynes and shallow surf. It was then on to Overstrand and Sidestrand with paragliders cruising the rising air along the cliff edge with ease and precision only dropping for soft, pin-point landings when they really needed a break.

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The cliffs were eroding badly in places and the sea defences were becoming quite poor, seemingly getting worse with every step East. It looked as if the authorities had just given up on this section of coastline and having seen the expense and effort made in other areas it felt more than a little unfair.

We met up with Sharpie at Mundesley and settled for a couple of minutes of group ice cream eating. Mine was a Magnum of course. Together the three of us then dropped onto the sand for a beach walk around the large gas terminal at Bacton (who had notably made an effort to install their own sea defences) and down towards Walcott and Happisburgh which, for no accountable reason, is pronounced “Hazeborough”. It’s not just the Scots and the Welsh with complicated place names.

Stage 215, 30th October: Happisburg to California

It was back down to an eroding coast now devoid of sea defences. Roads disappeared into thin air and pipes hung like useless rags along the cliff edge. Happisburg seemed to have been forgotten and it’s fate left to the mercy of the elements. Like East Yorkshire coastal erosion is a big issue and understandably so.

I was back on my own and a short length of path gave way to sand. With a reappearance of defensive groynes and a sea-wall it was a high tide obstacle course around Eccles on Sea. The offshore granite reefs now offered a new and different kind of sea defence and with them came a brief inland diversion at Sea Palling, if only to have a look at what I was missing on the other side of the wall. I wasn’t missing a great deal.  The wealth and quaint gentility of North Norfolk had long since gone and was now replaced by a bleak, bland, end-of-the-road sort of place. So it was probably wise to head back to the beach and walk the seaward steps of the sea-wall. I was rewarded richly with a large grey seal colony huddled in groups for two miles along the edge of the surf. One group had chosen a spot too close to a car park and human laziness and ignorance was brashly on display. People were getting too close and one stupid woman hiding beyond panda-eyed sunglasses and in a world of her own almost tripped over a tiny pup. The pup was chased off and she laughed as I growled at her ignorance in not knowing how much energy the pup needs to conserve in its early days as it builds weight. I also wondered if that pup would survive and whether it’s mother would desert it. And as one woman bent to touch another pup I equally feared for the pup’s desertion due to the scent of some foolish human on its offspring. I also quietly hoped that one of the big adults might actually offer up their very sharp teeth. It was a saddening scene and one that made me move on quickly.

At a distance further down the beach and far enough to discourage most humans I came across another group of seals happily undisturbed. I kept my distance but a newborn pup mistook my black attire for his mum and started following me along the beach. I backed off and sat on the rocks a good distance away watching them as I ate my lunch. The pup dozed off and the adults settled back to their general bickering and gentle wailing. The last few miles of beach were clearly as popular with breeding and birthing seals as Donna Nook back in Lincolnshire and I questioned why this one wasn’t closed off to the public or patrolled by a warden. That’s a job I could fancy if anyone wants to make an offer.

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The rest of the day comprised more beach, more dunes and more run-down seaside towns and villages as I turned in for the day at the lesser known and much less glamorous California. But the pub did do a cracking carvery.

Stage 216, 31st October: California to Corton

An easy beach walk passing Caister-on-Sea started the day but I soon ducked inland at Caister Point for the roads into Great Yarmouth. As the town closed in, the promenade began and much though I thought that the holiday season was over,  it was apparently back with throngs rather than hoards out enjoying a warmth more typical of August. Donkey rides were still popular on the beach alongside Britannia Pier. The big theatre sat heavily on the old structure with large posters advertising many big name acts due to show up sometime over the next year. Great Yarmouth was brash but clearly thriving. The seafront felt almost as long as Blackpool’s with the southern Wellington Pier home to a huge bowling alley and the pleasure beach still entertaining a few hardy souls on the log flume.

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I attempted to get all the way down to South Denes via the seafront, but as I approached a razor wire topped fence closed in on the sand and the port authorities barred access. I back-tracked and cut across to the quay-side on the West side of the promontory for a walk North to the town centre and a brief foray through the bustling market square. My hesitation in the shopping centre was a brief one to top up on cheap CDs to add to my growing iPod library and I was soon over Haven Bridge and heading South along the West Quay outpacing a slow-moving traffic jam making its way out of Great Yarmouth.

At Gorleston the beach even had swimming trunk clad children playing on the immaculate soft sand. It was warm, but I didn’t think it was that warm. The promenade was less chips and candy floss and more about coffee and cakes. It slowly gave way to a path and the path became beach. The beach then became a closed beach thanks to sea-defence works but without any warning I had to scramble up the cliff, cross a golf course and make my way through a huge holiday park in Hopton to find Sharpie and his company for the last mile of another county in another week as I made my entrance into Suffolk.

