Monday, July 21, 2003

Walk 74 -- Brightlingsea to Clacton-on-Sea

Ages: Colin was 61 years and 74 days. Rosemary was 58 years and 216 days.
Weather: A bit more cloudy and windy, but still hot and sunny.
Location: Brightlingsea to Clacton-on-Sea pier.
Distance: 9 miles.
Total distance: 526 miles.
Terrain: Mostly on a grassy sea wall. Then it was gravel followed by tarmac, then we had to walk along a narrow road. Finally, a bit of prom.
Tide: Out, coming in later.
Rivers to cross: None.
Ferries: None.
Piers: None. (We were short of time, so decided to save Clacton Pier for the beginning of the next Walk.)
Kissing gates: No.78 at St Osyth Stone Point.
Pubs: None.
‘English Heritage’ properties: None.
Ferris wheels: None.
Diversions: None.
How we got there and back: We camped the night before at Elmstead Market. We drove, with bikes on the back of the car, to Clacton where the car park would have cost us £4.50 – so we parked on the road just outside it for free like everyone else! Then we cycled to St Osyth Stone Point, and left our bikes locked to a post on the beach where the ferry from Brightlingsea, had there been one, would have docked. The tide was out, and we did vaguely wonder if we had left them too far out!
At the end, we drank tea and went back to St Osyth Stone Point to collect the bikes which, thankfully, were still on dry land despite the tide being right in. We returned to the campsite, had a quick meal which was already mostly prepared, then packed up the tent. We left just as it was getting dark, and had an uneventful drive home this time. We arrived in Bognor at 12.45AM tomorrow!

Our third consecutive day hiking! Usually we like to pace ourselves by having a rest every third day, but we have to get home in order to look after the grandchildren while Annalise and Mark go off on their delayed honeymoon.
At St Osyth Stone Point there is a large swathe of sand beyond the seawall. We left our bikes on the far side of it padlocked to a post, and I did vaguely wonder if they would be under water by the time we returned. I daren’t say anything to Colin because he can be so sarcastic, but the high tide mark was well below where we had left them so I just hoped it would be all right. Bet spring tides come right up and over to the seawall! We walked down to the water’s edge where the ferry would have come in, had there been one. With the tide out, it looked such a short distance across to Brightlingsea.
We returned to the seawall, and found there was a footpath just inside it. We passed numerous prefabricated bungalows – they looked like tarted up beach huts really, but people were living in them! I wonder how many of them stay there through the winter. We thought they were horrible! As we rounded the bend we could see, less than a mile away across the river, the western tip of Mersea Island – but we had walked thirty-two miles since we were there! Then, just beyond it, Colin noted with horror that we could still catch sight of the nuclear power station at Bradwell-on-Sea. It was a mere five miles away as the crow flies, but we had walked ninety-four miles since passing it! It really brought home to us how tough the Essex marshes have been. Through our binoculars/telescope we could just make out the Saxon chapel at Othona, and we realised why the Romans had built a fort in such a position – it must have been pretty impressive in its day.
When the beach huts/bungalows came to an end, the footpath led up the cliff behind some houses and away to the village. We didn’t want to go that way because it would have meant a lot of road walking and added two miles to our hike. We were hoping to walk along the beach for about half a mile, cross a little bit of marsh if it wasn’t too muddy, get up on to the seawall where it was not a legal path, and walk nonchalantly down to where the public footpath comes in. (Earlier that day we had recced out an alternative shortcut through Lee Wick Farm which would have saved us one of the extra two miles, but we were met with a plethora of PRIVATE PROPERTY NO ACCESS notices, so we knew that was no-go.)
There was a fence from the top of the beach down to below high water mark, and attached to it was an amateurish notice warning us of a ‘fierce dog’ or some such. It was a bit squidgy underfoot to get round the end of the fence, but we coped without getting too messy. The houses up on the cliff were mostly hidden behind bushes and trees, so we hoped that no one would see us skitter along that half mile of beach – but alas! one old gent was pottering about with his boats. “Can’t you read the notice?” he called, “this is a private beach!” We were very polite, and explained that we just wanted to walk about half a mile to where we could climb up on to the seawall and continue on our way to Clacton. He said there were lots of fences like the one we had just come round (there weren’t!) and his neighbours didn’t like it, and that if we continued “there will sure to be trouble!”
