Ruth's Coastal Walk (UK)

Stage 31. Gravesend to Egypt Bay

Posted on October 9, 2010 by Ruth Livingstone

Today is damp, dark and misty.

I start my walk at a crossroads in the Milton Industrial Estate, Gravesend. Last time I was here, in the fading light at the end of a long day, I was uneasy and unhappy. Now, in the cold, grey light of day, the place has lost its sinister menace. There is nobody around. It is Saturday.

My husband is interested in the long, flat cycle route, stretching from here, inland, through an area marked on the map as “Danger Area”. But I am not taking that route. My route is the Saxon Shore Way. This starts as an unpromising alleyway, running between industrial wharves on my left and storage yards on my right, through an uncared-for looking pub forecourt and then passes through a high metal gate.

Now the path rises up, I am past the wharves and am walking on the river bank itself. There is a wonderfully spooky view of Tilbury Power Station, rising as a pale ghost on the other side of the River Thames. Last time I was in this area, the power station was glowing in the light of the setting sun. Now, in the daylight, I can barely see it through the murky mist of this October day.

To my right, just inland of the bank, is a power relay station; I don’t know what the technical word for the structure is. This is where, I presume cables carrying electricity from Tilbury emerge after their journey under the Thames. From here pylons march across the fields, carrying their electric charge to homes and businesses.

There are a few fishermen out today but this bank of the Thames is otherwise deserted. I notice some burnt patches in the grass where people have lit fires, surrounded by makeshift seats of breeze blocks and old wooden planks. Scattered around the burnt areas are old beer cans, plastic bags and cigarette butts. Whether it is fishermen enjoying the results of a day’s fishing, or groups having impromptu parties, it is unclear who has left this mess.

The further I walk, the less signs of human litter.

Up ahead are a group of ponies. They come charging down an incline, towards me. I am no longer afraid of horses. This is what I tell myself. There are young ones among the group. They are very skittish and give me a wide berth.

After circling around me, the ponies disappear off into misty fields, heading inland.

I am using my poles today and making rapid progress. Although I know I am moving quickly, I am surprised to see an old fort, rising out of the gloom ahead. This must be Cliffe Fort, the twin to Coalhouse Fort across the Thames, invisible in the mist. I have arrived an hour earlier than I expected.

I climb up a grassy incline to the fort structure. There is a semicircular wall with gaps where guns would have sat. On top, there are remnants of larger gun placements. Behind the fort are ruined buildings.

Believing I am at Cliffe Fort, I spend some time looking round and taking photographs.

Then I see a sign. The sign tell me this is Shornemarshes nature reserve and the fort is Shornemead Fort, unmarked on my map – not Cliffe Fort. There has been a fort here since 1796 but the structure I am standing on now was built in the 1870s to provide cross fire with Cliffe Fort and CoalHouse Fort, to defend against new iron-clad French warships.

There are some huge metal screws on the inside of the gun placements. These are the width of my forearm, or wider. Some of the metal work here must have been made of copper, because there is beautiful copper staining on the old stonework of the fort. I can’t resist taking photographs.

Behind the fort are ruined brick buildings, blown up in the 1960s by the army for demolition training. I wonder if this is why the area is marked “Danger Area” on the map and the fort itself is unmarked.

Realising I am now running late, I leave the fort and walk as rapidly as I can along the river wall, heading for Cliffe Fort. A wide road leads up to the wall and I pass some old plank structures on the river side. Apparently, there was an embarkation area here, built in the preparations for D Day, but never really used.

Later, I learn that Dickens set his wonderful story, Great Expectations, in this area of Kent – the Hoo Peninsula. The book mentions a “battery” on the bank of the river and several scenes from the book are set here.

Most people believe Dickens’ battery was Cliffe Fort. But I like to believe it is this smaller fort, Shornemead Fort, where Pip brought food to the convict, Magwitch, on “a rimy morning and very damp”; somewhat like today.

Cliffe Fort itself is almost invisible from the river bank when you get close, so overgrown is it with bushes and trees. The fort is not open to the public and has fencing around it, but people have piled stones against the fencing to make steps over. There are a father and son climbing among the old fortifications.

Because of the overgrown bushes, I cannot take good photographs. I wonder halfheartedly whether I should climb over the fence for a closer look. But I am tired and running late.

For those interested, there are some great photographs of the Fort on the Derelict Places website.

As I neared Cliffe Fort, I come across the wreck of the Hans Egede schooner. This old ship was used to transport goods as a barge. After it ran aground and its hull was breached, it was towed here – out of the main river thoroughfare – and abandoned, probably in the 1960s.

There is another amazing relic to be found here; the remnants of the launch slipway for the Brennan Torpedo. This was one of the first ever “guided missiles” and would have been launched to intercept any invading warship coming up the Thames. Installed here around 1885, it was decommissioned by 1905.

I was unable to take a decent photograph of the rails because of the poor light, but there is a great one on Flicker by Richard Best.

Neither the fort, nor the torpedo, ever saw real action here. The only ship that was sunk was a cargo ship, sunk by mistake. And the only deaths have been due to accidents; young people playing on the abandoned site.

Continuing along the river bank, skirting round the fort, I come across an industrial yard with huge piles of gravel. There is a wharf where barges can come alongside and a long conveyor belt to carry stuff from the boats onto the site. Initially I believe that there is gravel quarrying here, but then I realise the boats are bringing gravel here, where it is piled for storage.

There is nobody working here today.

The footpath, with fencing on either side, runs through the site, crosses a road and passes under the conveyor belt. This seems really surreal, to be walking under this huge industrial structure.

As I walk further along the bank, past flooded pits (old gravel pits, I wonder?), I can look back and see the far end of the conveyor belt, rising into the air with a huge pile of gravel beneath it. Beyond is the fort. In front are green pools of water.

Now the path turns inland. I walk along wide tracks that run, straight, between large, featureless pools of water. This turns out to be a RSPB nature reserve Cliffe Pools, an important site for migrating birds. There are not many birds here today.

I am heading for the village of Cliffe, where I am meeting my husband for lunch. It is obvious where the village got its name. Just beyond the featureless marsh area, rises a chalky looking “cliff”.

Walking along a potholed road, I am constantly having to make detours to avoid water filled holes in the surface. This makes the going difficult. I meet a group of walkers, the first I have met all day. They are all male, of different ages, from elderly to young. One of the young boys seems to have had enough. He is standing near the edge of the road, crying, and his dad is examining his ankle.

I pass the group and reach the pub. The door is locked. Through the window I can see the bar with pumps. It is after 12. Why is the pub shut? Then I realise, it is no longer a pub, despite the misleading bar visible through the window. It is a private house. Probably a good idea to keep the door locked as, otherwise, I would be sitting in their living room demanding a cider.

Is this the only pub in the village? If so, I am going to remain hungry. Telephoning my husband, I discover he is in a real pub, further up the road. There is good news and bad news. The good news; the pub is open. The bad news; it does not serve food.

We buy sandwiches from the village shop (just in time, it closes at 1pm) and the barmaid is happy for us to eat our picnic lunch in her pub. So we do.

The only other people in the pub are some smartly dressed men in suits, who are already rather merry. Then we realise. There is a wedding in the neighbouring church. Suddenly, a siren sounds and keeps sounding. I go out to see what is happening. The bridal car is arriving but there is a fire engine blocking her access to the church. The firemen wave at the car. The bride laughs. It is all a joke.

I wonder if she is marrying a fireman. Or do the local fire crew always play this prank on wedding days in this village?

After lunch, I head off back into the Cliffe nature reserve to rejoin the river bank. I know this walk will be long. I didn’t realise quite how featureless it would be.

The rough road stretches endlessly ahead. There are featureless pools of water on my left and featureless open fields on my right. I see someone else in the distance walking ahead of me and, after a little while, I meet him as he walks back. I carry on.

A post office van passes me, bouncing along the rough track. The sight of the red van, so far from anywhere, seems strangely incongruous. Later I pass a small farm-house and, I guess, this is where the van has come from.

After that, I meet nobody for miles. I pass some farm houses, but they are deserted, boarded up and decaying.

It is a relief when this track comes to an end and I meet a steep bank, leading up to the edge of the river. At the top of the bank is a wall. Beyond the bank is a rough, muddy shore and the river itself. This is the mighty Thames, wide and deep, as it empties into the sea.

Behind me, the village of Cliffe is 2 miles away. In front of me lies a 10 mile walk before I reach the next village on the coast, Allhallows-on-Sea.

Now I have a dilemma. Do I walk along the top of the bank, looking over the wall at the river, despite the fact the ground here is rough and there may be snakes? Or do I walk along the flat, easy track at the bottom of the wall, with no river view and only marshes and farmland for scenery? In the end, I do a bit of both. Staying up at the top of the bank whenever I can, but walking along the grass track at the bottom if the going becomes obscured by bramble, the bank too narrow or the way too overgrown and treacherous.

I pass a small light point, called Lower Hope Point. Just beyond, in the field, are rows of symmetrical, rectangular buildings. So orderly do they look, I am sure it must be a military structure. As I get nearer, I see this place, whatever it is, has long been deserted and the windows are empty holes with roofs missing in places. Maybe it was a pig farm? I don’t know. The only sign of a life is a large 4×4 car, parked alongside one of the buildings, with no sign of the driver.

That is as exciting as it gets.

Across the grey river, through the grey mist, I see the grey buildings of a grey industrial complex. I realise I am opposite the oil refinery near Fobbing. Strange to think I was over there, only one day of walking ago, on the other side of the refinery and trying to make my way to Tilbury, but lost in the fields because I was denied access to the river bank.

I carry on walking. It is getting late and I will not make Allhallows this evening. I am planning to cut my walk short by coming off the river wall and heading through Halstow Marshes to meet a track, leading to a road, where, hopefully, my husband can drive the car and pick me up.

