Suffolk Sauntering : Day 3 - Beccles to Southwold

1.
Waking up in a native deciduous woodland was not as romantic as i'd imagined it to be.  I'd had a great night's sleep as the night had been warm and the forest floor was soft, but the persistent sounds of rain on my tent didn't bode well.  I quickly packed up, scrambled out through the brambles, leapt back over the ditch, and I was on my way munching on a chocolate bar as I walked.  It wasn't long before the drizzle worsened, and it didn't improve the views over the desolate Beccles Marshes which I imagine to be devoid of interest at the best of times.  By the time i'd completed the six miles of riverside walking I was soaked through, particularly from the waist down (due to wading through wet grass and reeds).  My legs were already aching, my blister was worsening, and my spirits were pretty low.  To make matters worse, I didn't really have any idea where I was going - the Angles Way would veer Northwards very soon and I wasn't sure whether to continue on to Great Yarmouth or to walk South down the Suffolk coastline.

2.
With the weather worsening I decided to go into Lowestoft for a break.  Having spent a couple of days wandering peacefully through the Suffolk countryside, the idea of going into a big town was not that appealing.  At Oulton Broad South Station I decided that catching a train the remaining few miles into town would be preferable to walking through suburbia, but to my dismay the train only stopped every two hours and it had just left.  By now it was raining hard and trudging along a main road next to a slow moving queue of cars wasn't my idea of fun.  Walking on your own can be lonely, I hadn't had a proper chat for a day or so, and the first word I heard that day was...

"Tosser!" 

...shouted by a cyclist to a car on a roundabout in the drab and depressing industrial park...

"...they don't mind asking for the money, but you don't have to give it to 'em..." 

...an old lady chastised her friend as they stepped out of the front door of their terrace...

"Hey mate, it's only me.  How much do you want for your elite ?  Dave just asked me if I knew anyone selling an xbox..." 

...asked a man on the phone in the high street, his wife pushing the pram...

Lowestoft was clearly down on it's luck: the local pub advertised a 'credit busting' menu, every other shop on the high street seemed to be a charity shop, and the public toilets charged 20p (until I realised the coin box had been vandalised).  As the steady rain became a downpour I ducked into a greasy spoon on the high street, hoping that a fry up might lift my spirits.  As I stood at the counter, dripping, to order my fried breakfast and coffee (from a catering sized tin of Nescafe instant) I noticed that the owner had a strong accent.  Desperate for some quality conversation I asked where he was from - it turned out he was Italian, hailed from Trieste on the Italy-Slovenia border, and had been in Lowestoft running his cafe for fourteen years.

By the time i'd eaten and chatted with the owner and his waitress (an old lady who insisted on telling everyone that came in that i'd walked all the way from Diss) things were looking up.  It was still raining however, so I decided to wander down to the sea-front tourist information centre to get a weather forecast.  To be honest, I was thinking of quitting and jumping on the next train back to Diss.  The tourist information centre had security grilles on the counter and a large sign advising that the staff should not be subjected to verbal or physical abuse.  Still, it turned out that the weather was due to clear that afternoon and, without really making a decision, I just started walking South down the shabby Victorian sea front promenade.

3.
It wasn't long before I was out of Lowestoft, and following the Suffolk Coast Path which was required to make numerous diversions inland to avoid cliff erosion.  As I walked the weather cleared, and by the time I came on "The Sailors Home" in Kessingland, the sun was shining and I felt my own spirits lifting with a well-earned pint of Adnam's Best.

I decided i'd been neglecting Thoreau and pulled out the pamphlet for inspiration as I walked along a country lane.  "Walking" was published in 1862, and one of the themes is Thoreau's opinion that wilderness, and the future of civilisation lie to the west (or the American frontier).  I was surprised to see a comment on the Australian migration which made me chuckle.  Thoreau says "Within a few years we have witnessed the phenomenon of a southeastward migration, in the settlement of Australia; but this affects us as a retrograde movement, and judging from the moral and physical character of the first generation of Australians, has not yet proved a successful experiment."  I like to think Thoreau would have a better view of Australians if he was writing today.

The walking on this stretch of the Suffolk coast path was interesting and scenic, passing through farmland, woods and small villages.  I was treated to one more soaking for the day as a heavy shower passed swiftly overhead on it's way out to the North Sea.  It was at this point that I started to see signs on the path advising that the imminent "Potter's Bridge Marshes" (hereafter referred to as the bog of despair) were likely to be impassable in wet conditions.  Given the amount of rainfall today I wasn't optimistic.  Still, the bog of despair was now all that stood between me and my goal for the day - Southwold, the home of the Adnams brewery.

The thought of a pint of Broadside spurred me on and I stepped past the gnarled old tree guarding the entrance and down into the bog.  The marsh was low lying and water logged, the reeds grew over head height and a narrow winding path had been cleared through them making it feel claustrophobic.  As I reached the lowest point, the obstacle became clear - the path disappeared into water of unknown depth for at least two metres and the reed walls made it impossible to step around.  I decided to commit and took a very large step forward, fully expecting my foot to disappear at least to knee height in the water.  So it came as a total surprise when my heel skidded on the surface, causing me to lose my balance and fall over into the quagmire.  I quickly got up and brushed myself down, looking around in case someone had seen me.  It turned out there was a wooden boardwalk just beneath the surface - the bog of despair had claimed another victim, or at least my pride.

The final walk into Southwold seemed to take for ever.  I'd covered twenty miles and my aches and pains were making themselves felt.  So, I only managed a cursory appreciation for the town as I walked in, fixated on a pint and a pub meal.  The town's pubs were all incredibly busy but I finally secured a table at the 'Red Lion'.  After eating, exhaustion overcame me pretty quickly so I started out reluctantly on the evening task of finding a place to sleep.  It was plain to see that Southwold was popular with tourists, and a quick stop at the only campsite in town confirmed my fears - it was full.  Unable to stagger much farther, I wandered over the road to the beach and located a reasonably well concealed spot in the dunes to pitch my tent.  Unfortunately, it was still light, so I sat there watching the dog walkers on the beach and the distant lights of the Sizewell B nuclear power station blinking down the coast.  Just before dusk the cold evening breeze drove me inside my tent and into a deep slumber.