After the closeness of the trees in Tunstall Forest, I feel a sense of relief – a sigh inside – as I see the openness of sky and space and in the distance, water.
I’ve been here before. An old friend of mine lives across the water from here in the house that he grew up in. I used to go there as a child, then for crazy all nighters when we were at university, the excitement of having a house to ourselves when the parents are away.
On this side of the river is another riverside house, one of only a few, which has always been a holiday home that can be let. There are more memories here of my sister and brother in law coming to stay early in their relationship. Staying up late drinking and dancing and me the last one up trying to sleep in a hammock slung between 2 trees looking down the river towards Iken church.
Today is a Sunday. It’s sunny and crisp and there’s more brightness in the sky. Every day is a bonus – another day with dad in our world, still on this side.
I start on the corner of a road with a heap of muck and mud and sludge. Little oily puddles reveal purples and blues still and incongruous amongst the brown mass.
Heading towards the pines that signal the edge of Tunstall, the path follows a farmer’s track along the edge of a scrubby field. Funny how certain landscape can suddenly throw me into a dark mood, more prone to dwell on darker thoughts. Sometimes scared or lonely like I used to be as a child calling for my mum at the top of the staircase at the top of the house.
I’m sometimes reminded of the recent Storyville documentary about the absolutely bonkers story of Jim Jones and his group of followers who set up Jonestown deep in the Guyana jungle before all killing themselves in a forced mass suicide.
The story is so shocking and there was so much real life footage and audio tapes (many of them of Jones ranting and becoming more deranged and incoherent as his project started to implode) that it made an impact and stayed in my consciousness for more than a week after I watched it.
Walking through bare fields with makeshift pig shelters surrounded by forest would bring up images of that silent space in the jungle where Jones and his 918 followers all lay many of them face down on the ground.
Oh, the relief of seeing water. It’s always been my favourite thing. Water has a magical ability to console me. The colours are in sharper contrast today. The green of another turf field so dark and perfect it could be a picture. The wind bracing and refreshing forcing me to dream of being in colder climes. I want to be in Bulgaria skiing, was hoping to go in February half term but we can’t plan – Dad, though we didn’t think it 2 weeks ago, may still be here.
I walk down to the water’s edge at Iken Cliff. The River Alde rises I think in Brundish in North Suffolk. There are several houses with moats in that village. It wiggles its way through pretty villages like Badingham and Sweffling and is nothing more than a stream before becoming tidal at Saxmundham. It then continues a course down to Aldeburgh before turning a hard right and heading South as the River Ore along the extraordinary Orford Ness until it meets the sea at Shingle Street. That meeting I bore witness to back in November what seems like years ago.
The walk along the river between Iken and Snape I’ve done before. I came here with friends in August to swim, all of us up to our knees in soft mud before we were in enough water to swim in the running tide.
Often seals rest on one of the shallow islands between the Southern bank and the picturesque St Botolph’s Church which is neatly built on a tight bend in the river so that it looks like it is on its own little island.
The path follows the river towards Snape between the now ubiquitous reed beds. Bare trees look starkly beautiful against the East Anglian sky.
It is essential, this escape into space; it always has been but now more so than ever. Dad was the same: he loved walking, mountaineering, skiing – most things which involved being outdoors. It’s hard to equate the image of the old, active dad with the one I see at home now.
While I’m here he’ll probably be sleeping, face turned towards his beloved garden, mouth turned down. Reduced over the last 5 months to a frail and incapacitated old man.
When I get home he will be sitting upright in his hospital bed surrounded by the dark wood and oil paintings of the transformed dining room. Mum sits dutifully next to him while they watch their favourite programmes. Today being a Sunday it’ll be Countryfile. Sometimes I join them. She’ll chat along and make links to things from their past.
‘Oh, look they’re in..Do you remember..?’
Dad stares at the screen but there’s no response, no reaction, not even any recognition. When I walk in I say keenly ‘Hi Dad.’
He turns to look and responds ‘Hi Darling’. Then as soon as I start to talk to him he slowly looks away as if he’s thinking ‘I can’t stand this. Take me away from it.‘ It’s what he would be thinking, knowing him as he was. Is it what he’s thinking? Is he thinking anything? Mum seems to think or hope so. It’s what keeps her going. I’m not so sure.