 

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Eastbound to East Anglia

Stage 211, 26th October: King’s Lynn to Old Hunstanton

With a change of county came a change of scene, but with that scene there was a price to pay – no decent coastal route. I had tried hard to plan something close to the coast but a lack of permissive paths made this one of the most, if not the most, difficult days to find a navigable route that didn’t involve walking along the edge of a busy major road or deliberate trespassing. After about five failed map staring attempts I settled for some side roads and one potential trespass, it would have to do.

I started out with a pleasant little jaunt through the thriving wealthy villages of South and North Wootton with some teenagers warming up for their Sunday morning football and dog walkers out in droves. Paths and side streets took me slowly inland to the edge of the Sandringham Estate and a quick well-worn woodland walk before I returned to the lanes coastwards again to Wolferton and its immaculately tended but long closed former royal railway station. From here the route through to Snettisham was, as expected, marked with the usual English disease of ‘Private‘ signs at the open gateway to a clear and well maintained concrete farm track. With the prospect of a good eight mile back tracking diversion, I had little option other than to ignore the sign. My involuntary trespass through farmland belonging to the Sandringham Estate, sorry ma’am, was a brief one and a mile later I was on RSPB land at Snettisham and in the reassuring company of Sunday lunchtime twitchers. They were a welcome sight with their long lenses and I was just mightily relieved to see them and not a Duke with his long barrel.

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Things became much easier from here on and I was able to stick to the sandy shingle sea front at Heacham and on towards the archetypal seaside town of Hunstanton. A few low eroding cliffs with dozens of fossil collectors scrambling about in the freshly fallen stone tempted me to have a delve too, but with so many other pairs of eyes hunting I thought the area had probably been well sifted. Besides, a large and very visible crack in the cliff face dissuaded me and I couldn’t help but cast a worrying wince at both the adults and children poking and prodding their way through the rock immediately beneath the cliff.

Stage 212, 27th October: Old Hunstanton to Holkham Gap

I now had the luxury of a well-marked coast path again as the Norfolk Coast Path made its entrance. It was half-term week for many and the sunshine brought families out in their masses. Campsites were busy and I had a sneaky but unfounded fear that Sharpie might struggle to get us a pitch for a few nights.

In seeing so many people, a friendly “good morning” was commonplace but chats were almost non-existent. One brief chat with a former sports injury doctor brought a small donation for the charities and cheered me immensely, but with families and strolling couples now much more commonplace than serious walkers and hikers, such conversations and thus donations were becoming increasingly rare.

Overall the day was one of huge scenic variation. None of it I would call spectacular but none of it was dull either and I enjoyed the changes under foot as I switched from dunes to reed-bed board walks, sea-banks to roads and gravel paths to sandy beaches. Though it was still very flat, Norfolk seemed far more adventurous and family friendly than the Lincolnshire Fens and boredom was not an issue.

I was keenly and almost religiously now following the Norfolk Coast Path and a seemingly unnecessary duck inland at Thornham took me temptingly passed the pub and restaurant of a celebrity chef tucked in among the equally upmarket and aesthetically pleasing flint and brick cottages.

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A return to the coast took me along a narrow board-walk edging the reeds and Brancaster where I met up with Sharpie who had run back seven miles to meet up. We idly chatted and almost ambled our way along in the warm late afternoon sunshine and came across the wide and beautiful open fine sand of Holkham Bay. With the clocks having gone back at the weekend the evenings were drawing in and the light faded as we walked into our farmyard campsite and a clear night sky full of stars.

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Stage 213, 28th October: Holkham Gap to Sheringham

Another grand autumn day brought out more hoards of half-term strolling families and the woodland walk around the headland was a brief respite from the crowds before I made my way down the sea-bank South towards Wells next the Sea. The harbour walls were lined with supervised children dipping lines into the water and filling buckets with crabs. The sheer numbers of people around had made opportunities for privately draining off two cups of breakfast tea an impossibility and the appearance of a public loo was a huge relief to the increasing possibility of an embarrassing and very public accident.

Out of Wells I made for Stiffkey and a mystery circle on my map which had been pointed out to me by a friend on Twitter. The circle was a strip of tarmac about a hundred metres in circumference and the mystery was solved at lunchtime when another Tweet from a follower provided a good and plausible explanation. Apparently the tarmac was a launching strip built by the US Air Force in the 1950s for remotely controlled experimental aircraft (prototype drones) to be launched at full throttle from a tether connecting it to a central post and swivel. I couldn’t help but think how ingenious things were before the digital age and how practical engineering solutions were once at the forefront of exciting development and not perceived as a disruptive and unnecessarily expensive cost as they seem to be in this modern management driven world. The ‘Whirlygig’ was a relic of our recent inquisition and a sign that ingenuity was once highly regarded.