Then I round a corner and come across a beautiful sight.

Here is a perfect little horseshoe bay. Across gleaming mud, long slow waves are flowing gently inland, with graceful white crests. Standing in the mud, facing the incoming tide, is a mass of sea gulls; standing still and quiet. This is Egypt bay, as marked on the map, and it is beautiful.

Beyond the bay, I head inland, following a poorly signposted footpath and having to fight my way through bramble bushes. I put on my gaiters to protect against snakes and I am grateful for my sticks, as I stumble through long grass and weeds, trying to keep out of marshes and narrowly avoiding hidden rabbit holes. The light is fading and I am worried I won’t find the path out of the marsh.

But then I spot the track, clear and wide and recently used by horses. The gravel hurts my tired feet. I see nobody. After a mile, I am at a farm, unpleasantly marked as “Swigshole” on the map. The track is barred by a locked gate. I had thought this was a public bridleway, but the landowner is obviously determined that no other horse riders should enjoy his property.

To the side of the gate is a style and I climb over. Further down the road, too far for my tired feet, I meet my husband. There are no turning places on this tiny road. He has to drive along, taking me back to “Swigshole” and we turn around in their driveway.

Old Forts = 2
Sunken boats = 1
Torpedo slipways = 1
Weddings = 1
Miles walked = 15

Posted in 05 Kent | Tagged Dickens, hiking, marsh, Thames, walking | 13 Comments

30 (cont): Tilbury to Gravesend

Posted on September 25, 2010 by Ruth Livingstone

There is a sign to the ferry and this directs me across a short wooden bridge, just wide enough to take a small car, and onto a large wooden jetty. There are cars parked here and a small kiosk. My heart sinks as I see the kiosk is closed. There are no signs telling me where, or when, the ferry will arrive.

I find a bench and sit and wait. This is the first seat I have come across since the pub many hours ago and I am grateful for the rest.

Then I see the ferry-boat. It leaves the far bank and is carried down stream, rapidly, by the flowing river. It turns to face upstream and struggles back up the river, heading towards the jetty. Larger than then any of the ferries I have been on so far, this boat has a small deck and a larger, enclosed cabin. It ties up alongside, close to where I am sitting. I am in the right place after all.

As the doors of the cabin open, I realise the ferry is full. I wait at the gangplank as the passengers disembark. There are older people, wrapped up against the chill of the evening, holding each other for support. Among them are a few families, with excited children pushing their way to get past the slower people and being chastised by their parents. And, almost last to disembark, are young party-goers, wearing high heels and smart dresses, and surely showing too much flesh for warmth. Following the young women are young men, in smart suits, lurching down the gangplank, laughing and showing off for their girlfriends benefit; clearly they have had a few drinks already.

For the journey back to the South bank of the river, I am alone. The man in the boat takes my money. He has grimy skin and long, unkempt, flowing hair. The captain sits, invisible, in an area somewhere above the cabin. The grimy man casts off and resumes his seat at a little desk inside the cabin. We head off into the river and are immediately picked up by the current and borne downstream. The boat chugs gallantly, facing upstream and making slow progress.

We reach the other side and there are a few passengers waiting on the wooden planking as we dock. I wonder what the attraction is in Tilbury; the passenger traffic seems one-way only today.

This little ferry stop has a run-down feel. I walk along a fenced off walkway, across a small jetty, through a derelict looking building and, eventually, emerge onto the street.

This is Gravesend. I have, finally, left Essex and I am now in Kent.

I am no longer in an area covered by my ordinance survey map (Landranger number 178). However, by heading Eastward, I will reach territory that is shown on the map, the eastern edge of Gravesend. By prior arrangement, I am meeting my husband at the end of a road, from where it will be easy to pick up the Saxon Shore Way for the next stage of my walk.

I phone him and learn he is running behind schedule and will be late.

Walking along the bank of the river, I reach another fort – Chantry Fort – the twin to the fort I have just seen on the northern bank. The fort is open to walkers and, beyond, the land opens up into a pleasant green park with wonderful view over the river.

Tilbury Power Station looks lovely in the setting sun. I take photographs of the power station, glowing in the yellow light of the low sun. I sit in the park and enjoy the last of the sun’s warmth. There are a few people out and they appear to be heading home; mainly solitary walkers, a single fisherman and one lone man with a camera. He takes photographs of the boats moored close to the river bank.

As the sun sets, I resume my walk. The Saxon Way is signposted. It begins here, at the far end of this park. But, to my dismay, I see the walk would take me behind derelict wharf buildings and through unfriendly alleys with high walls on either side. In the gathering gloom, the area seems decayed and unkempt. I notice the photographer is ahead of me. He has stopped and is taking photographs of something on the ground. I would have to pass him and he would see me heading down this unlovely path.

Hesitating, I am reluctant to take this route. I feel vulnerable and alone.

So, I decide to avoid the path and stick to the main roads. Hoping that I am heading in the right direction, I pass through a small marina and find a road just inland that appears to run parallel to the river.

I walk along the pavement. The road is quiet. I am walking through an area of light industry, with builders’ yards, a bus depot, distribution yards and shabby offices in Portakabins. I am passed by a few small cars, driving towards me and heading back into Gravesend. Their drivers look tired and I suspect they are heading home at the end of a long working day. Sometimes a white van passes me and sometimes the occasional decapitated lorry (just the cab, minus its container) heading out towards the industrial area. There are no houses, no residential buildings and no other pedestrians.

The light is fading. In my walking boots, and with my rucksack and poles, I stick out like a sore thumb. I do not belong in this area.

Reaching the point where I am supposed to meet my husband, I stop. He is nowhere to be seen. I phone him but there is no reply and I assume he is driving. I am waiting on a patch of untidy grass and mud, where a number of roads meet. There is a train line nearby and I can see the fence that protects the railway track. I put my rucksack down. I would like to sit down, but there is nowhere to sit except the dirty grass.

I wait. The sun has nearly set. It is getting darker and there are no street lights here. Another lorry cab passes by. It seems that the driver stares at me for just a little too long.

Eventually, before the light fades altogether, I give up waiting and head back into Gravesend, walking back the way I came. This is difficult. I am tired and it is unspeakably frustrating to be retracing my steps at the end of such a long walk. In addition, I am worried that my husband will not be able to find me. He is driving, at night, in a strange town and he has a lousy sense of direction.

I arrive back the Fort and stop in the small car park and wait, near the road.

Then I think I see his car go by. If it is his car, he hasn’t seen me – the car doesn’t stop. A few minutes later, he phones me. Where am I? In a car park, somewhere near the Fort. I would like him to pick me up, soon please. Near me there is a stationary car; a souped up hatchback with blacked out windows and loud music pumping. The driver is sitting inside and the engine revs menacingly. There is no one else around.

Then I see the photographer. He is walking through the car park and is examining the photos on his camera. I can see the screen is lit up. I am keen for some company as I am feeling increasingly nervous

“Any good photographs?” I ask him.

He has an Eastern European accent and shows me a pretty yellow flower on the screen. That is what he was bending down to do, earlier, – taking this photograph. I make admiring noises.

Just then, I see my husband’s car pulling in and, saying a hasty good-bye to the photographer, I forget my fatigue and sprint across the car park to meet him. In the safety of the car, my earlier fears seem exaggerated. I am so pleased to see him, I forget to be cross with him for his tardiness.

Miles walked = 15 miles,
Miles walked in wrong direction = 1
Wrong footpaths taken = 2
Broken poles = 1
Forts seen = 3
Ferries taken = 1
Fear factor = moderate.

Posted in 05 Kent | Tagged coast, england, hiking, photography, rambling, river, travel, walking | 5 Comments

30. Fobbing to Tilbury

Posted on September 25, 2010 by Ruth Livingstone

The Church at Fobbing is peaceful this morning; no bells are ringing today. Despite the tranquility, I should have taken the bell ringing of yesterday as an omen. This day was going to be more eventful than I anticipated.

I have had to choose my route with care. According to the OS map, a number of footpaths lead away from Fobbing and it would be easy to go in the wrong direction. I walk down the road and find a footpath sign. This seems to go the right way and, hoping this is the correct path, I set off. The route winds behind the gardens of residential houses and then follows a raised bank through farmers fields.

It is still early, just after ten o’clock on this Saturday morning. The sky is overcast and the light is dull. I meet nobody.

Ahead, between clumps of hawthorn bushes, I can see the oil refinery in the distance. Pylons surround me, carrying electricity to the industrial complex, where the refinery spreads itself along the river bank. It is this oil refinery that blocks my coastal route. There is no public footpath along the estuary here. So, I am heading southwesterly, hoping to rejoin the Thames further along, where a path runs uninterrupted along the river bank, all the way to Tilbury.

The ground is a little muddy. I use my poles and am surprised at the rapid progress I make. My balance on the slippery ground is improved, the poles seem to take pressure off my ankles and the muscles of my arms propel me forward at increased speed. This is wonderful!

It is some time before I realise I am on the wrong footpath.

I reach a dual carriageway that leads to the oil refinery. Luckily, this road has a good pavement alongside it and the traffic is surprisingly light, with only an occasional tanker or lorry rumbling past. I would like to take a side road off to the south, cutting across countryside to meet the bank of the Thames. But the roads all carry warning signs – no access and closed circuit TV in operation. I walk back along the side of the road, feeling a bit foolish walking with my poles on the firm surface of the pavement.

Eventually I find the footpath I am looking for, near a building called “Old Hall” and set off down a track that leads to Oak Farm. There are a few dog walkers out now and I feel slightly self-conscious about my poles. Any embarrassment I may have about looking a bit eccentric soon wears off, as I make rapid progress.

