Succumbing to a gastric virus, I am laid low for 48 hours - a biological mess. I remember little of the past two days: a struggling journey to the supermarket for supplies of water, trying to keep my innards in as I move; falling asleep laid out on the grass in the garden in the warm afternoon, stomach griping and churning painfully; and long stretches of boredom in between.
Some things came to me in this state. Things I'd witnessed recently but hadn't been able to consider since the illness came on: running along the beach surrounded by 'crab dust' - my name for the detritus of crustacean body parts washed up. That collection of pale peach-coloured claws and severed limbs scattered along the highest tide mark. Presumably the remains of catches discarded out at sea then scavenged further by gulls and spread. It is a maudlin sight. Disturbing too (affecting my Cancerean being?). And the Hobby above the garden on a previous evening, watching a circuit of Swifts and Martins, each one a potential dinner, reeling through clouds of airborne bugs and midges over the cottage. The Hobby is the only bird of prey skilful enough to catch one of these birds due to its ability to make sudden bursts of speed and rapid twists and turns. It didn't make a move on any of them at this stage, just hovered briefly, calling once then scared off by an approaching car below.
Finally, this morning my guts stilled themselves and I am able to keep some food within the bounds of my body. I am a little weakened by fluid loss, light-headed and with muscles like lead, yet I resolve to do the one thing that I know will make me better. Walk.
Everyone advises against it, telling me that I need to rest. But I know different; at least I hope so. Taking a look at the map, I plan a short trek along the coast and then cut inland toward North Warren and the marshes there. It doesn't look too much of a stretch, and if my body fails me in any way I reckon I could get back home inside half an hour.
At first, movement is slow, aged. I am not sure how long I will be able to remain upright. My stomach starts, worryingly, to swim again and my head reels a little. I feel like some medieval monk fasting on a pilgrimage, visions and hallucinations waiting round each turn of the footpath. But I am soon relieved to feel my muscles come back to life as the blood starts to pump, and pretty quickly my body responds positively. I feel warmth return to my cheeks; and my stomach, though still maintaining vulnerability, settles. In the lush meadow wilderness at the back of the new build estate at the north end of town, the world is full of refreshing, rich, verdant smells - elderflower, wild grasses - as the sun gently breaks and warms the dampness there. I catch sight of a Whitethroat singing in topmost branches; he scatters pretty soon after realizing my presence. From there I cut along the road toward the sea. It starts to rain lightly, a brief shower. The beach is full of Sunday walkers and families with kids and dogs charging here and there. Most of them look a little lost or sleepy, seeking inspiration by climbing the Britten monument. A pair of Skylark scrabble in the sparse beach top undergrowth, scurrying and hiding at my approach, the male raising his sharp crest. An area has been cordoned off to help protect the Sea Pea growing on the stony beach from tramping. It goes by the perfect name 'The Haven'. I keep clear, hounding the verge; watching Linnet on the high tops of gorse on the opposite side of the road, before cutting across to where the North Warren nature reserve starts at Lamb Cottage.
Sheltered from the beach and the road by a thick gorse hedge behind me and the small (abandoned?) cottage to my right, I walk into a natural enclave. It is a sudden change; an immediacy of transportation that I had not expected, like stepping into a secret garden. Ahead of me, feeding on the ground, a number of Linnet ignore my presence; the male has the brightest crimson head and breast I've seen, almost swatches of thick red paint. And a collective of juvenile Magpie and Jackdaw sit together on a rusting cattle pen nearby, calling frenetically, some hunkered on fence posts. They have an odd alert-yet-sombre bearing, and beyond, half hidden in a dense thicket, an adult Magpie is calling a sort of croaking alarm. Something is up that has disturbed these birds but I can't work out what. Maybe another young has just been taken by a bird of prey or else is ailing within the thicket? Even the Jackdaws sit unsettled, collecting together at one end of the pen. Another bird joins the adult in the bush, this one younger, and encroaches on the others' space, mewling, opening its mouth as if desperate to be fed. There is an air of the weird here. The three juvenile Magpies wait silent and absolutely stock still, watching what is unfolding before them, their slightly chubby bodies drawn in and heads sunk between undeveloped wings. A Reed Warbler settles on a branch behind my head and watches this avian soap opera unfold, presumably understanding more than me what is occurring. It's a male and my stillness doesn't alert him to my presence, in effect I could reach out and touch him he is that close, with his belly toward me and the sharp little face twitching left and right. But a warbler never sits still for long and when he goes I go, leaving the strange scene behind me.