Still very polite, I explained that we were below high water mark, and intended to remain that far down the beach until we were well past his property. “But I own this beach!” he replied, “I bought the house and grounds along with the beach all the way down to low water mark!” At the time we weren’t very sure of the legality of this, but we have since found out that you can own a beach down to low water mark, but everyone has legal access to all beaches – except on MOD land – in this country up to high water mark. “Anyway,” he continued before we had time to continue our argument, “this isn’t a proper beach because it is by the river, not the sea!” (Looking at the map, that argument would keep the average lawyer in caviar and champagne for about ten years!)
The man had verbal diarrhoea, he hardly paused for breath and didn’t listen to a word we had to say. He suggested we walk all over the marshes towards the nature reserve (we had no intention of doing so) but warned us to keep a low profile because the warden doesn’t like it and he is a big chap and “can get nasty!” In amongst his rhetoric, he actually told us of a better route that we could use which didn’t involve clambering across the marshes. “Take the path into the village, turn right at the Post Office, turn right again, then take the first turning on the left. This brings you to a field, but I don’t suppose the farmer will mind you walking through his field! If you follow the fences at the back of the houses, you will come to the seawall – it’s as easy as that!” We were amazed that he was actually telling us to trespass on someone else’s land when he had been so adamant that we were not going to walk on his beach, but we were relieved that he had told us of an easier route that would not involve us getting muddy.
We tried to thank him and turned to go, but he just would not stop talking! He told us all about his bad back, and some bait-diggers who had threatened him and tried to set fire to his boat. He told us that the people who lived in the beach huts/bungalows were the ‘low-life’ – pardon? “You know, got their money through dirty dealings!” He reckoned the infamous Kray brothers had an interest in the properties. He then started on the owners of Lee Wick Farm who, according to him, lost all their money at cards and so didn’t really own the property – their creditors did – but they gave them back-handers and did them favours so they were still there. “For all their PRIVATE notices, they have no right to stop you walking through if you want to!” We were open-mouthed!
Then his talk got really silly. He must have thought we still wanted to walk along his beach. “There are adders in the grass up by the seawall!” he said, threateningly. “Oh, are there?” Colin replied, his wildlife instinct aroused, “that’s interesting, it’s a long time since we’ve seen an adder!” Well, that wasn’t the reaction the old man was expecting, and for a moment he was non-plussed. “B..b..but they are big ones round here!” he continued, and they are quite aggressive!” Colin patiently explained that adders are not aggressive, in fact they are more afraid of humans than we are of them. They usually slither away as soon as anyone approaches them, and the only time someone is likely to get bitten is if they accidentally tread on one in the undergrowth. “But these don’t go away!” he countered, “and there are lots of them! When the local farmers bale hay, they have terrible trouble because there are two or three snakes in every bale! They are huge, and they won’t move out of the way!”
We had had enough of his stupid talk and he had wasted too much of our valuable time. So we very firmly thanked him for telling us of the new route, and turned back. We squidged round the end of the fence again, laughing at the thought of giant adders which rear up and attack hapless hikers – do the wildlife societies know about them? Two women were sunning themselves on their lawn just up on the cliff which wasn’t very high. One of them called out, “So he wouldn’t let you walk along his precious beach then! We thought you wouldn’t get through!” The other woman chimed in, “He’s a nutter, that man! You should have asked to see his bit of paper saying the beach is private! He had no right to put up that fence!” When we said he had told us there were lots of fences, and none of his neighbours would like it either, she said, “That’s a load of rubbish, and he knows it! You should have demanded to see his bit of paper, that would’ve done ’im!”
Our way led up a footpath right next to their garden, so we stopped to talk. These ladies obviously didn’t like their eccentric neighbour, and had no problem with people wanting to walk along the beach in front of their houses. We told them we had voluntarily turned back because he had told us of an alternative way without wading through mud. They were obviously not walkers, and didn’t know whether we could get through behind the Post Office or not, but wished us luck. They were very interested in our project of walking the whole coastline of Britain, but were concerned that it was “quite a step to Clacton, surely?” One of the women said she used to work at the holiday camp there, “You know, the old Butlin’s camp. It’s closed now, of course. Pity, I really liked it there and it was a good job! I suppose they all go to Majorca these days!”
We bid them ‘Goodbye!’ and they wished us luck again – a pleasant down-to-earth couple. We were running late and, yes, it was ‘quite a step’ to Clacton. Then we had to retrieve our bikes, return to the campsite, take the tent down, pack everything in the car and drive home! With this in mind we quickened our pace.