Then I come across a large puddle, flooding the track from hedge to hedge; more of a pond than a puddle. A friendly cyclist passes, waving to me and sailing through the puddle with ease. I envy him his two wheels. Sticking as close to the shallow edge as I can, I fight off the hedge with one pole, while keeping my balance with the other pole, and manage to make my way along the side of the puddle. My boots get a little wet, but not wet enough to dampen my socks. I thank my useful poles.

This track, if I continued along it, would lead straight to the river bank. But, according to the map, there is no continuous right of way along the bank at this point. Instead, the footpath loops back on itself, heading inland again. So, unable to take the direct route, I have planned an alternative route along footpaths and tracks. It seems a long time since I left the sea behind at Southend and I am still a long way from regaining my coastal route.

Now, I cut across fields, following a public right of way, to meet another track, taking me under a railway line. I find a well signed path, leading off to the right, passing a fishing pond and leading down a wide, gravel road. I have gone some distance along this route before I realise that I am on the wrong path, again.

Doubling back, I find the right path; an overgrown footpath, hard to spot, that leads to a lovely broad walk, running through a nature reserve. The fishing pond is on my left, with marshes to my right. I see no birds but meet a couple of bird watchers.

I reach the village of Mucking and the footpath runs alongside some rather nice houses until I reach a tarmac road. Past the church and over a railway crossing, I reach a busier road and turn left towards the village of Linford.

There is no footpath and the road is narrow with tight bends. I walk facing oncoming traffic, except when approaching a blind bend, when I cross over to the side that gives the maximum visibility. A couple of workmen on the side of the road warn me to be careful of the traffic. This is pretty pointless advice – I am being as careful as possible.

I am passed by a boy cyclist. He cycles with one hand in his back pocket and the other on his mobile phone, which he is using to send text messages. He looks very stylish. But he is not touching his handlebars and wobbles dangerously when he comes to a bend. Later, I am overtaken by a young man travelling much too fast in a small hatchback car. I hope the cyclist ahead is OK.

When I reach Linford (without coming across any squashed cyclists on the way), I turn left again along the road, walking on the pavement. Feeling a bit foolish with my poles in my hand, I fold them away and stow them on the back of my rucksack, where they poke out at the sides, threatening grevious bodily harm to anyone who gets too close to me.

Ahead is a pub. It is early, only just twelve o’clock midday, but this is where I intend to have lunch. There are CCTV cameras in the pub car park and warning signs about violence; not a very reassuring welcome. I go in the door marked “lounge” and find myself in a large, empty bar with a couple of enormous flat screen TVs showing a football match. There are no customers and no bar staff. I come out again and go in another door marked “bar”. Now I am at the other end of the same large, empty bar; still nobody but, as I stand and wait, a barmaid emerges. She is a little flustered to have such an early customer.

The only food they do on a Saturday is “roast dinner”. I order lamb. It is off. The butcher has not arrived yet. But the cook, who is round and plump as a good cook should be, offers me an off-menu alternative of lamb pudding. This is tasty and I enjoy it very much, while watching the football match.

Having made good progress so far, I decide to lengthen my walk by heading eastwards to pick up the river bank footpath before it winds round to meet the end of this road at Coalhouse Fort.

First, a disappointment awaits me. One of my poles is broken. It telescopes out, but doesn’t stop lengthening and comes apart. When I reinsert the bottom half of the pole into the upper segment, the mechanism for locking the pole at the right length appears to be broken. The other pole is fine. I stow away the broken pole. Now the rhythm of my walking is altered; I am lopsided.

The path to the river bank winds around the back of a housing estate, passing through a narrow avenue of blackberry hedges, until I reach a fenced off area. This is Mucking Tip. Somewhat bizarrely, given the remoteness of the site, there is a planning application stuck to the fence. From reading this bright yellow sign, I gather the old tip has machinery to harvest gas from the decomposing rubbish. The eventual plan is for Essex Wildlife Trust to turn this disused tip into nature reserve . I hope, when they do so, they will restore a proper coastal walk to this area of Essex.

I reach the river wall; a high bank with a concrete wall on top. I climb up, relieved to be back near water again; although I have to stand on my tiptoes to see over the wall.

The view is not entirely scenic. There is litter on the river bank, brought ashore by the tides in the estuary.

To my left I can look towards the mouth of the Thames and the open sea. There is an old jetty and large cranes. Here is where rubbish was unloaded from large barges, at Mucking Tip.

To my right, the wall winds around, following the north bank of the River Thames, leading towards Tilbury docks and London beyond. There are large ships making their way up towards the docks. I can see the far side of the river.

One day, I shall be walking along that far bank.

Now, I walk along the concrete platform that runs at the base of the wall, next to the river itself. I pass a couple of fishermen and some bird watchers. The pathway is narrow. Walking past people is somewhat awkward, involving a sideways shuffle, as I try and avoid their fishing tackle while simultaneously trying to avoid stabbing them with my pole.

After some time, round a long, curving bend of wall, I see Coalhouse Fort ahead of me. Here the wall disappears and there is a pleasant open area of greenery and an inland boating pond. Families are out. Fathers are sailing boats on the pond while their children watch.

The Fort itself is closed. But the small information office is open.

I am looking for Peter Caton’s book, Essex Coast Walk, and I believe it is for sale here. Proceeds go to the Essex Wildlife Trust, who are planning to renovate the Mucking Tip landfill site. So I am keen to buy this book, not only to support the Essex Wildlife Trust, but because I am really interested to find out more about Peter’s adventures walking the Essex coastline.

The little office is hot. There is a fan heater going at full blast. I am wrapped up in a fleece and jacket with my rucksack on top. It is chilly outside and, at first, I welcome the feeling of warmth. An elderly gentleman is in the middle of the room and is talking about his war adventures. After waiting 10 minutes, during which time I become hotter and hotter, I decide to leave, having been unable to spot Peter Caton’s book in the little display area. I am tired and thirsty and, with the heat in this place, I feel I am about to faint.

The attendant, perhaps seeing my impatience despite my trying to hide it, puts his hand on the old gentleman’s elbow.

“Well, we are here every day and you are welcome to come back and tell us more about it,” he says, gently and tactfully. With great grace he opens the door, ushers the elderly gentleman through and closes the door behind him. Reaching up he flicks off the heater.

I suppress a sigh with relief. He apologises for the delay, but, no, he doesn’t have Peter Clayton’s book. He kindly gives me a number of leaflets and brochures, explaining the history of Coalhouse Fort and offers me a very useful little map of local walks. I explain my journey round the coast. He tells me I can walk to Tilbury ferry crossing from here, passing by the power station on the way.

“Or, if you walk into the village, you may be able to catch a bus.”
“I am not allowed to travel by bus,” I tell him.

If he thinks this is a little odd, he is too polite to say so.

I leave the shelter of this friendly office and head back along the river Thames, walking westwards towards London.

For a moment, the sun comes out, and lights up Coalhouse Fort and the fields around it. The current Fort is not old, most of its construction dates from the 19th Century and was added to during the World Wars of the 20th Century. There has, however, been fortifications on this site for many hundreds of years, starting in the 15th Century. You can view a timeline for the fort and see that this was always an important defensive area, overlooking the mouth of the Thames.

To my left, flows the mighty Thames; with its water a greenish grey under the overcast sky. There are more fortifications and a look-out post. To my right are fields and I see a tractor ploughing with a huge flock of seagulls following behind it.

Around Coalhouse Fort there were families on outings. Now the path becomes lonelier. I meet a cyclist and he asks me where I am heading. Tilbury Ferry? Then I can walk along the river by the power station.

“It is not a public footpath,” he tells me. “But everybody walks along there.”

The path crosses wasteland. I notice some rather fine ink cap fungi growing and take photographs. I wonder if they are edible.

Now I find something odd. The ground I am walking over is rough and there is broken glass strewn over it. At first I wonder if there has been an illicit party here – maybe a “rave” event. But there is no other signs of party goers, no beer cans or other rubbish; just broken glass and occasionally a smashed piece of crockery. Some of the glass fragments, near the shore line, have been worn smooth by the river tides. I walk for hundreds of yards, over land covered in smashed glass. How very strange!

Ahead looms the Tilbury power station.

I am looking forward to this section of the walk. I enjoy industrial scenery. This is one of a number of power stations I have come across on my coastal route; Sizewell and Bradwell were the others.

The official public footpath deviates inland, around the power station. But there is another path, well trodden, that leads down to the riverside.

Here the path runs along the edge of the water, a concrete walkway along the tall, forbidding wall that marks the edge of the power station itself. I feel a little like a trespasser and am relieved to meet nobody on this narrow path.

David Cotton was interested by some of the graffitti he saw on this wall when he walked this section of the coastal walk. I love good graffitti as a form of art work. Sadly, there is nothing to see today; it must have been power-cleaned away.

There is a noise, a kind of low-pitched hum.

I round the corner and see a jetty with a large ship moored alongside and a connecting structure linking it to the power station. I pass under this structure. There is something happening on the ship; machinery is operating and there are workmen around. I suspect they are unloading fuel for use by the station, but am not sure.

I continue along the narrow walkway and around the edge of the power station boundary. Now I see a green, open space ahead. Having walked alone since I met the cyclist an hour or so ago, I now meet fishermen, dog walkers, and a father on a quad bike with his son behind him.

A chatty fisherman asks me where I have walked from. Then he explains I have walked across an area where there used to be an old glass tip. A glass tip! That explains the mystery of all the broken glass on the ground.

Beyond here is another coastal fortification, Tilbury Fort.

I see large guns and people wandering along the walls. I would have stopped to look, but I am growing tired and am anxious to find the Ferry crossing before it closes for the evening.

No time to rest ….

This was a very eventful day and I have split the walk into two sections.
a) Essex – before the Ferry.
b) Kent – Ferry crossing and Gravesend.

While trying to find out more about the glass tip, I discovered this blog Rambling on by an American, Mary Kadzielski. She describes the same walk and says the tip was a Victorian dump and, as it is gradually eroded by the Thames, is delivering up its hidden contents, including human bones. I must say, I did not come across any bones – but then I wasn’t looking for bones.

