23 May 2016 - Grange Farm, The Green, Woolpit, Suffolk

The last three days seem to have gone all too quickly, rest days if considered to be less busy for sightseeing, but family and chores are busy in a different kind of way. We certainly have been relieved of cooking dinner; the generosity of Chris’s sister one night, a shared supper-cum-dinner another, a delicious pork roast, again cooked by Margie and then dinner tonight out at a local pub with family. 

The three Clarke siblings at Blo Norton

 We had returned to this part of the country for the Blo Norton reunion, for all those resident in this village barely a mile north of the Suffolk – Norfolk border on or before 1960. My husband was born in the village in 1948, the year his parents and two older siblings had arrived there. They stayed on for about seven years, spending most of that time resident in an Airey House (a term I initially heard as Area House – I am slow to understand the broad Suffolk accent around me). These houses were named after the designer of these low cost houses built immediately after World War II, relying mainly on concrete structures given the shortage of timber at the time.  

About fifty folk turned up in the village hall on Saturday night, most having spent much of their lives in Blo Norton, apart from those spouses sought from out of the village. The evening’s format was wonderful; stories of reminiscences before and after a pot luck finger food banquet. Several of those in their seventies lamented that there were few old timers left and it is no wonder, because those they referred to would now be well over a hundred years old. 

The following morning we woke late but despite this, headed off on a tikki-tour of the North Sea coast, south of that visited from Norwich. Our first port of call was Dunwich, or at least that part of Dunwich still remaining, yet to be taken by the sea.  

In 1250 Dunwich was one of the largest ports in England, with a population of four thousand people. It was a trading port, a religious centre and a borough with a royal charter. Its influence extended throughout East Anglia and beyond. Today, Dunwich has barely one hundred people on the electoral roll, and fewer than fifty permanent residents. Since Roman times, the sea has claimed more than two kilometres of the coastline and reduced a great port to a tiny fishing village. It is said that the rate of erosion continues at about a yard a year. A whole medieval city now lies under water, including twelve churches, the last which toppled over the cliffs in 1919.

It is a popular place for a weekend outing and this day there were dozens of cars oozing pub patrons, walkers, and the curious such as ourselves. The beach is relatively steep as you would expect, covered in deep pebbles and is not very easy to walk upon. For all that and the cool breeze, there were still those who chose to stretch out upon the beach. 

From here one looks north across a shallow bay to Southwold, visited in our first couple of weeks here in the UK. And southwards lay our later destination for the day, the ungainly towers of Sizewell.

We backtracked a little and soon found our way up on to the heath just a mile or so away as far as the crow flies, at the National Trust administered Dunwich Heath. We spent about an hour walking the “Gorse Track”, around the perimeter of the more public accessible part of the conservation land. Needless to say there was plenty of brightly blooming gorse, and blackberry and heather too. Here unlike the days of my childhood when these plants were the bane of my parents life as they developed their farm, these are celebrated as a natural habitat for a host of birdlife, adders, deer, rabbits and other wild critters that dwell on the heath. We were delighted to find numerous oak and birch saplings growing up through the low scrub, as well as several older elms which had escaped the Dutch Elm Disease which laid waste to many of these lovely trees.

The old coast guard cottages perched on the cliff above the hungry sea now serve as tearooms and information centre. It was from here in July 1588 a beacon was lit to give warning of the approach of the Spanish Armada, and later the posse served as a lookout for smugglers, then later again, as a lookout for enemy craft during the two World Wars.

After an invigorating walk, such that our many layers of clothing were shed in modest fashion, we lunched on the hill, doing our own observation of birds, the landscape and the other picnickers who had commandeered the fixed benches. Our new collapsible picnic chairs came in handy.

Here I should mention that we had spent some time lingering along the waterways, looking for otters which reportedly had been spotted earlier in the day. I guess they had retreated from the noise of children, dogs off leash and sound of the firing going on in the nearby village. Otter spotting  may turn out to be like our platypus spotting in Australia; I will drag my husband over hill and down to creeks for these shy elusive little creatures and the only ones we will actually see, will be those in some controlled space. For us, creatures only qualify as seen if they are spotted in the wild.

Between Dunwich and Aldeburgh, which lies twelve kilometres south, we detoured to Sizewell, the site of two nuclear power plants.

View from Dunwich Heath to Sizewell

The information that is on offer educates the visitor about the wonders of the area about, rather than the industry which tends to dominate the scene. Many people, including our nieces, their families and dogs come here to take the air or exercise. This is all part of the Suffolk Coast & Heaths Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty, apparently one of Britain’s finest landscapes. It covers four hundred and three square kilometres of East Anglian coast land and includes “wild-life rich wetlands, ancient heath, windswept shingle beaches and historic towns and villages.”

However the feature that caught our fancy were the rows of large open fishing boats sitting up high off the shoreline, attached by winches to very old well-worn winch machinery boxes, between outcrops of sea kale. Crates of nets and other fishing gear lay about the boats, the risk of theft apparently low. We were reminded of the fishing boats at Ngawi on the south coast of the New Zealand’s North Island where they are pulled in and out of the steep tide by gaily painted tractors. I guess the similarity was a little far-fetched; perhaps it was just nostalgia speaking.

Driving on, we visited Aldeburgh, this too once an extensive medieval town, now much reduced by erosion. Despite its shrinking it is still a busy vibrant town, full of pubs and shops and restaurants and on Sunday, with lots of day trippers. We walked along the top of the sea wall, then on the esplanade which was more seemly for folk our age. The narrow alleys and streets are absolutely charming and there is not an amusement arcade in sight! I did notice that many of the houses were a little shabby; perhaps they see little purpose in making everything too shiny and new looking with the sea still out there ready to do its worst. This suggests that Aldeburgh has resigned itself to oblivion; not so. There is currently significant work being undertaken to strengthen the sea wall between the beach and the estuary, and the town makes the most of being the dwelling place of England’s greatest composer of the last century.

In 1947 Benjamin Britten founded the English Opera Group and the following year launched the Aldeburgh Festival as a show piece for his own works and those of his contemporaries. He lived in the village for the next ten years and it was during that time that he completed much of his best work as a conductor and a pianist. For the rest of his life he composed many works specifically for the Festival.

By the mid-1960s the festival had outgrown the parish churches in which it began, and moved into a collection of disused malt houses, the Snape Maltings, five miles west of Aldeburgh on the bank of the River Alde, where the wide and winding estuary narrows. 

The main malt house was converted into one of the finest concert venues in the country and the rest of the complex houses various craft shops, restaurants, bars, recording studios and holiday apartments. We wandered all about and were even allowed to poke our noses into the grand concert hall where there were several backstage folk working on lighting and set structures in preparation for the evening’s performance. It really is a wonderful spot and well patronised by Sunday visitors.

We had intended to travel south to Felixstowe (the birthplace of Britten) before heading home, but the afternoon was well on and we were expected for dinner at Margie’s so we left the port for another day; just too many places to see even if all on a small island!

Fishing boats at Sizewell

Tomorrow we will head off again, this time south to Canterbury, that of Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales fame, and while there, check out Dover Castle which our older son visited with his wife when they were living at Horsham about eight years ago. “You must go there!” they told us and so we shall.

Chris is about to head off into Stowmarket to hang some portraits for his sister, and I must take the opportunity to get ready for our outing tonight. It is all go, this travelling business!