There’s something dreamlike about the sea of reeds, their pale gold lines a sweet contrast to the blue of the sky above. Earth and sky. Many others are walking. Some say hello. Some don’t. Is it the locals who do?
East Anglia is famed for its vast skies. There’s something sublime about the sky here especially in a distant, flat corner of Suffolk on a bleak day. It reminds me of the power and fearsome nature of the world that we have tried to make cosy.
The dramatic skies and seas of this part of the world were a source of inspiration for Benjamin Britten. Thanks to him Snape Maltings is now a world class concert hall and arts venue hosting an incredible diversity of musicians every Summer at the Snape Proms. Mum and Dad would always go.
They went to the last concert of the Summer – Nicola Benedetti – as Dad was starting to show signs of the effects of the tumour. He couldn’t quite get his balance. Mum had to help push him up the steps. Friends they saw there – as they always did – said later how he didn’t quite seem himself.
Snape Bridge is where I end today. The old barge resting up snuggly against the river wall and the low arch of the bridge behind where boys jump into the water at high tide on hot Summer days. It’s like a postcard. In fact I think it is a postcard that I’ve seen somewhere. This is a neat place to end. Next time I will start along the North bank on what’s called the sailors’ path, the path that connects Snape with Aldeburgh.
I return to the car along the road. As I’m always alone, the distance waking the path is only ever half the walk but that’s fine – it’s part of the fun working out a circuitous route although it has often lead to me misjudging distances and trudging the last few miles along a road or track in the dark. Who cares?
When I get back to the car at Iken Beach the sun is still high enough in the sky. I don’t want to go back yet. I drive East in the lane which eventually goes down to the marshes towards Ferry Farm and the North Sea beyond. This is where I intend to go but seeing Iken Church lit up in the pale Winter sun, I decide to pop in.
There’s a narrow strip of road which leads down to the church. At the end there is only parking for a few cars next to a large hedge. There are 2 other sizeable houses here and they and the church seem to jostle for space on the limited strip of land. Water is close by on all sides.
There is no one else here. It is utterly silent apart from cries of sea birds – oystercatchers, I think. I’m never sure about the word ‘aura’, it’s a word which I’m never even sure of the meaning of and I’ve heard it used in some quite cringeworthy contexts but I guess Iken today at this time has something that could be called an aura about it.
There is something distinctly moving about being here in this moment. There seems to be a meaning to this place beyond my understanding or abilities of description. Is it just in my consciousness or is it actually the place itself or both? Why do I need even to ask the question? It’s enough to feel moved to wondrous thoughts by a place.
I wonder if St Botolph felt something similar when he first decided to set up his place of worship here. Perhaps he felt the ability to feel powerful, spiritual moments of glory in nature all the time. I expect they had to be that committed to their cause. Probably got sick of feeling it in fact. He was recorded as being ‘a man of unparalleled life and learning, full of the grace of the Holy Spirit.’ I’m sure he had his off days too – when he couldn’t be bothered to do the washing up or he couldn’t quite focus on his prayers.
According to the Anglo Saxon Chronicle ‘Botwulf began to build the minster at Icanho’ in AD 654. Apparently his monastery was one of the earliest to be founded in East Anglia. The local kings gave him land in ‘a waste and ownerless place’ for him to set up his community. It doesn’t feel dissimilar today.
In the winter of 869-870 the Vikings raided East Anglia and laid to waste many monasteries including Icanho. St Botolph’s remains were removed from the ruins in the 10th Century for safekeeping (he had died in 860). Part of a Saxon Cross dating from a similar time – late 800s to early 900s – was found built into the base of the church tower in 1977. Unfortunately little survives of it today.
Reading this information in the church porch again I’m struck by an old feeling. A feeling without words – of simplicity and goodness. It’s a feeling which many would call faith. All of it amplified by a golden glow that throws the shadow of the door frame on to the porch wall, the shadow of a cross. I can hear the loud flapping of pigeons’ wings as they court each other and the bickering of jackdaws and the spring song of blue tits. All else is quiet and I want to hold the moment and remember it.
The Slow Walker 