Posted in 04 Essex | Tagged britain, british, Coalhouse Fort, coast, coastal, england, english, Essex, Essex Coast, ferry, foot path, footpath, fort, GB, hiking, path, photography, rambling, river, Thames, Tilbury, tip, travel, UK, walk, walker, walking | 3 Comments

29. Southend to Basildon to Fobbing

Posted on September 22, 2010 by Ruth Livingstone

[Note: since I wrote this post, this section of the path has become much easier to navigate. Please see the update at the end of the blog.]

You may not think that Basildon would feature on a coastal walk. But, as I consult the map, I realise that is where my route must take me.

From Southend, I walk along a well trodden footpath, following the coastal bank that runs along the side of Benfleet Creek. This creek leads inland to Basildon. On my left I pass Two Tree Island, a great bird spotting place, and then Canvey Island.

The path becomes a wide track, gravel to start with and then grass. The walking is easy and pleasant. I meet dog walkers and some serious backpacking walkers with maps dangling from their necks in waterproof pouches. There is no need for the waterproof pouches; the sky is overcast but the clouds are light in colour and there is no hint of rain.

Wild geese and ducks fly past me, flying low across the marshes and heading up the creek. I take a photograph, panning the camera to keep the geese in focus while blurring the landscape.

Across the creek, on Canvey Island, I see residential buildings and some industrial buildings beyond.

To my right is a good view across marshes and fields to the railway line. Frequent trains rumble past – carrying commuters, shoppers and sightseers. Beyond the railway, the land rises to become a ridge. I see the ruins of a castle.

As the creek narrows, the path runs through a pretty marina, where small sailing ships are moored.

The public right of way is not very clearly signed, but crosses the marina and emerges along the bank at a point where there is a barrier across the creek. The barrier is part of the flood defence system and, just beyond, a very busy road crosses the river. The change from countryside to urban environment is sudden and takes me by surprise. This is South Benfleet.

I cross the road and continue along the bank of the narrow creek. The water looks dirty – complete with floating plastic bags and sunken shopping trolleys; more like a river than a creek. Although the footpath continues alongside the water, I can see from the map that it comes to a dead-end further along. I need to find another route. Turning inland, I pass under the railway line and find a nicely paved footpath that runs along the edge of playing fields, hugging the north side of the railway.

Beyond the playing fields I see, with some dismay, that the footpath disappears into a narrow alleyway, running behind garden fences and bordered on the other side by overgrown bushes marking the edge of the railway. The path is narrow, two to three feet wide at most. The fencing is in various stages of decay. The bushes arch across from the gardens, meeting the overgrown growth on the railway side and forming a dark green tunnel.

I hesitate outside the dark mouth of this gloomy path. I can see dog excrement, plastic bags, discarded crisp bags and cigarette butts. A few yards inside and there is a bend, beyond which the path disappears into an even darker tunnel.

For the first time on my whole journey, I feel very uneasy. For a change, I am not concerned about tides, or mud, or even snakes. It is the thought of meeting other human beings in this unpleasant, dark place that worries me.

Well, I have to continue.

So I walk, as quickly as I can, into that dark, green, gloom.

After a few bends the ground is cleaner – less dog excrement and less litter – but the path becomes more overgrown. There are nettles and brambles reaching across the narrow walkway. I wish I had a stick. But at least I am making progress. And I meet nobody.

Emerging, blinking, into open land, I am relieved at having passed unscathed from the gloomy alleyway. I find myself in a field. How wonderful to be out in the open, in a familiar, rural environment.

Then I see the horses. I am nervous of horses. Or should I say, I was nervous of horses. In my relief at my safe passage through the alley, I greet them like old friends. They wander up to see if I carry anything interesting in my rucksack and then, disappointed, wander away again.

At the end of the field, I cross broken styles and find a track leading under a busy road, the A130. There are a number of footpaths to choose from. My plan is to arrive in Basildon for lunch. I try to find a path with a signpost for Basildon, but can’t find one. Eventually, I choose a path that runs along the righthand side of the railway track. This should be the right way, according to my map. I am a little confused because this path is signposted as leading to a church, not to Basildon.

After a mile or so, the footpath emerges into a small churchyard. The sun comes out and I find myself in a wonderful place. St Margaret’s Church is very ancient, full of history and nestles in a beautiful, peaceful setting. I sit on a bench, in the sunshine, and have a drink and snack. What a fantastic place this is.

From the church, the footpath continues along the railway line, through fields with more horses and behind the back gardens of more residential houses.

I can hear the roar of traffic. This must be Basildon.

Emerging onto the A13, I am surrounded by noisy roads, flyovers, slip roads and rushing cars. Telephoning my husband, we find each other in an underpass. He has been unable to find a pub nearby and, therefore, we head for the large M of a MacDonald’s sign. On the way we spot a small cafe. We sit inside and have a good lunch.

After lunch, finding the footpath again is difficult. I walk back and forwards along the road near the station. Finally, I realise the path runs through a yard. There are parked lorries and vans. I feel distinctly out-of-place, marching through this yard with my walking gear on.

Now the path winds through wasteland. Signs tell me this is not public land, please keep to the footpath. The belly of a large flyover rises to one side of me. There are workmen up on a platform, inspecting the underside of the flyover. I wonder what they are looking for. Cracks? We always assume these structures are safe and solid when we pass over them in our cars.

Crossing the railway line, I emerge into a large open space. This is a huge nature reserve, spread across Vange Marshes, the marshy land at the end of an estuary leading up to the edge of Basildon and finishing here. There are public footpaths crossing the marshes and free right to roam.

I stick to the edge of this marshy area, following the footpath that runs around the perimeter. As I continue further, the footpath signs become increasingly faded and the styles become increasingly decrepid. Eventually, the path disappears altogether – and I wade through long grass, following what I hope is the general line of the footpath.

Worried about snakes, I put on my gaiters. These make my legs hot, but will protect me from adder bites – I hope.

Finally, I reach a track. Good. This is on my map. Now I am looking for a footpath that crosses farmland, leading to Fobbing Marshes. I can see no sign of the footpath I am searching for, although another footpath is marked, leading along the track and then into marshland – but this is not the one I want.

Walking courteously around the edge of the field, I find the point at the far side of the field where the footpath should emerge. Here there is a stream running through a deep ditch and a rotten plank is laid between the banks and gives me a means of crossing the water. I assume the presence of this wobbly “bridge” means I am on the footpath. But there are no signs indicating that my assumption is right.

I continue along more ploughed fields, heading south and keeping parallel to the ridge of high ground I see running to my right. I can see the church spire of Fobbing church, my final destination, ahead of me. I can even hear the church bells ringing. But the footpath, so clearly marked on the map, is still invisible to me. The fields are intersected with long hedges and ditches. Walking in a straight line is impossible. Growing tired, I become reluctant to walk farther than absolutely necessary.

Now I see a tractor and trailer coming up behind, heading towards me. There is a young man driving it. My spirits lift. He will be able to tell me where the footpath is.

As he draws near, I wave to him. He waves cheerily back – and passes me. Disappointed, I set off after him. He stops the tractor ahead and maneuvers it around so it is at right angles to me. Ah, he is waiting for me to catch up. I break into a jog.

But I made a false assumption. He hasn’t seen me running up behind him. Now the tractor sets off at high-speed across the field and a spray of brown material comes from the back of the trailer.

Manure! He is spreading manure!

The brown stuff is blown by the wind and heads straight towards me. Luckily it is dry powder, not wet mulch, but it coats my sweaty face and arms in a brown dust. Yuck!

I watch the tractor disappearing to the far end of the long field and make a decision. I have had enough of agriculture. I have had enough of tramping around trying to find a non-existent footpath. I have just had enough.

Following the edge of the field, I turn westwards and make for the ridge of high land. I can see residential houses here and the flash of a car passing along a road that runs along the top. Luckily I find a track with a bar gate at the end. The last part of the walk is easier, albeit uphill, and I can climb over the gate into the road.

The walk along the pavement is easy. There are great views over the valley and the marshes, with the distant structure of the oil refinery in the distance providing a dramatic backdrop to the open green ground in front of it.

I stop and take some photographs. Unfortunately, the light is poor. I notice very clear signposting of footpaths from this road to the West, but not to the East – where my path was supposed to run.

The church bells are still ringing and this joyful sound becomes louder and louder as I walk, until, with relief, I arrive at Fobbing church. My husband’s car is parked by the church, but the car is empty. I can see his car alarm is flashing, but the noise – if there is one – is drowned by the sounds of the bells pealing.

I walk round one side of the church to the entrance porch. The is no sign of activity outside the church; only the noise of the bells inside. No sign of my husband either. I try to phone him but, although I know he has answered, we cannot hear each other because of the noise. I text him. “I am at the church”. He texts back, “So am I.” I continue walking round. Still no sign of him. Are we both circling the church in the same direction trying to find each other?

Eventually I text him “Stand still!”. Walking around the corner of the church again, I find him.

My husband has had a problem with his car alarm. It sounds continually as we drive off, passing a police car on the way. Luckily the noise of the faulty alarm is drowned by the pealing bells.

Later I try to report the problem with the footpath.

Who is responsible? The footpath crosses from Essex into an area controlled by Thurrock Council. As the point at which I lost path is just inside the Thurrock area, I report it to Thurrock council and give them a map reference. Unfortunately, they take the map reference as a single point, rather than an area – and deny responsibility as this point lies in an area for which Essex County Council is responsible.

Perhaps I should have pursued this, but life is too short and I have walking to do ….

Vital stats = ?
For the first time, my Trip Journal app lets me down. It reports a 5.8 mile walk. I know I have walked farther this this. So out comes my piece of string and the OS map.
According to the map, miles walked = 10

September 2014 Update: Basildon to Fobbing

This section is now covered by the new Thames Estuary Path. I haven’t been back to walk the route, but would expect it to be well signposted.