We followed the directions – turn right at the Post Office, turn right again and then take the first left. At the end of this road we came to a hay field which we could walk straight in to – no gate, no stile. A narrow path, hidden in the long grass, seemed to run along the backs of gardens. There was a plank across a dyke and then we were on the seawall which looked as if it had been mown. The old man had been correct in his directions. The field and the seawall were on private land, according to our maps, but we have walked on far worse public footpaths. We didn’t see any adders, giant or otherwise, but we did see a hare! It was loping along the seawall ahead of us, off one side, then over and off the other. Eventually it disappeared, but it had been a good sighting. We came to the junction where the public footpath joins the seawall (after its two mile deviation) and we were surprised to see a ‘PUBLIC FOOTPATH’ finger-post pointing back the way we had come! Looking over the marshes, we were glad we hadn’t tried to find our way across them from the beach. Despite the hot weather, lack of rain and low tide, we would have had mud up to the eyeballs! YOU CAN KEEP YOUR ‘PRIVATE’ BEACH, YOU MISERABLE OLD GIT! (Sorry? Did I say that? Never!)
Now we were on public footpaths all the way to Clacton, so we could relax. Shortly, the path turned very definitely east with the real sea to our right, and we turned our backs on the nuclear power station at Bradwell-on-Sea for the very last time. We could see it shimmering in the sun a mere five miles away across the water, but we had conquered the Essex Marshes and we would never see it again – I promised Colin!
Almost immediately we came upon a scattering of dilapidated houses and the end of a track which led into a Nature Reserve car park by the marshes. This was the end of the road which led through Lee Wick Farm, yet we had come across a plethora of PRIVATE PROPERTY and NO ACCESS notices at the Farm when we had recced out the route earlier in the day.
The seawall swung inland a bit, and we were behind some marshes which we couldn’t cross to the true beach because of several deep dykes. Yet there were cars on the other side, parked on the shoreline! They had, of course, come in from the other end – paying £1.50 each to drive along a dodgy road in order to get to this nudist beach. There were a lot of customers on this hot and sticky summer’s afternoon, but they were too far away for us to see anything clearly through our optical instruments!
They had accessed the beach at a place called Seawick which was a mass of caravans, many for sale and being advertised as a pleasant place to live – not for me, thank you! I did wonder, vaguely, if this was the site of the old Butlin’s ‘luxury’ holiday camp, but I found out later that it wasn’t. We used their loo and carried on.
We sat on the seawall – a proper wall by now – to eat a snack, and got talking to a group of people from the caravans who had hired bikes to ride along the prom. (Take note, Bognor Council, that it is a much narrower prom than ours, and no incidents of running down disabled pensioners or similar occurred! In fact, a lot more people were able to enjoy themselves in safety because riding a bicycle along the prom is allowed!) One woman told us she hadn’t ridden a bike in forty years. We left them chatting to some friends, and further on they passed us. Colin asked the lady if she was enjoying her ride, to which she replied ‘Yes’. Colin told her she would enjoy it a lot better if her saddle was raised, but she rode off with her knees rising up to her chin saying it was ‘all right’!
After passing a Martello tower, we came to more permanent accommodation that was all squashed together. The seawall was very narrow, there was no prom and the tide was coming in fast. Colin managed to walk along the top of the wall, but I couldn’t balance up there and so had to walk along a narrow road which was surprisingly busy – I didn’t enjoy it. Then a prom materialised, and that was a lot more comfortable. Colin whispered to me, “See that woman in the buggy, don’t look at her legs – unless you want to be sick!” They were, indeed, enormous and repulsive. I wonder how much obesity and a sedentary life contributes to such disabilities in the elderly. We are both very determined to go to great lengths (like all the way round mainland Britain!) to avoid it happening to us.
A short while further on, this lady and her gentleman friend passed us. I joked with her that it was like the Grand Prix, and she joked back that he was Schumacher and she was Button – the new young British contender. I expressed envy at their buggies which can go faster than we can walk, and she suddenly became very serious. “Don’t!” she said, “just be grateful that you can walk! I’d do anything to be able to walk again!” I thought of my arthritic feet and my thrice broken legs along with all the metal that is in them, and I was glad that I had done everything so that I am able to walk again!
The beach was very nice with beautiful golden sand – and crowded this hot summer’s afternoon. There were a number of stone sea defences which were quite new. We passed a second Martello tower by a golf course, and when we came to the third one we were very near our parked car – so we stopped for a cup of tea.
