Today is my birthday. 46 sounds very different to 45. How did it happen? I still sometimes get confused about my age. Am I 45? Or am I still 38? When we’re young we never heed the warnings which I hear myself saying to young people now: ‘make the most of your youth because one day..’
How different this feels to the last time I was here. The school holidays are underway. Lockdown has been eased up. More people are holidaying in the UK. And the hordes are out in force. And fair enough.
Had a slight wobble about Dad. The first time he won’t be celebrating it with me. The first time I shan’t hear his cheerful ‘Happy Birthday Jamo!’. The first time I don’t have his scrawled ‘love from Dad’ in his terrible handwriting in the card Mum would have bought.
I get little bursts of sadness like this sometimes but surprisingly I seem to be fine. I keep waiting for the grieving to get worse but it hasn’t. Will I suddenly get bowled over by it? A delayed reaction like PTSD? I doubt it. And the walking has helped.
The car park is full at Walberswick. The jaunty ice cream van is in its place with a bucket full of crabbing nets to sell. Families and couples wander here and there, I suppose happy to have the freedom to be out and about again. There’s no doubt the persistently good weather we’ve had has made life easier especially for those living outside the city.
Crossing over the River Blyth, which empties itself here into the North Sea, I’m reminded of a boys’ bike ride we did a few Summers ago. Dad, me, bro and bro-in- law. We had lunch at The Harbour Inn. I remember thinking how fit and fearless he was caning it on his bike through gorse bushes. ‘You’ll go on forever’, I once said to him. How wrong I was.
The pub is one of several places here which indicate the high water mark of the notorious flood of 1953. Earlier I had noticed huts along the side of the river similarly marked. The combination of a high Spring tide and a storm on January 31st 1953 caused extensive flooding all along the East coast of the UK and also a huge part of Holland and Belgium. In England alone there were 307 deaths.
I like the sort of English shantytown feel of this drag beside the river I now know is called Southwold Harbour. There is the odd brick building like the pub but most of the structures are small wooden fishermen’s huts, their wooden boards creosoted black with names like Bounty. Small boats are pulled up beside some of these huts.
One place sticks out amongst the rest. Looking from outside in it is like a beautifully constructed picture displaying wooden furniture, boats and even SUP boards all made using traditional methods and materials by the Dutch boatbuilder, Jochem Voogt. Novoboats. I check myself. Amidst the crowds and queues for the fish and chip hut this comes as a breath of fresh North Sea air.
Despite all the holidaymakers this is clearly still a working harbour, altogether different from the genteel feel of the main town of Southwold less than a mile away. Newly made lobster pots, and bundles of rope sit alongside the staples of seaside life: seagulls, fish and chips and tourists.
Halfway along the river to the sea, the path takes a sharp left turn and I’m en route to Southwold. There’s something so very English about Southwold. Arriving from the South, as I am, I’m struck by how much grass there is in the centre of the town. I wrongly assumed that this was something akin to a village green or more like several greens but actually they came about as a result of a fire in 1659 which destroyed most of the town and created the spaces which have not been built on since.
The most notable of these greens is the one which looks out to sea and is called Gun Hill where 6 cannon still point out to sea commemorating the Battle of Sole Bay in 1672 between on one side the English and French navys and the Dutch on the other.
I hasten to get through the crowds in the middle of town, always keen to be nearer the coast, closer to nature and away from people. I wander close to the lighthouse but don’t have the time this time to have a proper look. Soon I am back on the seafront looking over the neat little valley roofs of Southwold’s beach huts. Although tiny inside (you might possible get a family of 4 or 5 to be able to sit together under the roof while they have their tea) these mini spaces for a mini break have become highly desirable and valuable relative to their size. They originate from the Victorians’ changing huts where people could step into the sea from their hut and thereby maintaining absolute privacy from prying eyes.
What is it about the seaside that has meant that it was historically associated with less virtuous activities? This was where extramarital affairs were conducted and where smutty postcards and literature did a thriving trade. I guess it’s because this was a place for holidays which in turn meant a place designed for pleasure (of all sorts). The commentator Andy Medhurst, himself a resident of one of the most famous seaside towns in England – Brighton – has written how “Seaside culture is somewhere [where] the everyday rules of behaviour are put on hold.” I’m not sure if you could say this about Southwold.
I’m walking along the strip of grass that follows the path beside the sea and looking towards the pier. Originally built in1900, it was designed so that steamships could pull up alongside it. Over the years it was damaged on various occasions by storms with the whole T shaped end being destroyed in the 1930s
It was completely restored in 2001 including a new T shaped end and now has a hilarious array of coin operated machines designed by the inventor Tim Hunkin in what is called the ‘Under the Pier Show’. It’s the perfect place for a rainy Sunday afternoon for fun and funniness. One of his machines is the Autofrisk which according to Wikipedia is ‘a device that simulates the experience of being frisked by multiple, inflated rubber gloves’! They also have other classics such as ‘Whack a banker’ and one where you’re a fly trying to avoid being swatted.
The Slow Walker 