Details of the Thames Estuary Path can be found at thamesestuarypath.co.uk
And the relevant map is section 3, Stanford to Pitsea.

Poor Basildon gets bypassed altogether!

Posted in 04 Essex | Tagged Basildon, coast, coastal, england, english, Essex, Essex Coast, farm, foot path, footpath, hiking, horses, manure, marsh, photography, travel, UK, walk, walker, walking | 11 Comments

28. Great Wakering to Southend to Leigh-on-Sea

Posted on September 21, 2010 by Ruth Livingstone

First task of the morning is to ring the MoD hotline to find out what sections of the coastal route are open and what sections are closed for artillery practice.

The person on the end of the line is a bit vague about geography but, unfortunately, I discover the coastal path near Foulness is closed today. It will open tomorrow, we are informed, but that is too late; I need to walk today. I resign myself to an inland detour.

The weather is glorious. The sun is hot in a cloudless sky. There is a heat haze on the horizon.

I set off along a road from Samuel’s Corner and find a footpath that runs along the outside of the MoD fence. Dire warning signs forbid entry to this dangerous territory. I hear no shots and see no smoke. Whether any real shooting takes place today, I don’t know. Interestingly, the MoD territory is guarded by the private company, CinetiQ. Am I the only person to find this odd?

The footpath ends and I am forced to follow the road to Shoeburyness. Workmen are out mowing the roadside verges. I meet cyclists, walkers and the inevitable dogs.

Today I am scratching my upper arms, following the mosquito attack I suffered near Potton Island yesterday. They managed to land seven bites before I could deploy the repellent spray. I don’t mind mosquitoes biting me. I am happy to share my blood – in small amounts anyway. What I do mind is the itching they inflict.

As soon as I can, I head towards the sea, skirting round fenced off MoD property, and reach the beginning of Shoeburyness beach. There is a long breakwater, stretching out to sea, marking the barrier between prohibited, MoD beach and the beach where public access is allowed. Signs forbid entry to the public beach unless a yellow diamond sign is being displayed. I am relieved to see the yellow sign is up.

The sea is calm with long, lazy waves; just rippling the surface. The sky is blue. The sun is warm.

A young woman and child walk gingerly across the pebbly beach. They appear relaxed together but the child maintains a certain distance from the woman, who is very young. I suspect, from her age and from the child’s slight shyness, she is a nanny or au pair.

The beach is flanked by an open green space. There are people walking, cycling, jogging – and some people just sitting and enjoying the morning sun. I walk along, enjoying the weather and the pleasant, relaxed feel of this pretty, green area.

At the end of the beach is a large derelict property, in the process of being renovated and with a tall fence of boards around it. My way along the sea wall is interrupted by this building site. But after the long inland detour I have just made, I am determined to follow the coastal path.

So, I ignore “No Entry” signs, and climb over some barriers, to follow the crumbling sea wall as best I can. The wall runs along the bottom of a steep bank, with the building looming ominously above me. I have to skirt around thorny blackberry bushes – hanging over the wall in places – by clambering up and down the dangerously steep, grass bank to find a way through.

I come to a place where the wall is interrupted by a stairwell of old stone steps, leading down to the beach from the abandoned property above. Without thinking, I jump down into this stairwell and, for one awful moment, I find myself trapped.

The stairwell is dark and damp; and smells of decaying mud. I am in a narrow enclosure with tall walls on either side. There is no foothold to help me clamber up onto the opposite wall. The steps leading upwards are barred by tall, rusted gates, interwoven with barbed wire and overhung with blackberry bushes. Below the tide is in and there is no shore to walk along; the steps end in the sea.

I try to climb back up the wall I have just jumped down from. No success. Then, I try to hoist myself onto the wall by standing with my back to it and levering myself up with my arms. This does not work. I am not strong enough.

I fight back panic.

Beginning to feel desperate, I turn and face the wall. Placing my hands on the top, I force myself upwards, throwing myself up and forward onto the wall as I kick my legs up behind me. It may not be elegant, but it works. I get my chest onto the wall and, squirming like a worm, I manage to wriggle forwards until most of my torso is balanced on top. Crawling forwards, I manage to get my knees up.

Panic over. I am back up on the wall.

With thumping heart, I continue onwards. Now I reach a small section of beach, where a few people sitting on the sea wall look startled to see me emerging, somewhat disheveled and sweaty from the blackberry bushes. I stick to the proper walkway now, as it follows the sea wall. There are some old fortifications and a cycle route.

Eventually I reach the coastguard lookout point at Shoebury Ness. From here onwards, there is a wide promenade with a lovely, new, cycle route. There are beach huts, many in use, and people out enjoying the glorious sunshine.

But the beach is empty. Everyone is sitting on the promenade. There is nobody on the beach. Strange.

Then I notice warning signs. There has been an oil spill. Men in dungarees have been cleaning the beach and there is a collection of large, blue plastic bags. A local photographer has arrived (from the local paper?) and is assembling the men in order to take their photo. I use the opportunity to snap a cheeky shot. The workmen see me, behind the official photographer, and smile at me.

I continue walking and can see Southend Pier, stretching out into the sea, in the distance. It seems like an enormously long centipede. Beyond this is the far side of the Thames Estuary. I am at the mouth of this mighty river. Just visible in the milky haze on the horizon, I can see the shapes of an industrial landscape – towers, refinery tanks and cranes – pale ghosts. One day, I will be walking along that distant shore.

This walk along the promenade is hot and tiring. I want to walk on the softer sand of the beach, but the warning signs are still in place and I would regret getting oil on my boots, so I stick to the concrete path, running next to the cycle route that stretches the length of the promenade. Suddenly, I am surprised to see my husband cycling towards me. We agree we are both in need of an early lunch and he suggest a pub a short distance ahead.

The pub is Edwardian and has many of its original features. The “special” is roast beef and yorkshire pudding. But the sun is shining and we are too hot for this. I have a ploughman’s and hubby has a steak sandwich. We sit outside in the shade of an umbrella and watch the world go by.

Later, I walk along the promenade, passing the end of Southend Pier. This is the longest pleasure pier in the world and it stretches across the sea, with its far end almost lost from view in the haze. I stop to watch the small train that runs up and down. By this time, the sky has become overcast and the light has faded. This change in the weather only lasts for an hour or so, but spoils the opportunity for good photographs of the pier.

Further along is one of those wonderful cliff lifts, carrying people up and down the steep slope. I can remember seeing one in Scarborough, many years ago. Later I learn this lift was only recently re-opened, after a renovation project.

I have to confess to being very surprised by Southend. It is a beautiful place.

As I continue on my walk, Southend merges into Westcliff-on-Sea.

The tide is out. Children are digging in the mud with sticks. School is out and parents are strolling with their children in the afternoon sunshine. Sunlight reflects off the shore and the flat sea; there is light everywhere. This is beautiful.

Then the promenade ends and I follow a footpath running along the railway line. A student has decorated a boring wall with a series of graffiti images: part of a college project.

The path is narrow and occasional widens into jetties belonging to various yacht clubs. This is a busy path. People are coming home from work and school. Walkers jostle with pushchairs and cyclists.

I arrive in Leigh-on-Sea. I wasn’t expecting this – what a wonderful place! I wander down narrow streets with quaint houses and interesting shops. There are cafes with decking; and early diners are enjoying drinks in the evening sunshine, overlooking the estuary.

Then I reach the small, railway station. It is nearly five in the afternoon and commuters are arriving back, leaving the station and heading towards the town on foot, or disappearing into the car park. Here I meet my husband.

We drive back into Southend and we stop at the top of a hill to enjoy the view over the estuary. The sun is low and the light is golden. To the East is the mouth of the Thames, open to the sea, with large ships, pale in the haze, gliding across the water. Ahead of us, due South, is gleaming mud with the white shapes of moored boats. Beyond the mud is the Thames itself and, on the distant bank, we can see the ghostly outline of refineries and industrial complexes – pale and romantic in the setting sun. To the West is Two-tree Island and beyond the bright light of the sun shining on distant estuary mud and water.

A perfect end to a beautiful day……

Vital stats: miles walked = 10

Posted in 04 Essex | Tagged beach, britain, british, coast, coastal erosion, england, english, Essex, Essex Coast, foot path, footpath, GB, hiking, Ministry of Defence, oil, path, pier, Shoeburyness, Southend, travel, UK, walk, walker, walking | 18 Comments

27. Rochford to Great Wakering

Posted on September 20, 2010 by Ruth Livingstone

Today starts sunny and warm. My husband is joining me. But first he drops me off at Tinkers Lane, where I follow the footpath, meandering through green spaces in Rochford. I am unable to reach the river bank, as it is surrounded by industrial units and there is no public right of way along the bank at this point. But I enjoy this walk. It is amazing to be on these hidden foot paths, surrounded by greenery, in the middle of the busy town.

Then I cross a road and am momentarily confused by the convergence of five different footpaths. Choosing one, I head off across a farmer’s field, hoping I am heading towards Sutton Church.

Searching for a church spire, I finally spot it, short and hidden in trees. Yes, I am on the right path.

I see my husband waiting for me at the end of a long, straight path across harvested corn fields. He stands so still that, from the distance, I think he is a sign post. He gallently offers to carry the rucksack. He has brought nothing, not even water – what an amateur!

Crossing the road, we find the continuation of the footpath and, to our surprise, stumble across a minature railway line. A sign tells us there will be trains running on Saturday 26th September. At the moment, all is quiet and the line looks old and unused.