I had no idea that the small estate on which we were parked was the site of the original Butlin’s holiday camp at Clacton! It was only after some clever detective work on my part (and a bit of luck!) that I found this out on the internet. Even then, I was not convinced until I had downloaded some old photographs and brought them back in August to compare with the real thing. It was the Martello tower, which featured in several of the pictures, that gave it away. I still find it difficult to believe that the camp was so small – it must have been claustrophobic! No wonder it closed when people found it just as cheap to fly to Spain with its guaranteed sunshine. With the golf course and a small airfield next door (probably all the local Councillors were either golfers or owned private planes, or both – this is the cynic in me talking!) they would have found it impossible to enlarge. The Butlin’s camp in Bognor (not built until1959) was already on a site at least twice the size, so it didn’t need to expand – but it did need to modernise. One Autumn, about twenty years ago, they demolished practically the whole site in Bognor and rebuilt it by the following Spring. They replaced the famous glass-sided swimming pool with a magnificent new ‘Waterworld’ including wave machines, jacuzzis and every conceivable type of chute – great fun! Then, in 1999, they erected a big white tent over a large area of the site so that more activities could take place indoors. This came in for a lot of criticism locally – and still does. It is an eyesore which can be seen all the way from the South Downs, and has been likened to an inverted cow’s udder!
The Butlin’s ‘luxury’ holiday camp in Clacton-on-Sea was only the second to be built by Billy Butlin – an entrepreneur who, in the 1930s, saw a market in the newly-won right of factory workers to a paid holiday in the summer of each year. He attracted them with ‘wall-to-wall’ entertainment, indoor and outdoor swimming pools, a choice of activities under cover so that the weather was irrelevant, basic but comfortable accommodation and tasty meals cooked for them – no washing up! He even employed the famous ‘Redcoats’ to patrol the camp making sure everyone was having fun – this was compulsory! All this for one price – no hidden extras! The working classes loved it – they were introduced to a style of living that they had never experienced before. Many of the ‘Redcoats’ went on to become famous entertainers, and were grateful to Butlin’s where they had learned the grass-roots of their craft.
The camp at Clacton opened with great pizzazz in June 1938, and was an instant success. At the outbreak of War, fifteen months later, it was summarily closed along with all places of entertainment. Theatres and cinemas soon reopened because it was realised such places were essential to keep up morale, but no one was allowed to travel around the country without permission so there was no place for holiday camps. (My parents had to apply to the Police every summer for permission to visit my grandfather in Arundel, which they counted as their annual holiday. They were given a certificate with all the family’s names on it, reason for visit –(visiting relatives)– and dates of their stay.) Clacton was taken over by the Army. First it became a home for the survivors of Dunkirk, then it was used as a training centre by the Pioneer Corps. They didn’t maintain the buildings – which were only made cheaply from wood – so that by the time hostilities ceased in 1945 and the camp was handed back, it was almost derelict.
Undeterred, Billy Butlin rebuilt and refurbished so that he could reopen as early as April 1946 – less than a year after the end of the War. He was right in his surmise that there was still a need for his type of relaxation. The people flocked to his camps! In 1955 – the height of their popularity – he refurbished and expanded Clacton. A number of famous entertainers began their careers at Clacton, including Cliff Richard who made his debut there in 1958.
In 1959, my elder sister got married in the October. She hadn’t much money, and wanted to save up a deposit for her first house. She had been a teacher for five years but teachers’ pay was pretty poor in those days, so she applied to spend her summer holidays washing up at Clacton. She was paid £5 a week for four weeks, and an extra £5 if she stuck it for the four weeks – that was riches! But it was also a real eye-opener. She was told that theft was rife, not to take anything valuable with her and she was advised not to wear her shiny diamond engagement ring unless she strung it on a piece of thread round her neck. She couldn’t believe that people enjoyed being woken up each morning with a Tannoy message “Good morning, campers!” and that they loved being told how to enjoy themselves every minute of the day. She found that ‘campers’ were actively discouraged from leaving the site, and there was a saying doing the rounds which went, “Once you’re in, you’re in!” Looking at the old photographs, and seeing how close the ‘happy campers’ were to that lovely sandy beach and the sea, I can’t understand either how people could stay within the confines of that tiny camp. My sister likened it to a concentration camp, and lost quite a bit of weight during her four weeks there – yes, she did stick it out!