The footpath is now hemmed by drainage dykes, the bushes and reeds peel back to reveal the surrounding lowland salt meadows. Cattle grazing. Rabbits by the bordering hedgerows. About half a mile away a flood pond has collected and now attracts Shelduck, a stalking Grey Heron, restless Lapwing, and what might be Ringed Plover occasionally flitting up from their nests in the grass. I wonder at the sparse numbers of Lapwing. When I was younger I used to see huge flocks of them gathered in meadows like this, an easy, pleasing sight. Now it is always ones or twos. Can it be their numbers are suffering a similar decline to other once common birds?
A pair of Sedge Warblers comes close - am I invisible today? Their burring, mini-motor calls constant as they flit from the reeds to a set of bushes by the path, catching flies. A beautiful warbler - silvery stripe over the eye and ochre and buff shades on the body. My first sighting. Cheers!
Further inland, a tangy wood smoke crosses the path from a house half hidden on the low ridge there. The sun breaks beneath low cloud in the late afternoon; the darker earth gives way to a pale, sandy path. The scent of bracken warming in the sun again; rabbits up ahead become alert, upright little presences when they notice me. I already know I am cured. And at a junction of footpaths, one of which would lead me back homeward, I press on instead north toward Thorpeness through woodland filled with lengthening shadows, dark pools of brackish water, the subtle ululations of Wood Pigeon and Robins. In a stretch of tree-bound swamp fed by the Hundred River to the west someone has nailed a sign to a tree trunk: 'Beware Of The Crocodile'. In there, thick, dark, wet and primeval it is almost believable. Swampland mythologies and monsters. The history of malarial illness; of social misinterpretations casting these areas as hotbeds of degeneracy and despair. 'Blackwaters' and backwaters. Of stagnation, (natural and economic). Of bogeymen and bogeywomen. The 'others'. Swamp things.
At the end of the track, the woodland breaks on its western side to reveal a stretch of secluded reed beds where four Marsh Harriers (two nesting pairs?) are present. A male is cruising low over the beds and two females on the far side are waiting in some low hawthorn bushes, occasionally taking short circular flights. Swallows gather and flit through the reed tops unafraid.
The final stretch of my walk leads me back through Thorpeness. Its wood-clad cottages, golf course and mock-Italian bistro make me feel like I've walked into a film set for a cheap version of Miss Marple or something similar. A couple of young hippy women smoke cigarettes by the Meare, the boating pond full of Mute Swans; and jaded middle-aged couples sit at plastic tables eating and drinking and fending off the bug multitude while two Polish waiters smoke at the back door wishing they were elsewhere. The sun is giving its last for the day and I cut through to the beach where the Swallows, Swifts and Martins criss-cross its length, fast and low. I find a piece of driftwood worn by the action of the waves into the shape of a wing, slightly stylised, like an art-deco interpretation or similar, with the primary feathers clear and the coverts and secondaries in streaks of motion. It's an apt talisman, so I take it.
When I reach the caravan park at the edge of Aldeburgh town, almost home, I realise how fresh and healthy I feel. And I notice I have that 'juvenile' mood in my guts that I always get when I've been out walking for any length of time, when some semblance of peace has and expansion and silence has entered my body and which I first started to get when I was a teenager doing the same thing - that 'youth of eternal summers' feeling (to purloin a phrase). Four and a half hours out in the wilderness can do that.