We walk along a wide grassy footpath, an avenue between lines of trees, with the railway line running on our right. A section of line is not in place and the rails lie on one side. We hope they fix this before the 26th or the train ride will come to a bumpy end. At the end of the grassy avenue we find a road. After turning left and walking along this road for a short time, we pick up a bridleway. This leads us down a track and then through fields, until we end up in a farm yard – Mucking Hall, not an apt name as the yard was very clean and tidy – and we walk down the wide driveway until we reach another road. After a short walk down the quiet road, we find track, taking us past livery stables, to reach the footpath that takes us to the river bank.

Along this footpath are late ripening blackberries. We gorge on juicy berries and admire pretty butterflies.

We reach the bank and I am happy to be back on the “coastal path”. The tide is in and the Roach river looks deceptively wide and deep. There are no ships sailing. We pass a couple of walkers with their dogs. Across the water I see the route I followed yesterday. Today there are workmen on the bank and a large group of walkers in the distance. Yesterday the route had been empty and lonely.

As we follow the river bank, the tide recedes and mud begins to appear. We pass tumbledown jetties.

This area of the walk is poorly maintained and the grass is long. I worry about snakes. My husband retrieves a couple of sticks from the driftwood at the edge of the river. We walk, beating the ground to scare the snakes. My husband breaks his stick and is reduced to waving the shortened remains ineffectively in the air.

I discover walking with a stick is easier than without, and resolve to buy a walking pole.

Across fields on our right, we see Barling Marsh and we pass a large rubbish tip, with accompanying smells carried towards us on the warm breeze. The fields and skies around the tip are swarming with noisy seagulls. We notice several different species. Every so often they rise up into the air in a huge cloud, whirl around and then settle again – sometimes on water and sometimes on the fields.

We reach Barling Ness and sit on the grass, enjoying the warm sun. Across the water we see the boatyard at Paglesham Eastend. There are boats in the water and the walkers have reached the boatyard and disappear from view. We wonder if they are heading for the same pub as we ate our lunch in yesterday. I have walked so many miles, but am only a stone’s throw from where I was this time yesterday!

Now the bank winds inland along a creek. There is a lot of mud and very little water. We pass a few derelict boats.

At the end of the creek is Little Wakering and we come across a smallholding with goats, hens and ponies. I stow my stick beside the footpath sign, hoping to pick it up again when I resume the walk, but not wanting to carry a hefty looking stick through the village.

We are now in Little Wakering and walk along the road to The Castle Pub. I enjoy a wonderful meal of fish and chips. And a large bottle of cider.

After lunch, I set my husband on his way back along the fields. He is returning to Sutton Church to pick up the car. I head off back along the other side of the creek, disappointed to find that my stick has disappeared and there are remains of it strewn around the path. I blame school boys for this wanton destruction of my precious stick.

Walking along the creek, I meet a lady jogger with a large dalmation. He passes me without problem, but looking back at me, he is not happy when he sees my back pack and comes back to woof at me. I let him lick my hands and all is well. He shakes himself and sprays smelly creek water over my trousers.

Now I am alone on the wall. The path is overgrown in places and I try not to think of snakes.

Across the water is Potton Island, reached by a causeway and a bridge. This is used by the army and is inaccessible to me; this area is marked “danger zone” on the map. I take photographs as the late afternoon sun slants across the fields. I hope the army does not mind me photographing their military structures.

Later, I come across another boatyard with boats in a variety of states of disrepair. And a jetty of small ships, all now marooned in the mud. Beyond this are larger boats, possibly being used as boathouses – so firmly embedded in mud it is hard to imagine them ever moving.

The path is very overgrown and, suddenly, I see a small, thin snake moving across the path. I have stepped over it before I notice it. Turning round, I put down my rucksack to grab my camera and, in a wiggle, it is gone.

The snake was smooth, light brown with a long darker stripe. It did not look like an adder. But I wonder if baby adders have different markings. I am really worried now. I put on my gaiters for protection.

A few steps later and I see a small sign against a farmer’s gate. It is black with one word scrawled in white chalk – “Adders!”.

Despite this, there are people out walking in shorts and sandals, with accompanying dogs.

Further along the wall, I am suddenly attacked by mosquitoes. Luckily I have spray in my rucksack and I annoint myself with insect repellent, but not before I have been bitten by a few of the little pests.

I reach a farm house (Oxenham Farm) and, after checking with my map, come down off the wall, following the public right of way along the farm track heading towards Samuel’s Corner. There I find my husband with the car.

Later, I look on the internet to try and identify the “snake”. I discover there are only 3 species of snakes in the UK – adders, grass snakes and smooth snakes. My snake did not resemble any of these. Then I find a picture that matches. It was a Slow Worm, otherwise known as a legless lizard. These harmless creatures are often mistaken for snakes. Read more about the Slow Worm here.

Vital stats: Miles travelled = 12.5, snakes seen = 0, slow worms = 1.

I also discover the RSPB recommend Barling Tip as a great site for bird watching.

Posted in 04 Essex | Tagged Barling, britain, british, coast, coastal, england, Essex, Essex Coast, foot path, footpath, hiking, marsh, path, photography, Rochford, seagulls, snake, tip, UK, walk, walker, walking | Leave a comment

26. Burnham on Crouch to Rochford

Posted on September 19, 2010 by Ruth Livingstone

There is a summer ferry service from Burnham-on-Crouch to Wallasea Island. I sit on a bench outside a pub, waiting. There were revellers here last night, but all is quiet now. It is just after nine in the morning; an early start because we stayed overnight in a hotel in this town. It is of little benefit to be here early – I have already telephoned to check the passage times and was told the captain hadn’t arrived yet. The ferry doesn’t start running until ten o’clock.

[Please note: the ferry has recently changed hands. For current contact details, see the comments section below.]

By the time the small boat arrives, Continue reading →

Posted in 04 Essex | Tagged boat, boatyard, britain, british, Burnham-on-Crouch, coast, coastal, england, english, Essex, Essex Coast, ferry, foot path, footpath, hiking, marsh, path, photography, River Roach, Rochford, RSPB, UK, walk, walker, walking, Wallasea | 5 Comments

25. Tillingham Marshes to Burnham on Crouch

Posted on September 18, 2010 by Ruth Livingstone

Leading East from Tillingham is a narrow road – a track really. It winds around a few bends and, opposite a telephone box, there is an impressive farm entrance. Next to this farm entrance, so insignificant in appearance you can easily miss it, is a small track leading directly due East. At a bend in this track, is a signpost. Here starts a public right of way that runs for a mile, passing through Tillingham Marshes, to the sea wall.

Why am I taking this route? The coast path itself runs uninterrupted for 17 miles from Bradwell Marina to Burnham on Crouch. South of St Peter’s Chapel, there is no other place in the Dengie Peninsula where a public road comes within a mile of, and gives footpath access to, the coastal path; not until you reach Burnham on Crouch itself. Therefore, I am rejoining the walk at this unlikely spot to make this section of the walk a manageable distance. Burnham is now only 9 miles away.

The footpath runs for a mile, and has been diverted by the farmer, taking a course further South then the route marked on the map and involving a right angle turn around the bottom of a field. Very few people walk this path and the route is unclear. Luckily, I have been here before and I find, among the tall grasses, the small bridge that crosses the culvert. Then I make the short climb to regain the coastal path running along the top of the grassy bank.

Initially I enjoy the walk. Being up on the bank, close to the sea, breathing fresh air, gives me a an energy boost. The sun is shining and it is unseasonably hot for September.

To my left are marshes, covered in uniform green vegetation. They stretch almost as far as the eye can see. Beyond is a small sliver of shining sea and the distant glimpse of an occasional big cargo ship. To my right is a grassy track running parallel to the sea bank, then a watery culvert and then farmland – flat and featureless. I see nobody.

The sea wall seems endless. The view is monotonous.

I am bored and my energy drains away. This is hard work.

Then I reach an area where the grassy bank gives way to a concrete wall and path. Here the sea comes nearer and there is mud with interesting patterns. I must be bored, I think to myself, if I find mud interesting. But the mud makes a welcome change from the featureless marsh vegetation and I enjoy looking at the patterns – the sinuous curves, the ripples and the furrows.

I stop for lunch on an area of wall that has been widened to form a semicircle. A handy, nearby blackberry bush provides a tasty dessert. And, what a relief, I can see the glimmer of the beginning of the River Crouch ahead of me. That distant view of the river tells me I am near the end of this stretch of walk.

Looking back the way I have travelled, I am amazed to find that I can still see St Peter’s Chapel. And beyond I can just make out the Blackwater River. But wait; there is something very odd here. The river level seems unusually high, higher than the sea level beyond it. And appears to be flooding the far bank. I can see bushes, or trees, with their roots apparently hidden by the water.

With the telephoto lens of my camera, I have a clearer view of the far bank of the river, with trees and bushes floating above hazy, blue water. And a sailing ship hovering, almost in mid-air. Very strange. Are my eyes playing tricks?

Then I realise. This is a mirage. A genuine mirage.

I linger to take photos and enjoy this rare and intriguing phenomena.

A few miles further on, I come across another strange sight.

There is a gate across the concrete path. And the gate is decorated. It is covered in objects; ordinary objects such as a single flip-flop sandal, a sock, an empty can of lager, a pair of trousers, a number of trainers and, most incongruous of all, a white plastic chair.

I wonder if this is debris left over from some event. Or has each walker simply added something of their own to the gate, just as walkers in the hills add stones to a pile at the top of a peak? I consider adding some item of my own, but I have nothing spare in my rucksack; travelling light and carrying nothing unnecessary.

Continuing, I reach the mouth of the River Crouch and enjoy watching the sailing boats. Along the bank of the river I come across defensive structures from the 2nd world war – pill-boxes. In some places, I notice a duo of pill boxes, with one facing the river and the other facing inland, both built into the river bank, back to back.

And here, in the fields, is a bigger structure that I believe must date from the war, but I am not sure. There are holes for guns and for keeping lookout. The buiding has a hexagonal shape giving 360 degree coverage of the surrounding countryside.