Twenty years or so later, people were more fickle. The working classes had discovered cheap package holidays to Spain where they were guaranteed hot sunshine and cheap booze. Butlin’s holiday centres (no longer called camps) had to change their image or close. Amid much wailing and gnashing of teeth – for hundreds of people had nostalgic memories of the place – Clacton closed in 1983. Surrounded by the sea, a golf course and an airfield, it went the way of dozens of smaller such camps at the time. It was sold intact, and its new owner re-opened it the following year cheaply refurbished as a ‘Disney-style’ theme park. Four months later it went into receivership, and in 1987 the camp was totally demolished so that the site could be sold as building land. Only the NapolĂ©onic Martello tower remained.
The new housing development is described in its sales’ literature as follows: ‘…built on the positive features of the original cabins, with prefabricated timber construction, opportunities for sea views from upper floor living areas, and orientation to catch the sun and cheat the winds. The result is a relaxed, intimate pattern of chalets and gardens which responds to the grain of the original layout.’ What piffle! Just a load of prefabs built on the cheap – they couldn’t even be bothered to design a new road plan!
Our walk was not finished, for I was determined to get to Clacton Pier before we went home. After refreshing ourselves, we continued along the lower prom which widened at that point and began to feel like a ‘real’ prom! We had left marshland behind, and there was a concrete cliff to our left with gardens and pathways on top – civilisation! Halfway to the pier, we passed a raised terrace with picnic tables and a lovely painted mural of steam trains full of people – now that’s the way to arrive at the seaside! Very soon we were at the pier itself, with a fish ’n’ chip shop one side and an eel pie ’n’ mash cafĂ© the other. It was all very brash and colourful – wonderful! I asked a passing tourist to take a photograph of us with our heads stuck through a screen on which there was a cartoon-type painting of two people at the seaside, saucy postcard style. I felt it was a fitting end to three days of hard walking! That ended Walk no.74, we shall pick up Walk no.75 next time at the entrance to Clacton Pier which we didn’t have time to walk down on this occasion. We returned to our car where we drank another cup of tea. Colin drove us back to St Osyth Stone Point to collect the bikes which, thankfully, were still on dry land despite the tide being right in. (He actually admitted that he had wondered whether they would be under water, but hadn’t said anything to me!) We returned to the campsite where we had a quick meal which I had prepared earlier. It seemed to take ages to pack up the tent, other people were arriving and setting up. We managed to leave just as it was getting dark, and had an uneventful drive home this time. We arrived in Bognor at 12.45AM tomorrow! We were exhausted, but had achieved our aims and were home in time to do our grandparental duty!We feel a great sense of satisfaction. Although we are not quite out of Essex, and still have a little bit of marshland to negotiate, we are happy that we are back at the real seaside! We have hardly touched it since Whitstable, 326 miles back, and at times it has been difficult to remember that we are on a coastal walk. We have conquered the jigsaw of the Essex Marshes. From now on, when we do a ten mile walk, it will mean we have progressed approximately ten miles along the coast, not just crossed a river from a point half a mile away!

Sunday, July 20, 2003

Walk 73 -- Wivenhoe to Brightlingsea

Ages: Colin was 61 years and 73 days. Rosemary was 58 years and 215 days.
Weather: Hot and sunny, but thankfully cooler than yesterday.
Location: Wivenhoe to Brightlingsea/St Osyth Stone Point.
Distance: 10 miles, including the ferry.
Total distance: 517 miles.
Terrain: Lovely woodland walk along the river, then more of that wretched overgrown sea wall. Some road (pavement!) and lane walking, and the last stretch was a disused railway line.
Tide: Out, coming in later.
Rivers to cross: No.21, Brightlingsea Creek at Brightlingsea. (We had to walk round the end of Alresford Creek because the ford was impassable.)
Ferries: No.5 across Brightlingsea Creek – except that once more we couldn’t find the ferryman or his boat!
Piers: None.
Kissing gates: No.76 near Wivenhoe. No.77 on the south side of Alresford Ford.
Pubs: The ‘Horse & Groom’ at Wivenhoe where we drank Bateman’s mild and Adnam’s bitter. (Colin looked through the window of the closed ‘Railway Tavern’ at Brightlingsea and wasn’t very impressed with the range of beers he could see on offer – so we decided not to bother about coming back when it was open.)
‘English Heritage’ properties: None.
Ferris wheels: None.
Diversions: No.24 round the end of Alresford Creek because the ford was impassable even at low tide – it was silted up with at least three feet of mud!
