I didn’t realise it at the time, but that evening by Mayland Creek would be the last time I saw a clear patch of blue sky for quite a while. As I trudged through a seemingly endless maze of drainage ditches and empty fields, the heavens opened and I was thoroughly drenched. Stopping to sit under a bush to eat some stale pita bread, I was initially starting to feel deflated but then, out of nowhere, I began to chuckle, some crazy person laughing to herself in the middle of nowhere under a bush. This would probably be as bad as it would get; a bit cold, pretty damp, but that would only be temporary. (It helped that I had no internet at that point and couldn’t check the weather forecast.)
Eventually I got to Northey Island, site of the Battle of Maldon which I wrote about previously. Despite the rain and the cold seeping into my muscles, I couldn’t help but be a little in awe of the history I was walking through. The town of Maldon itself is quirky with its old fashioned docks and wharfs. Meandering up through the Medieval streets, the sound of ropes slapping against the masts of aged sailing boats cut through the drizzle. After so long on my own, it was somewhat bizarre to be in a hive of industrial human activity again.
Once through Maldon I found a quiet towpath that took me to Heybridge Basin, its rural tranquility washing over me. I stopped briefly and chatted to a gentleman whose boat served in the Navy in WW2, a reminder that history continues to live on everywhere and makes us who we are today. Where at first these vessels looked to me as simple canal boats, a passer-by would not have known the impact they each might have made on our heritage.
Mum came and met me at a pub, being only an hour away from home. It was a much needed respite and some familial support - not to mention the legendary flapjacks that she brought, renowned across Cambridgeshire I’m sure! That night I was put up by a gentleman named Clint whose door I simply knocked on and asked if I could camp in his garden. Though understandably a little bewildered at my request at first, once I explained what I was doing he readily opened his doors and showed me a private field where I could pitch my tent in safety. The pure, spontaneous generosity of strangers. I slept well, soothed by the gentle patter of water droplets on tarpaulin and nightingales crooning.
The following morning, Clint’s mother insisted on giving me a cup of tea before I set off. It was to be much needed as I would walk nearly 25 miles that day through the bogs and marshes of Essex’s northern(ish) coastline. It turns out that this section is a bird watcher’s paradise; as well as a multitude of wading birds, I got the privilege of seeing a couple of marsh harriers and fly catchers, neither of which I had seen before. Whilst RSPB Titchwell might be one of the best known reserves in East Anglia, Joyce’s Marsh, Tollesbury Marshes and RSPB Old Hall were all teeming with birdlife, possibly thanks to their smaller visitor numbers when I was passing through.
I stopped for lunch by Joyce’s Marsh in an abandoned building on stilts. Seeing as I could see for miles and I appeared to be the only person wanting to venture out in the dismal greyness, I thought I’d be safe hopping over a small boarded up gateway. I was rewarded with a serene hour’s private viewing of some of Britain’s best coastal landscapes, with the Blackwater Estuary stretching out in front of me and marshland behind.
That evening I stayed with the lovely Angela who had seen what I was up to on Facebook. She not only offered me a bed, but fed me handsomely and was fascinating to talk to. A keen ornithologist herself, she was an incredible gold mine of local ecological knowledge and spent the entire following day showing me around Mersea Island. I had only ever heard about this place and its name came tinged with a certain aura of magic about it. One of Britain’s largest tidal islands, it is periodically disconnected from the mainland by the sea. Oyster shacks line the quayside and narrow streets are dotted with picturesque cottages dripping with wisteria.
I was incredibly grateful for Angela’s generosity and openness. By the time I got to her, my feet were in tatters, having been scraped to pieces by the pervading damp, and the following morning I was struggling to limp to the kettle (No, my feet are good as new, I said to Mum on the phone). As I stepped onto the ferry across to Brightlingsea, I felt a wave of sadness as I left a new friend so soon, but the rest of the coastline beckoned me forwards.
The ferry to Brightlingsea.
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