I enjoy this section of the walk. There is plenty to see. It is cooler now, the sun is behind clouds, and there is a strange, pale-blue light, giving an ethereal appearance to the water and the sailing ships on the river. There is hardly any wind. The tide is out and there are no waves. The ships move lazily across the water.

Seeing some large, white, circular objects in the grass, I stop to investigate. These turn out to be enormous mushrooms. They look edible. In fact, they look delicious. I must be getting hungry. I balance my iPhone on the top of one. It is as large as a dinner plate. You could feed a whole family from this one mushroom.

Continuing, I reach the outskirts of Burnham on Crouch. There is a path along the river front, weaving between shipyards, running along the back of the yacht club, and cutting through small alleyways. Pubs overlook the river and there are people out enjoying an early evening drink. After the emptiness of the Dengie area, I am excited by the people and the energy of this vibrant little town.

This is the end of my journey. Tonight we are staying in a pub in the town. Tomorrow, I am planning to take the ferry across to Wallasea Island and the next phase of my journey along the winding Essex coastline.

Miles walked = 11
Mirages seen = 1
Boring time = 2 hrs
Interesting time = all the rest

Posted in 04 Essex | Tagged Blackwater, britain, british, coast, coastal, Dengie, england, Essex, Essex Coast, marsh, mirage, mushrooms, photography, pill box, public right of way, River Crouch, Tillingham, UK, walk, walker, walking | 20 Comments

24. Bradwell to Tillingham Marshes

Posted on August 30, 2010 by Ruth Livingstone

Bradwell Marina is quiet today in the early morning light. Yesterday the ships were screaming as the wind howled through their rigging. Today, there is a stiff breeze, but the ships are silent.

I wonder about the ship I saw being blown up against the sea wall yesterday. Did the small motor boat succeed in towing it out of trouble? For a moment I am tempted to go back and see if it is still there. But that would take me across the muddy development area and in the wrong direction. So, I walk along the sea wall, heading East and skirting the edge of the marina.

Then I see it. The same boat. I recognise the name. It is up on a hoist, hull exposed, resting gently in a quiet corner. There appears to be no damage. I feel relieved – at least I know the outcome and the ship is unscathed.

The sea wall winds towards Bradwell power station and the twin blocks of this station are my constant companions for this morning’s walk. There are people out enjoying this lovely bank holiday Monday – walking with dogs along the sea bank for short stretches. Some people have properties that back onto the bank, with gates from their gardens leading up onto the walk.

I try not to think about adders. The grass is short and well trodden. I should be safe.

As I approach the power station, I see a long structure in the water – a jetty.
It rises, uncompromisingly, out of water – a long, tall shelf of metal – running parallel to the shore and completely separate from the mainland. The only way to and from it would be by boat. I wonder what purpose it served. There are no ships are here today. The structure looks impressive and I stop to take photographs.

Now I pass the power station. There is no noise, no hum of machinery, no sounds of traffic or of industry. There are signs warning of private property, but no signs to indicate danger. I am surprised. Compared to Sizewell, where I walked some weeks ago, this is spookily quiet.

I later learn that Bradwell was a nuclear power station and is no longer functioning. It has been “decommissioned”. I wonder how much radioactivity, if any, still lurks inside it.

In the morning light these large, silent buildings are strangely attractive. And the area around them is truly beautiful. Here is a wonderful, pebbly beach, stretching out along this far reach of the Blackwater estuary towards the open sea. The breeze is fresh. The air is clear. I feel a sense of exhilaration. After so many miles of estuary and river banks, I am finally approaching the edge of the real sea again.

As I walk along the beach, I realise it is covered in shells. Across the water I can see the shore on the far side of the River Blackwater – Tollesbury marshes and Shinglehead Point. It seems a long time since I strolled round those lonely marshes. In the further distance, I can see the shoreline of West Mersea with buildings and boats. It has been 5 days of walking and 65 miles since I left West Mersea. Yet I have only travelled a couple of miles as the crow flies.

Two miles in 5 days!

I fight off a feeling of despondency. I have had a wonderful time walking along the Blackwater River and Maldon was a delightful place. Since then I have learnt about vikings, encountered adders and coped with gale force winds. Now the open sea beckons and I will have miles of uninterrupted coastal walking, around the Dengie peninsula, before I reach the next estuary and the River Crouch.

Ahead of me I see a fisherman and I pass a couple of joggers. There are very few people around and I am surprised to find this place so isolated, given its wild beauty. There is a pill-box on the beach, proudly guarding the entrance to this river. An elderly gentleman is peering through one of the small windows. His wife waits impatiently on the beach. My father spent some weeks in a pill-box like this one, in Kent, waiting for the German invasion. I wonder if this man has similar memories.

I continue along the sea wall. Ahead I see the beach gives way to an expanse of mud. I see some oddly shaped breakwaters beyond the mud – breakwaters that look strangely similar to barges. As I approach, I realise that is exactly what they are; sunken barges in a line, protecting this part of the coast from erosion. I have seen many different forms of coastal defence in my walk through Norfolk, Suffolk and, now, Essex. But this is a surreal sight.

To my left are open fields with some giant haystacks in the distance and, beyond these, the twin buildings of Bradwell power station. I like the juxtaposition of these two contrasting rectangular constructions – the enormous haystacks and the industrial buildings – and I stop to take more photographs. I realise this will be my last real view of the Bradwell site. I feel strangely sad to leave the buildings behind. They have been my constant companions ever since I first spotted them across the water from Mersea Island.

Around the Dengie Peninsula, there is a coastal path stretching from Bradwell Power Station to Burnham on Crouch; seventeen miles of coastal footpath, with no villages, no towns and no marinas; along which the only building of any significance is St Peter’s Chapel.

As I walk around the point, the sea wall suddenly becomes crowded. Young couples and families are out walking. I find this strange because this area is not as attractive as the quiet beach I have just left, hidden around the corner. But the reason for the influx of sightseers is because I am approaching St Peter’s Chapel.

St Peter’s Chapel lies at the beginning of St Peter’s Way, a long distance footpath that follows the coast path for a short distance before turning inland. The Romans built an ancient fort here, Orthona, long since disappeared and now covered by marsh and sea. The chapel was built by St Cedd, who left Lindisfarne and came ashore here in 653. He built a “cathedral”, using stone from the old Roman walls, at the site of the old Roman gatehouse. As the years passed, the chapel fell into disuse and was later used as a barn, before being restored in 1920.

Unprepossessing from the outside, the inside of the chapel is simply decorated. But for me, the amazing thing is the powerful atmosphere that fills the place – an atmosphere of peace and serenity – along with a sense of being in a very, very old place.

I linger for a while, and sit on the sea wall nearby to eat a snack and have a drink.

Then, I start off along the official path – St Peter’s way – following the sea wall and heading South. Ahead of me lies fourteen miles of footpath with nothing en route, until I come to Burnham on Crouch.

Soon, I am alone. The St Peter’s Chapel tourists have been left far behind. The sun is slanting across the fields to my right. To my left is nondescript marshland, green and featureless. Beyond this is just a glimpse of bright sea. Notices declare this area to be a nature reserve. I see few birds, few plants; precious little of anything. My legs are tiring. The path stretches ahead towards the horizon. Occasionally, the bank takes a right angle turn, taking me nearer to the distant sea. Then another right angle turn takes me back inland again.

Bradwell Marshes give way to Tillingham Marshes. The view is the same. The intermittent sluice outlets, and an occasional bush, provide the only relief from the flatness of mud and fields. Ahead I see a shape on the wall. It must be another bush. It looks like a man, sitting down, but that must be just my eyes playing tricks. Then, as I draw nearer, I realise it is a young man.

He is sitting with a rucksack beside him and he is eating lunch, tucking into a yoghurt pot with a vigorous spoon. He hears my footsteps and looks up, rather startled.

“Hello,” he says, squinting up at me. I must be silhouetted against the late afternoon sun.

He has been following St Peter’s Way and has reached the coast, stopping for lunch on the sea wall before heading North up to the Chapel. I explain I am heading down the coast towards – and then I realise I have forgotten the name of the place where I am going.

“The town on the next river,” I explain, somewhat lamely. He must think I am a demented old woman, out here in the wilds, unsure of where I am going.

“Burnham on Crouch?” he asks. Of course, yes.

“It’s too far for me to walk in one day,” I say. “So I am heading off the path soon to meet my husband.”

“Another day,” he says. “You can finish the walk on another day.”

“Yes. I will.”

So I continue, along the endless wall.

I come to a place where there are strange structures on the marshland. I had seen them from some distance away. Too small to be electricity pylons, too frail to be pumps or windmills, too permanent to be farm watering devices; I had no idea what they were. Then a warning sign identifies them as “High power radio frequency transmitters” and warns me that it would be dangerous to be here if I had an implantable medical device. What these transmitters do, I have no idea. Maybe they operate some of the sluices and drainage systems. Maybe they control offshore structures.

I continue on, consulting my map frequently. There is little opportunity to drive a car close to this particular section of coastal path. But at one point a footpath leads inland and meets a track. The track connects a couple of farms and, I presume, be accessible by car. This is where I am planning to meet my husband.

I find where, I believe, the footpath starts. There is no footpath sign, but there is a small, rickety footbridge crossing a water-filled ditch and with a vague path leading across a farmer’s field. I lose the path in the field and end up in a ploughed area with sweetcorn plants. I stumble along uneven ground until I find a track. I hope this is the right track. I hope there is access for cars. If I am wrong, I may have miles further to walk to find a road.

Then I see him. There, walking to meet me, is my husband. I am very relieved. This was the right track after all. And he has managed to find it and drive the car to within a mile of the coastal path.

Back at the car, I change out of my walking boots. We drive to Tillingham – a very pretty village – with a pub that serves late lunches. After a good meal and a rest, it is time to head home.