How we got there and back: We camped the night before at Elmstead Market. We drove, with bikes on the back of the car, to Brightlingsea where we parked in a street near the quay. Then we cycled to Wivenhoe where we used a proper bike rack in the village.
At the end, after looking in vain for the ferry and only finding a notice on the yacht club jetty declaring ‘no public access to water taxi’, we drank tea and went back to Wivenhoe to collect the bikes. Then we returned to the campsite, stopping at the pub on the way because it had just opened.

It is Paul and Caroline’s first anniversary today. We remembered their wonderful wedding which had been such fun, and now they are comfortably settled in their old cottage in the village of Isleham in Cambridgeshire. This past year has gone by so quickly!

Wivenhoe is a pretty little village on the riverside, and it was Colin who found a proper bike rack tucked away behind the quay, near the church. We started our Walk by looking for signs of the ferry which we were supposed to have used yesterday, but all we found was a locked gate leading to a floating pontoon which was ‘splap!’ on the mud because the tide was out. A notice pinned to the gate requested us not to climb on the pontoon ‘when the ferry is not in operation’ – no helpful information about times of ferries, not even a telephone number to ring. So that was that, we gave up on that particular ferry.
We wandered along the riverside, there were a lot of people about enjoying the summer sunshine. Just outside the village we stopped to look at a flood barrier which can be closed across the river in times of need. It seems a very big construction for such a tiny river, but its size must be necessary to save the ancient city of Colchester further upstream from being deluged in times of flood. Opposite us was Ballast Quay which we walked past yesterday towards the end of our hot walk. We could see gravel and sand ready to be loaded on to barges, though all was quiet today because it was a Sunday.
It had rained quite a bit in the night and early this morning, but that had cleared to a hot and sunny day again – thankfully not quite so hot as yesterday. Added to that, most of today’s walk was by the riverside so we felt a slight breeze which considerably added to our comfort. Then we entered some woods – my! wasn’t it pleasant? It put us both in a completely different mood! We were in blissful shade, and kept catching glimpses of the river through spaces between the trees on our right. Very pretty!
The path became flat and easy to walk on because it had joined a disused railway track. Further on it divided each side of a bit of marsh, and we were unsure as to which way to go. There were too many bushes in the way to see much further ahead, so we chose the right hand path because that was nearest the river. We were a little puzzled that it became narrower and more overgrown until it was only with difficulty that we could get through. We knew that we were still on the line of the old railway, then we rounded a bush and all was revealed – we were at a dead end next to the rusting supports of what was once the railway bridge across Alresford Creek! Exactly opposite, on the other bank, we could see bushes surrounding the continuation of the line. If only a footbridge had been left in place – it would have saved us about five miles of walking!
We retraced our steps and took the other branch of the path which led past some spindly rusting metal towers with pulley wheels on top. To our left we could see a number of disused gravel pits and derelict ‘works’. We concluded that the gravel used to be loaded into big buckets, then hauled across to barges on the river using these pulley systems. I wonder how safe it was to walk underneath on the public footpath when they were in use!
Soon we came to the Ford across Alresford Creek. It is marked on the map as a ‘Road Used as a Public Path’ so we had originally thought that we might cross the creek there. A few weeks ago, we drove down to recce out the route and met two fishermen who seem to hang out in the vicinity a lot. They were there again today, sitting in their vehicle – one with long blond curls who didn’t divulge his name, and ‘Eddie’ with a baseball cap. They were pleasant and chatty, but they spun us a few tales.
They had told us on our first visit that we wouldn’t be able to cross over unless we were willing to wade through at least three foot of mud – we subsequently found out that they were quite right about this, though it was not us who got muddy to prove it! ‘Blondie’ blamed it all on Essex County Council who had stopped dredging the river which resulted in the whole creek silting up. They had complained that they couldn’t get their boats out, but nobody would listen. Eddie told us that five years ago he was able to drive his car across at low tide, and if we had come then we could have walked over with no problem. ‘Blondie’ was hopeful that it will be possible to use the ford again in the not too distant future, and it will be due to all the hard work he and Eddie have put in, “though we’ll never get the credit for it!” he mused.He told us that they had cleared the stream of mud to the middle simply so that they could get their boats out, but they hadn’t done the other side. Recently they had put some logs in the water, and discovered that the mud was being sucked away from underneath them ‘like a vacuum cleaner’! “We discovered the way to do it quite by accident!” he enthused, “just look at the space underneath that log – a few weeks back I laid it flat on the mud!” He was confident that he had made some brilliant scientific discovery, though he admitted he didn’t know how or why it worked. “Five years down the line, and Eddie will be driving his car over again!” I hope so.