Blakeney was even more popular than Wells and a sea-bank walk around the point involved crossing paths with a continual stream of ambling families. As I dipped inland away from the point the very pretty and probably very expensive Cley next the Sea followed before it was back out to the coast and a long shingle beach grind down towards Sheringham.

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After five miles of trying to find a firm surface underfoot I got fed up of the shingle. I saw that the huge piles of cobbles and pebbles reached right up the cliff face, so I went up and made my way for the relative comfort of a cliff-top path. As I reached the top I caught two men out of the corner of my eye approaching at marching speed from my right. I didn’t fancy the ignominy of being overtaken so I stopped for a few seconds to fake a map check and let them through. I looked up briefly as they strode on through without giving me a glance.

“Cox? Sharp? You…….!” I called out in surprise.

A pair of sheepish grinning faces turned to give a slightly breathless greeting as JH and Sharpie had spent the last mile or so chasing me down the beach having over-stayed whilst imbibing a few ales in the local hostelry and waiting for my arrival. A great surprise to have another friend join us for the evening was added to by the extra treats of a room at a very comfy B&B plus a few more jars and a meal in another hostelry nearby. This surprise was a very welcome one indeed.

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A challenge to sanity

Stage 208, 22nd October: Freiston Shore to Fosdyke Bridge

Thankfully the wind had dropped overnight to a stiff breeze and though it was chilly it wasn’t anything uncomfortable and certainly nothing to worry about. On the other hand, I was worried about having to walk mile upon mile of grass topped sea-bank and I knew it would last more than the odd day.

To start the day I had an experience, which I suspected, could only happen in Britain. The nice grassy open footpath aimed straight at and then took me right through the middle of a prison. It wasn’t edged with twenty-foot high fencing nor was it edged with any fencing, or security gates, or check points of any kind. I couldn’t see any CCTV, nor could I see any prison officers. But I did have a little chat with an inmate who thought my appearance a little peculiar, though not unheard of. He questioned whether the prison authorities were wise to allow free access like mine as anyone could bring drugs in. I apologised for not having any on me and decided it might be best if I got out pretty quickly before they thought my stick was a weapon and my rucksack was actually an escapees kit. As I crossed back into civvie street I just checked a few things: Camera, phone, wallet, Tedz. All were present and correct.

Not long afterwards the sea-bank turned right and headed up The Haven following the river Withern to Boston. I nipped into town for a scene change and a pie from Greggs before making for the top of the Macmillan Way, a 286 mile long distance trail running Southwest to Abbotsbury – a place I visited back in week two. It wasn’t a great start to the trail though neither was it grand for me in trying to head back down the other bank of The Haven as the footpath was closed and I had to find my own diversion around an unloved and unkempt industrial estate.

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Back on the sea-bank I made my way around Frampton Marsh and bumped into a birdwatching couple who showed me a very rare bird whose name I immediately forgot. Instead I carried on, clueless to the value of my sighting, as the curving bank straightened to make its way up the River Welland and a meeting with Aaron for a rare, swift and truly tasty beer in The Ship at Fosdyke Bridge. It didn’t count as the best pint of the trip so far, but certainly the best half.

Stage 209, 23rd October: Fosdyke Bridge to Sutton Bridge

Days with nothing to look at can seriously drag. Days with a flat almost bleak landscape have always tested my mental fortitude. Days with nothing but level never-ending featureless path also seem to exaggerate my physical niggles and I had spent the last week getting increasingly worried about the condition of my left Achilles. It had been tender since I slipped down a hole in Southwest Scotland but had recently become quite sore and taken to occasionally sending a ripping / stabbing pain right through my foot and ankle. I’d been telling myself that it was psychosomatic and so far it seemed to have worked. Nonetheless I called upon the ibuprofen that hadn’t seen a proper outing for anything more than a headache since I solved my foot discomfort back in June. Fingers were crossed.

With the exception of a couple of miles of tarmac skirting the RAF bombing range it was sea-bank all the way. Sea? I could barely see it. Occasional glimpses of distant sand and mud banks in the distance were the best I got and if it wasn’t for a couple of brief chats with some workmen replacing a sluice gate and Biddy walking his two rescued greyhounds I might have just forgotten today. The sky was grey, the scene was bland and it was all exceptionally flat. A gang picking vegetables in a nearby field didn’t cheer the mood. They all look thoroughly dismayed and resembled an enslaved chain gang. I assumed they weren’t, but I couldn’t help wondering if they really had any choice.