Stats: miles walked = 9.1 miles

Posted in 04 Essex | Tagged beach, Bradwell, coast, Dengie, Essex, Essex Coast, foot path, footpath, GB, hiking, path, photography, power station, St Peter's Chapel, UK, walker, walking | 10 Comments

23. Maylandsea to Bradwell

Posted on August 29, 2010 by Ruth Livingstone

It is a stormy Sunday; the last bank holiday weekend of the summer and the weather is suitably wild.

From Maylandsea, I set off walking on the sea wall. There are boats moored here but, perhaps due to the weather, this small marina has an air of dereliction and abandonment. I see no ships sailing – it is too rough.

As the path winds along the sea wall, I come to an area where the wall has crumbled. There is no obvious diversion of the path, just a “path closed” sign. I decide to continue, picking my way carefully along the crumbling edge and then climbing over a pile of loose earth and gravel, heaped up as a temporary barrier to the sea.

Luckily, this dangerous clamber over crumbly ground doesn’t last long. I am soon back on the official path. But, perhaps because of the obstruction, this section is very overgrown. The grass is long and I cannot see my feet. I am vaguely worried about snakes but reassured by remembering that adders like dry grassland, don’t they?

Ahead I see a figure of a man. He is dressed in shorts and long hiking boots and is sitting on a tree trunk. Another walker! He tells me he often does this walk and loves it. He often sees hares dashing around in the marshes and, sometimes, spots a sea harrier. The one creature he doesn’t like, he says lowering his voice, “Are the slithery things.” And he moves his hand to mimic the unmistakable wiggle of a snake. I smile and tell him about my walk. He wishes me luck; and I walk on.

The main obstacle on my route is Mayland Creek. I follow the path down the creek, passing ruined jetties, until I can, eventually, begin to make my way up the far bank. At least I am sheltered from the worst of the wind during this inland detour. This section of path corresponds with St Peter’s Way, one of the long distance footpaths that criss cross the British mainland. I meet nobody along the way.

Half way up the creek, St Peter’s Way heads off to the East, passing inland to meet the coast near Tillingham marshes, before heading up along the coast to end at St Peter’s chapel. I will meet the foot path again, hopefully tomorrow.

In the meantime, I continue along the lonely bank and, eventually, reach the mouth of the creek. Here is a campsite. There are tents blowing in the fierce wind and a few people out, braving the blast, to look at the sea. I stop and have a snack, interrupted by a friendly dog, bouncing up to greet me and hoping, I presume, for some of my snack. I am too hungry – and greedy – to share.

Continuing along the sea wall, I can look across to Osea Island. And ahead I can see Bradwell power station, looming in the distance, further away now then it was when I set off from Tollesbury, a few walking days ago.

I round another creek. The tide is. The sea wall is well cut and the grass is shorter here. The walking would be easy if it wasn’t for a gusting, sideways wind that continually buffets me, threatening to blow me off the wall. I try to pick up my pace.

Then, suddenly, I come to a dead stop. I was looking out to sea and the foam tipped waves. But my peripheral vision must have picked up the danger and some primitive part of my brain had temporarily taken control and brought me to a halt.

Ahead of me, about two feet away, crossing the path, is a snake.

I know very little about snakes. But if I had to make up a venomous snake, it would look like this one. It is white with black zig-zag markings, about 18 inches in length, with a body considerably thicker than my thumb.

It senses me and stops too, half way across the path. Then it coils itself up and turns to face me. Tongue flicking in and out. Two pits (are they nostrils?) opening and closing behind its mouth. It is sniffing me – no, it is tasting me.

I do what all good bloggers would do in the situation. I take one step back, swinging my rucksack off my shoulders, while keeping a steady eye on the snake and its flicking tongue. A quick unzip and I have my camera out.

My hands are shaking and my body is buffeted by the wind. It is difficult to focus in these conditions. I take a number of shots before the snake, with one last dart of its tongue, turns round and slithers back the way it came, off the path, down the bank towards the sea.

Considerably shaken, I swing my rucksack back up across my shoulders and continue on. Now my eyes are glued to the path, constantly scanning for snakes. I am very unsettled.

First of all, I thought snakes were frightened of humans. I have assumed that snake hear the vibrations of our footsteps and would run away. This snake wasn’t frightened. And he didn’t run.

Secondly, the grass here is short. But what would have happened if I stepped close to the snake in long grass? He was coiled up above the level of the top of my boots. If it was an adder, and I wasn’t sure, I would have had a nasty bite on my ankle. And I was miles away from a road or path.

I tried to remember the case of an adder bite I had seen when working as a junior doctor in Southampton. A young lad walking in the dry grass of the New Forest had been bitten. I remembered his swollen, bruised leg. But the swelling didn’t happen immediately, taking time to develop. Perhaps I would have been able to limp back to a road? I wish I had a stick – not to attack the snake with, that did not occur to me – but to lean on in case of an adder bite.

Now I come across an obstruction on the sea wall. A fence bars my path. There is a sign, too faded to read. And barbed wire.

Through the fence I can see children’s play equipment on the bank and a shed or out-house.

I would have walked around on the sea-shore. But the tide is too high and there is no way round.

Pulling my map out, I see the official public footpath deviated off to the right some time ago. I hadn’t noticed and hadn’t seen any need to check my map when the route appeared so clear. Damn it! It was a long way back and, I realise, through snake infested territory.

I cursed the inconsiderate land owner who has commandeered this section of bank. I cursed the tide for being high. I cursed myself for being complacent with my map reading.

Then I see that I can cut across a farmer’s field towards the road where the footpath runs parallel to the sea bank. There is a gate I can climb over and a short grassy track to follow. The sun comes out. I bless the farmer and set off.

Half way across the field, I come across a rabbit. It is sitting with eyes closed, dozing in the sunshine. I approach within a couple of yards, then, realising I could frighten it to death if I got nearer, I call out, “Hey bunny”. The rabbit leaps into the air as if on a spring and shoots off across the field, his tail bobbing behind.

Picking up the footpath as it runs along the road, I see a sign adjacent to the fenced off area. “No entry. Nature Reserve.”

I feel very angry about the sign. Clearly this was not a nature reserve, but was someone’s private garden, albeit overgrown in parts. Presumably they put up the sign so that well-mannered hikers would be deterred from crossing their land. Oh, I do hope soon we will have legislation passed to establish a proper coastal route around our shoreline.

Passing through a small marina, I reach the sea wall again. Now I am approaching a small village, St Lawrence, and my rendezvous with my husband for lunch.

We sit outside, overlooking the sea and have a drink. I show him the photographs of the snake. He is suitably impressed and then concerned. Then the sky darkens and we scuttle indoors to eat our lunch as the rain pours down outside.

After the rain, I set off to follow the sea wall again. But I can’t find a way through. Next to the pub is a car park and, on the other side, the sea wall has a fence across it. The tide is still high and there is no way round. I am forced to walk along the road. I wander around a housing estate until a kindly lady directs me to a track leading to the sea wall. At the end of the track, I see the footpath ahead but my route is barred by a green area of open land with signs saying “No public right of way.” I ignore the signs and cross the small area of private property to reach the footpath. Another lady, walking her dog, tells me that you can walk along the footpath all the way to the pub, but you have to go down off the bank onto the shore to get past the gardens. This is impossible with the tide high as the water comes up to the bank.

Again, I curse the landowners who have built houses close to the bank and taken the sea wall as part of their gardens.

The rest of my walk passes uneventfully. I walk along the bank in the fierce wind, heading towards the Bradwell power station. To my left, I look over the River Blackwater to Tollesbury marshes and, beyond these, West Mersea in the distance.

As I reach Bradwell, I hear a screaming noise. It is the wind, shrieking, as it blows through the rigging of the ships in Bradwell Marina. The noise is incredible.

Then I see a ship in trouble. It is a sailing ship with a deep keel, I suspect, up against the sloping concrete sea wall. The wind is blowing it against the wall, while the tide is going out – threatening to maroon the boat and to damage its hull. A small motor boat is alongside. The man on the ship is throwing a line to the man in the motorboat. The motor boat man secures the rope and tries to pull the boat free, churning up the water and whipping up a spray. The sailing ship does not budge. He slackens the rope and comes alongside the ship to talk to the man on the ship.

I would like to stay and watch to see what happens. But I am tired with the wind and the exertion of the walk today. I leave the unhappy scene and make my way around the edge of the marina. There is some redevelopment going on here and ground has been churned up by heavy machinery. My boots instantly become caked in clay-like mud and my feet feel heavy and cumbersome.

Trudging through the marina in my weighty boots, heading towards my husband’s waiting car, my ears are assailed by the noise from the wind – howling, shrieking, roaring, clanking through the rigging. The ships seem to be alive and screaming.

At home, I check the photograph of my snake on the Forestry Commission’s web site. Yes, it is an adder, a male adder. I also learn that this is a protected species.

Miles walked = 13
Deviations due to appropriation of sea bank by householders = 2
Adders seen = 1

Posted in 04 Essex | Tagged adder, Blackwater, Bradwell power station, britain, coast, coastal erosion, england, Essex, Essex Coast, foot path, footpath, hiking, Maylandsea, path, photography, public access, right of way, snake, UK, walk, walking | 3 Comments

Ruth's Coastal Walk (UK)

Stage 31. Gravesend to Egypt Bay

30 (cont): Tilbury to Gravesend

30. Fobbing to Tilbury

29. Southend to Basildon to Fobbing

September 2014 Update: Basildon to Fobbing

28. Great Wakering to Southend to Leigh-on-Sea

27. Rochford to Great Wakering

26. Burnham on Crouch to Rochford

25. Tillingham Marshes to Burnham on Crouch

24. Bradwell to Tillingham Marshes

23. Maylandsea to Bradwell

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