16 May 2016 - Norwich Club Site, Norfolk

It’s always good to pack up and move on even when you might have short-changed the area with  limited skills of exploration.  This morning was no exception; anticipation  stirred us early and we were up and on the road by 9.30 am, having taken even less time to pack up camp. Practice will improve this time, although it will never reach the efficiency of that enjoyed motorhoming, or even that we reached in Australia. Here we have supplementary water and grey water tanks to empty, wheel clamps and towbar locks to dismantle and store away.  Once on the road we spoke of such matters but noted that nowhere yet on this journey had we encountered roads so narrow or unfriendly to warrant the choice of caravan over motor homing.  No doubt that will come later.

As we drove away from Colchester after topping up our diesel tanks at Sainsbury’s, the practice of choosing to do this at “superstores” (supermarkets) rather than standard roadside service stations totally price driven, I noticed another grouping of wind turbines inland from the city. I say “another” in reference to the many hundreds seen yesterday off the coast of Harwich and Clacton-on-Sea. 

If one examines a map that stretches beyond the coastline, the shallow sand banks lying to the east are clear, and must surely be the base of these eerie power generators. Nowhere did we see reference to these, and yet we thought they must surely have raised massive protest in their development, dominating the eastern horizon. Further research revealed this to be the “Gunfleet Sands Offshore Wind Farm”, a 172 MW wind farm about seven kilometres off the coast, a two stage project consisting of only forty eight turbines, although they had seemed so much more numerous.  The turbines generate enough energy to supply approximately 120,000 households or approximately 20% of the households in Essex.

Endless beach huts along the Southwold beach front

Today we followed the A12 north to the highway exchange at the southern edge of Ipswich, where we turned east toward Felixstowe, then north again toward Lowestoft on the same A12. As we drove over the Orwell Crossing, we remembered that Chris’s sister Margie had recently ticked off one of her Bucket List items; to have her son-in-law Mick drive her over in his big rig, lifting her view over the concrete walls of the bridge so she could see the river and surrounding area  below. Today, with our views limited, we sympathised with her past frustration and could, for the first time, understand the attraction of her date with Mick. 

Southwold Pier

Soon after passing up the eastern side of Ipswich, the road narrowed to a two lane country highway, the scenery was distinctly rural and we enjoyed the drive very much. The sun shone brightly on the golden blooms of the canola crops, farmers were gathering up their mown grass for haylage, the white confetti blooms of the spikey hawthorne hedges created a charming frame to our forward view, and we were able to keep up a decent  speed so not to be a bother to other motorists, or at least that is our story.

We passed the caravan yard at Farnham, whence our caravan came, and decided we would pop in on a day’s outing next week, perhaps to buy some plastic ramp blocks, and anything else that might catch our fancy. The roads to Aldburgh and Dunwich, places on our to-do list, were bypassed today, in preference for a side trip to Southwold.

When Chris suggested that we detour to this seaside spot this morning, I kept my reservations to myself. Driving into intimate villages, be they rural or coastal, or even a heavily urban settlement of far greater size, can be a nightmare when towing a caravan, unless you have a clear understanding of the parking facilities offered by the powers-that-be. Fortunately today was a Monday and the weekend crowds of hopeful summer weather had all returned to their places of work, school  or late rising. Today Southwold was quiet but for a couple of coachloads of tourists and a few random travellers such as ourselves. We elected to park near the pier, paying for the privilege but in a wonderful space set aside for motorhomes and the like, then set off on foot about the township, along the shoreline and up into the town. 

Southwold is perched high above the sea, just north of the River Blyth, and was by the sixteenth century, Suffolk’s busiest fishing port.  Although Lowestoft to the north has taken over that role, the small fleet here still brings in herring, sprats and cod. These days it is primarily a seaside resort for the more discerning, the more gentrified, those wanting to enjoy an old fashioned quiet holiday by the sea, without the crassness of those like Clacton-on-Sea.  

Like Harwich, the beach is divided by groynes to protect the sandy beach from erosion, and like Harwich, there are many beach huts, but here the numbers are massively multiplied. The concept is fascinating, that folk rent one of these little huts with no facilities but a dry or shading roof, with a lockable door, and often nothing more. Perhaps with the erratic inclement weather of this country, it makes sense to have somewhere to seek refuge when the weather turns foul during a day at the seaside?

Views along the Southwold Beach from the pier

I really liked Southwold, or at least  would choose it over and above the coastal resorts we visited yesterday, although in realty I prefer the countryside, the birds, the bush and walking paths from which to enjoy all of this.

After wandering about for an hour and twenty minutes, we lunched then returned to the A12, then cut across to Beccles on the A145, an even more charming road, narrower and less busy. Alas it must have been somewhere here or perhaps on the hedge rimmed A1095 out of Southwold, that we scraped the side of our otherwise immaculate caravan, the paintwork toward the rear and across one window; needless to say, Chris is not happy.

Reaching Norwich, our Tomtom brought us accurately to this Caravan and Camping Club site beside  the River Yare, one of those which make up the network of rivers known as the Norfolk Broads, whereupon we were made most welcome by Bernie, a Welshman, effusive, verbose and over-helpful. The service could not be faulted, although Chris probably could have done without the arm around the shoulders.

In about half an hour we were set up, I was feeding the laundry into the camp washing machine and Chris was tuning the television: we are getting better! Once the washing was pegged on the one little rotary clothes line, we set off on the riverside woodland walk on the edge of the camp, attractive but soon completed and most likely more appropriate for those campers who wish to exercise their dogs after having had them inside in their cosy camp arrangement all night.

 

It has been a lovely day, dinner was simple and we are looking forward to a few days here checking out all the attractions missed on our visit here last year.