North Warren and Thorpeness 4/6/06
Some things came to me in this state. Things I'd witnessed recently but hadn't been able to consider since the illness came on: running along the beach surrounded by 'crab dust' - my name for the detritus of crustacean body parts washed up. That collection of pale peach-coloured claws and severed limbs scattered along the highest tide mark. Presumably the remains of catches discarded out at sea then scavenged further by gulls and spread. It is a maudlin sight. Disturbing too (affecting my Cancerean being?). And the Hobby above the garden on a previous evening, watching a circuit of Swifts and Martins, each one a potential dinner, reeling through clouds of airborne bugs and midges over the cottage. The Hobby is the only bird of prey skilful enough to catch one of these birds due to its ability to make sudden bursts of speed and rapid twists and turns. It didn't make a move on any of them at this stage, just hovered briefly, calling once then scared off by an approaching car below.
Finally, this morning my guts stilled themselves and I am able to keep some food within the bounds of my body. I am a little weakened by fluid loss, light-headed and with muscles like lead, yet I resolve to do the one thing that I know will make me better. Walk.
Everyone advises against it, telling me that I need to rest. But I know different; at least I hope so. Taking a look at the map, I plan a short trek along the coast and then cut inland toward North Warren and the marshes there. It doesn't look too much of a stretch, and if my body fails me in any way I reckon I could get back home inside half an hour.
At first, movement is slow, aged. I am not sure how long I will be able to remain upright. My stomach starts, worryingly, to swim again and my head reels a little. I feel like some medieval monk fasting on a pilgrimage, visions and hallucinations waiting round each turn of the footpath. But I am soon relieved to feel my muscles come back to life as the blood starts to pump, and pretty quickly my body responds positively. I feel warmth return to my cheeks; and my stomach, though still maintaining vulnerability, settles. In the lush meadow wilderness at the back of the new build estate at the north end of town, the world is full of refreshing, rich, verdant smells - elderflower, wild grasses - as the sun gently breaks and warms the dampness there. I catch sight of a Whitethroat singing in topmost branches; he scatters pretty soon after realizing my presence. From there I cut along the road toward the sea. It starts to rain lightly, a brief shower. The beach is full of Sunday walkers and families with kids and dogs charging here and there. Most of them look a little lost or sleepy, seeking inspiration by climbing the Britten monument. A pair of Skylark scrabble in the sparse beach top undergrowth, scurrying and hiding at my approach, the male raising his sharp crest. An area has been cordoned off to help protect the Sea Pea growing on the stony beach from tramping. It goes by the perfect name 'The Haven'. I keep clear, hounding the verge; watching Linnet on the high tops of gorse on the opposite side of the road, before cutting across to where the North Warren nature reserve starts at Lamb Cottage.
Sheltered from the beach and the road by a thick gorse hedge behind me and the small (abandoned?) cottage to my right, I walk into a natural enclave. It is a sudden change; an immediacy of transportation that I had not expected, like stepping into a secret garden. Ahead of me, feeding on the ground, a number of Linnet ignore my presence; the male has the brightest crimson head and breast I've seen, almost swatches of thick red paint. And a collective of juvenile Magpie and Jackdaw sit together on a rusting cattle pen nearby, calling frenetically, some hunkered on fence posts. They have an odd alert-yet-sombre bearing, and beyond, half hidden in a dense thicket, an adult Magpie is calling a sort of croaking alarm. Something is up that has disturbed these birds but I can't work out what. Maybe another young has just been taken by a bird of prey or else is ailing within the thicket? Even the Jackdaws sit unsettled, collecting together at one end of the pen. Another bird joins the adult in the bush, this one younger, and encroaches on the others' space, mewling, opening its mouth as if desperate to be fed. There is an air of the weird here. The three juvenile Magpies wait silent and absolutely stock still, watching what is unfolding before them, their slightly chubby bodies drawn in and heads sunk between undeveloped wings. A Reed Warbler settles on a branch behind my head and watches this avian soap opera unfold, presumably understanding more than me what is occurring. It's a male and my stillness doesn't alert him to my presence, in effect I could reach out and touch him he is that close, with his belly toward me and the sharp little face twitching left and right. But a warbler never sits still for long and when he goes I go, leaving the strange scene behind me.