It was fun to talk to them, but we couldn’t wait five years to cross the creek! As soon as it didn’t seem impolite to do so, we retreated back up the road and continued walking along the bank towards a mill which was a couple of miles upstream. The path meandered as it followed the creek, and was rather overgrown because most people use a straight path which cuts off all the corners. Colin wanted to use the easier track, but I persuaded him to stick to ‘the nearest safe path to the coast’. We were rewarded with views of Brightlingsea Church peeping through the trees in the middle distance.
The mill and surrounds are very pretty, but also very private. There is a water wheel under the building, but it wasn’t turning. We came out on to the road and turned uphill. It was a busy thoroughfare, but fortunately there is a wide pavement – in fact it is a cycle track which we had used earlier when setting up this walk. We noticed ragwort in the field next to us – ugly weed! I believe there is a low-level government initiative to rid the country of it because it is toxic to grazing animals. It is not a native plant – it was apparently introduced by an Oxford Don about two hundred or so years ago. He had seen it on his travels round Europe, and thought it would look nice in his garden. It settled in our warm and wet climate much too comfortably, and now it is endemic. A friend of ours, who owns horses and also a small field to graze them in, has to dig up hundreds of them every summer in order to protect her animals. They have a tap-root which is very difficult to remove in its entirety.
To our delight, Brightlingsea Church was open. We were met by a custodian, a member of the ‘Friends of Brightlingsea Church’ as we entered. She proceeded to give us a guided tour which would have been very interesting if we had had an hour or two to spare. She loved her church, and tried to cram far too much detail into what she was trying to tell us. Fortunately, after about fifteen minutes, another couple walked in so she left us to our own devices and she began her spiel all over again. The church is very old, parts of it date from the 9th century when it was originally constructed using Roman bricks. It was probably built up here on the hill so that it was never in danger of flooding from the changing courses of all the tidal rivers and streams across the marshes.
Two things she told us about the church were distressing. One was that their Vicar wanted to close this ancient building because it is out of the town. He wants to use only the smaller church down in the town centre – she thinks it is because he lives next door to it! A group of them had formed ‘The Friends’ in a bid to raise funds and keep the church open. The other thing was that she apologised that we couldn’t go up the tower because they couldn’t find the key – they think it had been stolen that very day! She said it was one of those enormous iron keys of great antiquity (it put me in mind of that key in Lower Halstow Church back in Kent) – not the kind of thing you can easily mislay but very ‘collectable’. She had resigned herself to the fact that it had been taken from under their noses, but one of her elderly colleagues – still in denial – was wandering round the church in a kind of daze. “I can’t understand where it has gone!” he kept saying, “I’m going to look for it again! It’s so big, we can’t have lost it! I don’t know how we’re going to get into the tower now!” I thought it was very sad – how I hate the way our society is going.There were a couple of historical details which really interested us about the church. In the late Victorian times, the Vicar – a Canon Pertwee – used to climb the tower on stormy nights and set up a lamp to guide fishing vessels safely home. It was he who put up tiles around the walls of the church as memorials to those who lost their lives at sea. This type of memorial is unique in this country. We read a number of the plaques, and were shocked to find that such a large proportion of those lost souls were mere boys, still in their teens. Another artefact we found fascinating was the holes in the outside of the wooden door at the west end. They were believed to have been made by arrows during archery practice which always took place in the churchyard on a Sunday morning – in fact I think it was the law at one time that every man and boy must practice his archery between services on a Sunday, that is why so many ancient churchyards boast a yew tree. The larger holes are believed to have been made by musket balls during the Civil War. It’s a good thing this practice hasn’t evolved into Sunday morning target practice with kalashnikovs or testing the effects of modern weapons of mass destruction!
With this thought, we left through the Victorian lych-gate and admired a brilliant floral sculpture by the roadside. We also noticed a hedge nearby that had been carved into a face! We took a lane, which deteriorated into a track further on, in order to meander our way back to the south side of the Ford. It had taken us about two and a half hours to get round – but we had passed a pretty mill with its wildlife pond, and looked around an interesting old church. (Got to be positive about these things!)
Our fishermen friends had gone, and there were some lads on our side of the creek who were trying to launch a jet-ski. One of them – who looked amazingly like Colin in his younger days – had tried to walk out to the water’s edge on what was officially the public road across the ford. He had thick black mud up to his knees, and also up his arms because he had dropped a tool and picked it out of the mud before he forgot where it had disappeared under the gloop. We now knew why we had just spent two and a half hours walking an extra four miles!
