Tollesbury to Maldon | 01.11.12
An early morning bus takes me back to Tollesbury where I push an envelope containing £10 through the door of the closed teashop. On the other side of a gate is a board with information about Tollesbury Wick Marshes, the first part of today’s walk. The sky is grey but some weak winter sunshine lights up the far side of the marina, and walking on for a few more miles I come across an area of dead trees not unlike the ones on Southwold beach: in the same way they lift their branches in a silent entreaty to the heavens.
A little later an information board points out the sight of the disused railway that was planned to take holidaymakers down to the pier, blown up as a security precaution during the second world war.
Leaving Tollesbury Wick Marshes I follow the coast passing Mill Point and on to Goldhanger. The weather has brightened and it is easy walking although hunger starts to become an issue – I must learn to be a bit more organized about provisions.
As the sun is setting I walk into Heybridge Basin and stop to talk to a man working on his boat shed, eager to fill me in on the local history. Knowing I had to get back to London that evening I was forced to cut him short and hobble to the pub on the front where I am lucky enough to catch a taxi to Maldon. After a pint in Maldon I catch the bus to Chelmsford and the train back to London.
Peldon to Tollesbury | 31.10.12
Returning to the Peldon Rose, I find myself alone in the breakfast room. Heading out into narrow lanes that take me through the Wigboroughs, dodging traffic and finding nowhere for a late morning cup of tea.
A left turn across a field leads me to Salcott Cum Virley and the tip of the creek I am to follow out to Old Hall Marshes. Walking past the village church I notice an invitation on the noticeboard to visit the church where tea and coffee facilities are available – I jump. Inside a familiar name catches my eye but one which i had never expected to see in a church. i later discover that Rev. EP Starbuck had been the rector of the parish in 1878 – a long way from Seattle.
Refreshed I turn left out of the church, over a gate and onto the sea wall where a familiar sight greets me – a long grassy path snaking its way into the distance, acres of mud and choppy grey sea. Head down I follow the right hand bank of Salcott Channel and as I turn the blunt end of the peninsular I get a better look at the grey hulking shape of Bradwell Power Station, now decommissioned.
I continue, through intermittent bursts of rain, with Old Hall Marshes on the right, the grey landscape occasionally broken by the delightful colour of wild mushrooms and the cries from a flock of soggy sheep.
A little later I pass a few drenched photographers with their eye on the sea birds and turning inland, past stables, i head out towards Tollesbury Fleet and finally to the charming Marina at Tollesbury. I am drenched, cold and hungry but am about to meet the kindest tea shop ladies in the World. Not only do they let me owe them a meal. (I only had a plastic card) they also point me in the right direction of a B&B for the night. That evening, having finally found somewhere to rest my head I venture out into the ghoulish Halloween night to find something to eat. I find the Indian restaurant and as at breakfast, sit alone watching the young indian waiter, who has never been to India, fold napkins obsessively with his fine elegant fingers.
Leigh On Sea to Stanford Le Hope 07.10.12
Coming out of the station a bright green flag with the words “Freshly Ground Coffee” calls to me from the bustling boot sale but I am late starting so I walk on. Twenty minutes later, after sighting a beautiful German Gundog and the ruins of a castle on the hill to the right, I discover I have forgotten my camera – I will have to use the iphone.
Walking in the bright October sunshine up the side of Benfleet Creek I am slightly irritated by the drone of a model aeroplane being flown from Two Tree Island and the loud commentary from a mountain bike competition up on the hill. I soon have to leave the bank to follow the railway line on its northern edge, skirting fields full of horses and then stopping for a break in the peaceful graveyard of St. Margaret’s church. Following the railway line I am soon pitched into the noise and confusion of a very busy motoway junction, housing a monumental Tesco’s. Disorientated I wander around underneath the massive concrete structures of the A130 trying to find the path that will get me closer to Fobbing. Opposite Pitsea Station I walk through a builders yard and under the rumble of the road above, striding purposefully to ward off the furtive glances of a bunch of hooded youths standing in my path.
From there on I make my own way – the paths are not clearly marked and overgrown, so after a while I take to the road, stopping to look inside the pretty church at Vange.
Walking the verges for a few more miles, the oil refinery hazy in the distance, I finally arrive at Fobbing Church where I find a bench to air my aching feet.
Heading down the hill on the road to Stanford Le Hope I turn off onto a track through a very muddy field, my right foot sinks above the laces but my foot stays dry. Then on through Corringham, lanes bordering municipal playing fields, more farmers fields until I hit the road down to the station at Stanford Le Hope.
Wivenhoe To Peldon 16.09.12
The track beside the river from Wivenhoe to the Quays at Colchester is an old friend, from the two summers I spent working at Essex University; the track on the other side of the Colne is not. Coming off the roadbridge I walk through an area of deserted warehouses but walking out of a bend I find myself facing a clutch of soldiers in desert fatigues. They smile as I walk slightly nervously through the middle of them but twenty five metres on I catch sight of a scene that stops me in my tracks. Two men dressed in shabby djellabahs and Palestinian scarves are crouching over a small bonfire – a woman in a long skirt and shawl leaning against a wall behind them. In front I see the back of a man in western dress bent over the small party shouting and gesticulating at them to stand up. I am shocked, I stop, what is happening? Are these illegal immigrants in for a beating? Should I take a photo? Two seconds later I realise it is a film set and my indignation recedes, I continue along the grassy track to a Sunday boot sale in Rowhedge. Flying ducks are being painted on the pub wall, all is well in the world. Over the fields to Fingringhoe Church and over more fields to the Stepford Wives of Abberton locked up in their neat little bungalows. From now on it is road walking, the monotony broken only once by the sight of a horse and cart tripping gaily past on the other side of the road. At the Peldon Rose I call it a day and celebrate with an extremely good skate wing and a half of local bitter.