The red flags flying on the range gave me hope that I might be able to watch some aircraft practising their bombing. They did, but I only know that because I heard them about two hours later when I was halfway up the River Welland and long gone. Today was just a shame all round really. At least the woman at Bramley Caravan & Camping Park gave us a generous and welcome night parked in the peace of their orchard.

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Stage 210, 24th October: Sutton Bridge to King’s Lynn

From Sutton Bridge it was back down the opposite bank of the River Welland and more, yes more, sea-bank. I was now following the Peter Scott Way. I think that a founder of the World Wide Fund for Nature (formerly the World Wildlife Fund) deserved more of a spectacular path than these soulless miles but he probably got this one for also being a founder of the Wildfowl & Wetlands Trust. Yes I saw plenty of geese and a pretty marsh harrier, but without far-reaching binoculars I couldn’t name anything else.

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The view inland was of a farming landscape on an industrial scale. The fields were vast tracts of unbroken cultivation with barely a hedgerow or rough inch of grassland to offer any sanctuary to wildlife. I reckon I had probably been exposed to more chemicals in an agricultural setting than I had through all the Teeside and Humberside chemical works put together. All this so that we get nice even perfect looking but tasteless vegetables at a ridiculously cheap price that is 1p a kilo cheaper than the rival supermarket next door.

Once again I got brief glimpses of sand banks and mud on the seaward side but barely any of the salty wet liquid. Now in Norfolk, I headed inland again from Admiralty Point and up the Lynn Channel towards King’s Lynn. It was a huge relief to see something other than ploughed fields and flat marshes but the crowds of people were aliens again even though I was the one who undoubtedly looked more alien and maybe even a little trampish too. Trivial conversations were fascinating to overhear even though many seemed ridiculously banal. Civilisation was back again and it was very much welcomed in King’s Lynn.

Rest Day, 25th October: Nr King’s Lynn

Having dropped Aaron off at the station with my warmest thanks to another good new friend, it was back for some shopping and a grand cooked breakfast care of one of the rivalrous supermarkets. Without the benefit of Kate around this weekend it was back to the chores of washing and cleaning and preparing for the reappearance of Sharpie and a chance to relive our ‘Max & Paddy’ week back in March. Note to self. Not so much beer this time Pete.

 

Miles to Date: 4,288       Height Gained: 506,908ft

 

 

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Skeggy and the Fens

Rest Day, 18th October: Cleethorpes

Today was one of my few truly restful rest days. Kate stayed on an extra day and took over most of the chores as I tapped out my blog, played with a few photos and caught up on emails. By the time we had stoked up with an enormous carvery lunch and food shopped for the next week it was time to pick up Aaron, the boyfriend of my second cousin Claire and a fella I only met once briefly way back in Exmouth. If I remember rightly, I was feeling pretty grim at the time but I clearly conned him enough to want to join up and support me for a week.

The evening was a top one as Terry and Alfie, who supported me back in Cumbria, joined us for the evening. Terry’s partner Annie made up the throng and the fourth chinese meal in seven days was probably a bit of an overkill on volume for the day and monosodium glutamate for an entire year. A quick pint in the smallest pub in Britain and another week was over.

Stage 205, 19th October: Cleethorpes to Mablethorpe

It was another early start as I said a tough farewell to Kate and she made her way home to find out whether the dogs had wrecked the house in her absence. Her one week as sole driver had probably completely trashed her nerves in terms of driving a large vehicle which handles and responds like the proverbial whale. Despite the driving bit, I think she had enjoyed herself. Throughout this trip it has been just as important to me that everyone supporting me with looking after Snickers, finding stopovers and keeping camp enjoys it too. I’m not sure if I have a 100% record, but it would be lovely if I did.

A final waved farewell at distance saw me down the road, through a holiday park and around the chalets of Humberston Fitties. It was then onto the flood banks skirting Tetney Marshes Nature Reserve. This was an eight mile stretch of viewless tedium and I eventually dropped down onto the sands at Donna Nook with an optimistic hope that a few early arriving grey seals would be on the well-known breeding beach. I had been here a few times before and taken many photos of the cute newborn pups in the wind-blown sand but on this occasion I was probably a good two weeks early and the waiting ‘seal ranger’ was the only resident. So I stuck to the top of the beach and skirted the RAF bombing range.