We walked along the bank to the disused railway line where we pushed our way through the bushes to the spot where the long-gone bridge had begun. There we sat on the end of the embankment facing the rusty first supports of the bridge on the other side – so near yet so far! We ate our chocolate to give us added energy for the rest of the Walk. Then we started trudging the old railway line southwards all the way to Brightlingsea.
It was three miles, with drained marshes to our left and the River Colne with Fingringhoe Marshes – where the Army were still blasting away – to our right. It was a good path – up on the embankment and becoming increasingly clear of weeds, with even a few rustic seats as we approached Brightlingsea. We met more and more people venturing out from the resort with their families and dogs – including one couple on a seat locked in an embrace, seemingly oblivious to all passers-by who had to step over their feet! Bet he was cheating on his wife – he was no spring-chicken, and she had that look about her.I liked Brightlingsea! It had that busy, happy ethos of a seaside resort on a sunny Summer’s day, and I was pleased to note that most of the beach huts were in use! I wanted to dally there soaking up the atmosphere – after all, we were almost at the end of our Walk and time was no longer of the essence – but Colin kept marching ahead. The tide was right in, splashing against the prom which made it all seem rather exciting.
Whenever I tried to call Colin back, he yelled out things like, “I don’t want my camera to get wet! Are you willing to pay out hundreds of pounds for a new one when this one is ruined? I’ve suffered from that before!” and other such fatuous statements. Now, his precious camera was inside a padded case which was inside a polythene bag which was inside his rucksack, and we were only being gently splashed occasionally on the legs! Truthfully, he was hot and tired, and in one of his ‘I haven’t been to the pub yet!’ moods. He had been told of a ‘very special’ real ale pub in Brightlingsea run by an eccentric landlord and it was only open at weekends. He was annoyed at missing it yesterday when we had completed such a horrid walk (we had gone straight back to the campsite – after spending two hours photographing weather-vanes, picking up the bikes and paying an essential visit to the local Tescoes – because I didn’t want to cook in the dark) and feared that all the ‘good beer’ would be drunk by today leaving empty barrels. I had agreed to go there at the end of today’s Walk, but that wasn’t good enough because ‘all the decent ale will have gone!’ So I was rushed through this delightful resort – where everyone else seemed to be having fun – by a grumpy companion, and I’m still annoyed about it now!
We skirted the beach with Colin moodily darting behind the beach huts and me walking in front of them ‘daring’ the waves. There were all sorts of sea-pools and gardens, I wasn’t allowed to dawdle and absorb it all. There was also an odd kind of tower, the purpose of which we couldn’t work out. Then we came to the end of the beach, and our way was barred by what seemed like industrial type buildings. We walked inland to a street, and further on came out at the Public Hard.
According to our road atlas there is a ferry across Brightlingsea Creek to St Osyth Stone Point, but we could see no sign of it nor any notices, timetables etc. Nowadays people go everywhere by car – they don’t use ferries anymore so they go out of business. We saw a small boat full of people coming across from somewhere, but that landed on a jetty inside the yacht club. On the gate of said club was a notice reading NO PUBLIC ACCESS TO WATER TAXI. So it is all private! We counted it anyway (under Additional Rule no.7) because the detour was too far to contemplate, and we felt we were owed some compensation for the extra four miles we had trudged to get round Alresford Creek.
That ended Walk no.73, we shall pick up Walk no.74 next time on the other side of Brightlingsea Creek at St Osyth Stone Point. We returned to our car which was parked in a street nearby. We drank a cup of tea, then we went looking for the pub that Colin was so anxious to visit. He had read in his ‘bible’ (the Good Beer Guide) that it was open all day Sunday – it wasn’t! He looked through the window at the bar taps, and declared that there was ‘nothing exciting’ and it wasn’t worth coming back for at seven o’clock. (I just felt like screaming, but that is by the way!) We drove back to Wivenhoe and loaded up the bikes. As we were driving out of the top of the town, we passed another of the pubs he had been on about. It was with great difficulty that I persuaded him to stop as it was, by then, three minutes to seven. I couldn’t bear him to continually moan that he never got to the pubs he wanted to (wives of CAMRA members need the patience of Job!), I don’t know what his motives were for not stopping – after all the fuss he had been making. We sat in the garden with our beer, then returned to the campsite.