The footpath is now hemmed by drainage dykes, the bushes and reeds peel back to reveal the surrounding lowland salt meadows. Cattle grazing. Rabbits by the bordering hedgerows. About half a mile away a flood pond has collected and now attracts Shelduck, a stalking Grey Heron, restless Lapwing, and what might be Ringed Plover occasionally flitting up from their nests in the grass. I wonder at the sparse numbers of Lapwing. When I was younger I used to see huge flocks of them gathered in meadows like this, an easy, pleasing sight. Now it is always ones or twos. Can it be their numbers are suffering a similar decline to other once common birds?
A pair of Sedge Warblers comes close - am I invisible today? Their burring, mini-motor calls constant as they flit from the reeds to a set of bushes by the path, catching flies. A beautiful warbler - silvery stripe over the eye and ochre and buff shades on the body. My first sighting. Cheers!
Further inland, a tangy wood smoke crosses the path from a house half hidden on the low ridge there. The sun breaks beneath low cloud in the late afternoon; the darker earth gives way to a pale, sandy path. The scent of bracken warming in the sun again; rabbits up ahead become alert, upright little presences when they notice me. I already know I am cured. And at a junction of footpaths, one of which would lead me back homeward, I press on instead north toward Thorpeness through woodland filled with lengthening shadows, dark pools of brackish water, the subtle ululations of Wood Pigeon and Robins. In a stretch of tree-bound swamp fed by the Hundred River to the west someone has nailed a sign to a tree trunk: 'Beware Of The Crocodile'. In there, thick, dark, wet and primeval it is almost believable. Swampland mythologies and monsters. The history of malarial illness; of social misinterpretations casting these areas as hotbeds of degeneracy and despair. 'Blackwaters' and backwaters. Of stagnation, (natural and economic). Of bogeymen and bogeywomen. The 'others'. Swamp things.
At the end of the track, the woodland breaks on its western side to reveal a stretch of secluded reed beds where four Marsh Harriers (two nesting pairs?) are present. A male is cruising low over the beds and two females on the far side are waiting in some low hawthorn bushes, occasionally taking short circular flights. Swallows gather and flit through the reed tops unafraid.
The final stretch of my walk leads me back through Thorpeness. Its wood-clad cottages, golf course and mock-Italian bistro make me feel like I've walked into a film set for a cheap version of Miss Marple or something similar. A couple of young hippy women smoke cigarettes by the Meare, the boating pond full of Mute Swans; and jaded middle-aged couples sit at plastic tables eating and drinking and fending off the bug multitude while two Polish waiters smoke at the back door wishing they were elsewhere. The sun is giving its last for the day and I cut through to the beach where the Swallows, Swifts and Martins criss-cross its length, fast and low. I find a piece of driftwood worn by the action of the waves into the shape of a wing, slightly stylised, like an art-deco interpretation or similar, with the primary feathers clear and the coverts and secondaries in streaks of motion. It's an apt talisman, so I take it.
When I reach the caravan park at the edge of Aldeburgh town, almost home, I realise how fresh and healthy I feel. And I notice I have that 'juvenile' mood in my guts that I always get when I've been out walking for any length of time, when some semblance of peace has and expansion and silence has entered my body and which I first started to get when I was a teenager doing the same thing - that 'youth of eternal summers' feeling (to purloin a phrase). Four and a half hours out in the wilderness can do that.
North Warren and Thorpeness 4/6/06
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