It was time to fly, -
Summer sun was on their wings,
Winter in their cry.
After the excesses of the previous evening, a familiar walk close to home was exactly what was needed. We'd not gone to bed until one in the morning after enjoying an evening with friends: plenty to eat, drink, laugh and listen to some great music. As David Crosby had just shuffled off this mortal coil the day before, there was a lot of his beautiful voice and adventurous guitar music to enjoy, even if a bit misty eyed.
A beautiful late Sunday morning presented us with the opportunity to have a relaxed walk from the house across lanes, fields and marshes that we have known for some thirty years. The walk is usually identified by locals as the "Deserted House" walk, for reasons which may be obvious but will become apparent. It was cold so we dressed up cosily and set off with sunglasses on and a spare hat in case my ears got cold (they often do). The walk takes us through a few streets until we get up to the more rural edges of the town. However, the amount of building that's going on currently suggests even more streets to trundle through in the future. Plenty of birds flitting about and some early song accompanied us along the way. Robins singing and I spotted a blackcap too.
Once we get to the few small farms and large houses we're in Big Sky country. Wandering along gave us a chance to check out where an unfamiliar track we had seen a week before can be accessed - something for another day. The gate marked 'Private' was open which saved a scramble over it. Despite it being private property, there is open permission for everyone to walk through, obviously as long as we keep to the track. Whilst walking up the track - I say up but this is East Anglia so along would be more accurate - we noticed how few people we had seen. There were hardly any others walking apart from a the occasional dogwalker or two. There weren't too many birds either. As the track bends I stopped to look through a reed bank but nothing there either. There is an old building along here that must have been an old barn or cottage many moons ago; this is so visible for most of the walk, and one of the only buildings in view, that everyone tends to refer to the whole walk as I mentioned above.
Just after we passed the dilapidated hulk, mostly boarded up long ago, I noticed a familiar bird in a field but one we haven't seen around here for quite a while now. A lapwing flying up with its squarish wings. As we climbed up the small incline up to the marshes by the Deben another one was standing on the path in all its Prussian Cavalry officer's glory. The sun glinted off of its beautiful green back whilst its white front stood out against the muddy path and the proud black crest stood to attention. Mrs Dave saw it through the binoculars and was quite surprised at how lovely it looks. He flew off ahead of us for awhile just to show off I guess. Across the marshes a flock of redshanks were busying themselves with wading through the pools and slecks* in an amiable lazy Sunday sort of way. There must have been thirty or more. Meanwhile surprised oystercatchers began flying up and across piping their alarm to one another. They were more often grazing alone or in pairs as opposed to the redshanks who found safety in numbers. The sun continued to shine and the reflections in the pools and creeks was gorgeous.
A few minutes later a cacophony of honking became practically the only thing we could hear: hundreds of over-wintering greylag geese were engaged in a feeding frenzy and making sure that everyone knew where they were. Too far away for a decent photo but more and more were joining in and the calling was getting to crescendo level. Oystercatchers were still piping out their 'kleep kleep' alarm to each other and flitting across the marshes to safer areas. There were plenty of other smaller waders too but I really must try to recognise a few more, all a bit grey and difficult to tell apart.
We had to leave the path then as the mud became quite difficult to deal with, we were slipping and sliding at this point, so we scrambled along until we could get back onto the path. We were getting towards the end of the marsh walk by now and a handy post by the gate allowed us to scrape off quite a lot of the mud accumulated on our boots. As we wandered along past the row of boat houses I realised we hadn't seen any egrets which was quite unusual. Crossing across towards the pub, the Ferry Boat Inn, I finally saw a cormorant, the first of the day. These were rare when we moved here in 1988 but now an established colony has meant that they are quite ubiquitous now. Someone told me they saw a kingfisher here a few weeks ago but in all the time I've lived here I have never seen one. Or heard anyone else make that claim.
The sun seemed to disappear behind some grey clouds and a dullness settled. A very welcome pint of Adnam's Southwold in the busy warm bar and a favourite lunch of whitebait for Mrs D and pilchards for me. Sorry, I meant "Cornish sardines" as we have to call them now. Everything changes. Southwold is basically what we used to call Adnam's Bitter. Evidently that's an old man's drink. Everything changes.
It was time to get going back on the home stretch. As we passed the Martello tower next to the path that winds past the Links golf course and into the old town I realised how calm the sea was. The sun had come back out whilst we were in the pub, so a pleasant wander back home was in store. There was no breeze so I never needed to wear the other hat as my ears didn't get cold. There was an absence of the usual accompaniment to this walk back home. The absence of the sea rolling in to the shore. Even the gulls were quiet.
A pleasant familiar Sunday walk where little happened. It was nice to see a few lapwings and the various winter visitors gently enjoying the moment too. The geese were pretty noisy but, on the whole, it was just a quiet few hours of peace with a fantastic backdrop taking in the natural world. We are constantly being told this is exactly what we need for our mental health. I couldn't agree more.
* slecks: a North Sea coastal word for mud at a river where the tide goes out.
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