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The dune edged beach gradually became scrubland and this in turn gave way to salt marsh and samphire beds. I briefly turned inland and through the village of Saltfleet before returning to a now silty beach with the sea so far out that it felt as if I was in the middle of a featureless desert. I was half expecting a camel to walk across the horizon but the vague and distant shimmer was but a thin blue line of North Sea. The silty mud slowly became perfect holiday sand and the beach gradually narrowed to reveal a gentle surf, but Theddlethorpe was still devoid of people and, for me, that is why it has always been my favourite Lincolnshire beach.

In contrast Mablethorpe was heaving with nearly ten people playing on the sand. I think it would be fair to say that the holiday season was well and truly over.

Stage 206, 20th October: Mablethorpe to Skegness

If truth be known, I could have chosen to spend the entire day walking down the beach towards Skegness. With the beach from Theddlethorpe yesterday this would have given me well over twenty miles of continuous beach walking and a new personal best for the walk to date. However, I broke the continuity by stopping last night in Mablethorpe and after nipping into Sutton-on-Sea today for a shop stop I’m not sure whether it counts.

Sutton was a lovely little town apparently populated by large numbers of retired women all owning a mobility scooter. From what I could see they seemed to enjoy driving them around the promenade and seafront as if it were a kart track. With their personalised flowers and wicker basket touches, I couldn’t help but liken their behaviour to that of  teenagers and their “pimped-up” hot-hatches doing rubber burning donuts on a supermarket car park.

After one close brush with a scooter nearly resulted in an embarrassing injury which could have prematurely ended this walk of mine, I was glad to return to the beach. The dunes and the sea wall masked the land from my gaze and the view out to sea comprised one hundred and twenty-five wind turbines (I counted twice), twelve of which weren’t working. To be frank the rest of the day was dreary and I spent most of my time wandering the tide line on the look out for pretty shells.

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My iPod kept me sane and a vast holiday camp brightened my entertainment as I approached Ingoldmells and Skegness. With the palisade fencing around it and the guard posts at the entrance gates it could easily have doubled for a prison camp. Only the smart tidy chalets and sparkly big-top gave the game away and even though I find such holiday camps completely alien to my remote cottage idyll, I admit to being curiously tempted.

Stage 207, 21st October: Skegness to Freiston Shore

With the prospect of the remnants of another hurricane passing through, I was not looking forward to a day on the exposed sea walls and banks of the fens. Fortunately the rain didn’t accompany this storm as it did when Bertha hit me back in Northwest Scotland.

I was expecting to get wet and I was expecting high wind, so I suggested to BBC Radio Lincolnshire that they might want to pre-record an interview and not try to do it live whilst shouting to each other with the white noise of a gale taking dominance. Hence Melvyn Prior gave me a good five minutes to plug my website and charity stuff whilst I munched my oatibix and sipped tea in the warmth of Snickers.

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I set off through Skeggy town in full winter gear expecting to get drenched at some point. As I left town and made down the lane towards Gibraltar Point I knew that navigating my way across the fens would be less than easy. With numerous dykes, ditches, drains and rivers to cross or get around I suspected that my route planning was a bit hit and miss, with some tracks and paths looking decidedly private or inaccessible. I wasn’t wrong, the English disease of marking one’s territory with “Private” was well and truly back and my first option was not welcoming. Instead I found another decidedly dodgy route up the side of a double obstacle of river and parallel drain to find a marked footbridge heavily fenced and locked off. I crossed the drain via an Environment Agency compound advising me against trespassing and made my way up between the two water courses to attempt a crossing of the river further up. I was thwarted but a kindly Karen tending some horses showed me the best way up the main road.

Two heavy and blustery squalls hit me in quick succession as I listened in to the radio to see if my interview sounded reasonable. It didn’t sound bad and I thought I came across quite well considering how much my brain hates mornings. The A52 wasn’t a welcome sight and with the skies a heavy charcoal grey I donned my hi-viz waistcoat for the first time in months to trudge the grass verge for four miles until I could escape back down to the sea-banks near Friskney.
The afternoon comprised one long winding bank-top walk with the wind buffeting me from side to side like a late night drunk. I briefly and happily bumped into Tony, yet another coast walker, who was walking anticlockwise in sections having started in February last year in Minehead. We compared notes on involuntary and voluntary trespassing and I tried to help him with a decent route to Skegness. I’m not sure if he understood my ramblings across his wind-blown paper map, but we wished each other well and marched off in opposite directions.

To ease the last few miles of wind battering and featureless tedium I fed every horse I saw a fruit pastille. They seemed to like me and followed me till my packet was empty. I only ate one but Aaron wasn’t far away and I knew I still had a stock on board the van. Anyway, he also had a large stash of snacks and cakes to gorge on.

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