Monday morning began in a fairly traditional way at bowel o'clock. Then I remembered where I was. I slipped a fleece on, found my sandals, emerged from the tent and trudged the quarter-mile-or-so back towards the lavatories where, conveniently, the light stayed on all night to guide the weary traveller on his or her way. It occurred to me that it was as useful to cycle campers as the Southwold lighthouse, flashing away behind me, was to mariners. I homed in, moth-like, to the light of my relief.
It occurred to me when I was half-way towards my goal that I hadn't taken a torch with me. This, I felt, could have been a mistake. The lavatory was very clear and my way was wanly lit by a blood-orange full moon who seemed determined to conceal himself behind Dunwich church tower. I turned to see where I had come from and there was absolutely nothing to indicate the presence of any tents. Neither was there any light in the sky to indicate that dawn was approaching. I harboured thoughts that a man in his late 50s might be helping police with their enquiries after being detained in Walberswick wearing nothing but underpants and a totally inadequate fleece. Walberswick is, after all, pretty sniffy and I doubt that they take too well to that sort of thing. However, thought I, I have business to attend to before I need to worry about the sensibilities of the denizens of Walberswick.
I was surprised when I sat down to find a number of pebbles fall from my underpants and scatter themselves across the concrete floor. I started to rack my brains to try and think how they had got there and then it dawned on me. I must have inadvertently scooped them up when dressing after my swim yesterday afternoon. It was perhaps a sign of how fatigued I was that I hadn't noticed more stones than usual in my underwear but I was still thankful for their absence.
I needn't have worried about my return trip. By the time I started back there were definite signs of daybreak to the north-east, a couple of skylarks were up and about and when I reached our small encampment not only could I hear at least two sets of snoring but I could also easily make out the shape of the tents. I had to be very careful to get into the right tent as Jane's and mine were pretty well identical in the half-light and I am sure she would not have appreciated for one moment a dozy, bleary man trying to share her space with her. Luckily for all of us I got it right first time and found my own tent. Just as I was about to zip it up a skylark soared up from nearby, its song a fountain of pure joy as it ascended unseen into the firmament. I settled down for some more sleep.
It was definitely very light when I awoke for the second time. I stuck my head out of the tent and could see Jane coming back from the beach. We good-morninged one another and I asked her what time it was: 7 am. Good, I thought. Time for a cup of tea. I dressed, found the stove and my pans, filled one from the Ortlieb water bladder I had taken for that very purpose and soon there were four of us enjoying a good cuppa.
It was already very warm so I decided on my skinny dip. I found some clean cycling shorts and took them and my towel over the pebbles. I could see somewhere near the café there were two people already in the sea. I could just make out that they were wearing costumes and I wondered why anyone would. I went in and the water definitely felt considerably warmer than Guernsey had the previous week. Because of the pebbles I swum in my sandals, which was quite an odd experience, but I was very refreshed after the swim and went back to enjoy some raw porridge oats with the last of the milk form Saturday night, which was still good.
After we had packed up, Nick borrowed my map for a short while to make a note of the villages he needed to pass through on his way to Diss. Andrew was having a Nice Cup of Tea before heading off to Darsham so Jane and I headed off up the hill into what promised to be a sweltering day. Our first stop was going to be Minsmere as Jane hadn't yet had anything by way of breakfast and I could do with some more sustenance. I had tea and a cold drink with my apple pie and cream whereas Jane opted for apricot flapjack and a pot of tea. We continued along the beautiful wooded section and the freshwater marsh until, just before Leiston, we joined civilisation again in the form of a B-road.
I was slightly irritated with myself as I had unintentionally plotted a route which kept us on an A road for longer than we need have been and it was heavy going in the heat. There were one or two pieces of bad driving, but soon enough we were on minor roads again and heading for Snape. There was a large blue plaque on display: "Britten lives here 1913-2013" and of course St. Cecilia's day will be the Great Man's birthday. It will be cold again by then.
We stopped to have a look at the Oyster Inn, which was boarded up the last time I passed that way, in October. The screws were still in the window and door frames but the pub had clearly not reopened. Instead we found the Shepherd and Dog in Hollesley and they sold cold food and even colder drink. We had covered about 25 miles and felt that we were going well.
A short while later we arrived on the north bank of the Deben and found the ferry. The ferryman asked if we would like to book on the Felixtowe to Harwich ferry and we confirmed that we would. It was at that point that we realised we had a problem: we would have only 30 minutes between our arrival on the south side of the Deben in which to cover the 6 miles to the north side of the Stour estuary for the 3.10 ferry to Harwich. This was the penultimate ferry of the afternoon and there wouldn't be space on the final one as everyone who had crossed earlier in the day would want a place on it. Jane and I discussed alternatives, one of which would be to catch a train to Manningtree, but that would spoil things rather because the whole point of this escapade was to travel down the coast using all the ferries available to us.
The ferryman was still on the phone to his counterpart on the Stour. He looked at me with the practised eye of a pumpkin judge in a flower show. "They'll not be able to get to you by ten past three," he opined.
"I don't reckon that's 6 miles to the next ferry," I said to Jane, sotto voce. "I reckon we should go for it."
And so we did. There were a couple of hills and I had to stop because the new bottle cage holding my paraffin bottle on had developed a rattle where a screw had loosened but as soon as that was securely stowed in a pannier we were off again. We veritably flew through Felixstowe and I think a couple of times I surprised Jane with the furiousness of my cycling. Perhaps the most shameful thing we did was completely smoke an old woman on a pavement scooter in the final straight to the beach where the ferry arrives.
I was right. It wasn't 6 miles, it was only 5¾ and we covered them in 24 minutes. We could see the ferry still about 400 yards out, paddling towards us like some sort of water beetle. We were his only customers and he returned the call to his colleague on the Deben. We listened, amused, to half a conversation.
"They made it!"
...
"Those two cyclists."
...
"Yes, the old bloke with the white beard."
...
"Yes they did. They're on here now. And they had time to spare"
When we got out in Harwich we celebrated with a pot of tea and I had a white chocolate magnum.
The trip from Harwich to the campsite was pretty uneventful. The view across the sea was gorgeous and all the time I was tempted to swim, but gradually we headed into hot farmland. The wheat and barley was ripening, there were fields full of onions beginning to bend in preparation for harvesting, maize, an orchard of cordonned apples beginning to blush: a scene of rural plenty completely at odds with the vicious winter that had just been. Slowly, hotly, we inched towards the camp site and the promise of a shower, and eventually we arrived to be met by Auntie Helen who had had a look round on our behalf, expressed the opinion that it wasn't up to much and made us a much better offer, viz. a night camping on her front lawn. That sounded like far too good a deal to dismiss, so we turned right round and hied us off for another couple of miles, Uncle James, cold drinks and a lovely powerful shower. This also guaranteed us a lift to Wivenhoe where we were meeting my son Graham and his girlfriend Christina for a curry.
The evening passed convivially: we all agreed that Jane won the prize for the best choice of curry, a tandoori trout that arrived sizzling in a way that trout most certainly don't when they are swimming around in Scottish lochans, and I made a note that I am going to have one of those the next time I am in Wivenhoe enjoying a curry with Graham and Christina. We four returned to Auntie Helen's residence, Jane collapsed into bed almost straight away whereas I enjoyed a Nice Cup of Tea before I went, and I lay on top of my sleeping bag, not even bothering with my silk liner, the inside of my tent was so warm. Then I slept.
