my little adventure

Clamouring for some relief from my monastic existence, yesterday I indulged myself by taking the Greater Anglia train service from Colchester Town rail station to Frinton on Sea.Of course, I first had to walk the one mile to Colchester Town Station then, on return, the one mile back. A grand total of eight miles from the beginning of my adventure to the end.

The February day was cool, overcast, and as pleasant as a British February day could be. The direct train from Colchester Town was sparsely populated and meandered past Hythe, Wivenhoe, Alresford, Great Bentley, Weeley, Thorpe-Le-Soken and Kirby Cross stations to edge into Frinton on Sea rail station without undue fuss or announcement.

Frinton on Sea is slightly over fifteen miles from Colchester. It was developed as a seaside town in the1890s and has always been a somewhat effete, gentile town known for housing retirees and banning pubs and boarding houses. It is also known for orderly beach huts and swathes of sand suitable for walking chihuahuas and Scottish terriers.

It is the posh neighbour to the more robust Essex seaside towns of Walton on the Naze and Clacton on Sea which (like Southend-on-Sea) has a history of housing expatriate London East End gangsters, sandwiching Frinton between them. Today’s Frinton seems to exist solely to house a main street of dainty tea (or coffee) houses and charity shops, and little else.

To me, the one saving grace of Frinton was the very first charity shop I encountered, a charity (second hand) bookshop, wherein I purchased John Berger’s excellent ‘Ways of Seeing’ (which had accompanied his TV series), ‘Art in China’ by Craig Clunas and ‘Tate Britain Companion to British Art’ by Richard Humphreys - all for the princely sum of £8. I would have bought more but for a) the intended walk to Clacton and b) an honest attempt to keep my life free from clutter after my losses in Malaysia.

And so, mobile smart phone with additional camera in hand, to the walk…

Not wanting to traipse sand into my rented double room space, I eschewed the beach walk in favour of the higher ground path above the Frinton-on-Sea beach huts. Clouds constantly threatened rain, but as I was oblivious to this threat there was no rain during the entire chilled walk. Sea breezes came readily and coldly as I espied the eyesore which is the Gunfleet Sands Offshore Wind Farm (48 turbines), then walked past Frinton’s golf course. The wind became bitingly keen as I edged further out of the town and across the 16th century ‘Gunfleet Estuary’ of Holland River where, in 1677, apparently, a forty-two feet ‘Monstrous Whale’ had been stranded.

The occasional dog walker smiled, though many didn’t, as I trod my path and braced myself against the elements. The walking, the occasional solitude and the exposure to Mother Nature all put somewhat of a spring in my step until, that is, after several miles when  my steps became more labouredWalking past wartime coastal defences (which were built on the beaches, seawalls, cliffs and greenswards from Frinton to the boundary of Holland-on-Sea/Clacton), I eventually reached Holland Haven (aka Holland-on-Sea) which is on the outskirts of Clacton and there remembered my days living there at Holland Haven, and the boatyard therein which had housed my father’s modest fishing boat, some twentyseven years ago. 

Clacton pier and the town centre were (quite literally) in the distance as I began the final stretch of my little adventure. I was determined not to call an Uber, nor wait for a bus even though my strength was waning and my feet complaining. I had set myself the goal of walking that distance between the two rail stations, and walk I would, and did.

Unfortunately, Clacton was not as I had left it seventeen years previously, it had, in fact, become even more run down and dour. As I transversed ‘The Esplanade’, then ‘King’s Parade’ and ‘Marine Parade East’ my romantic memory of Clacton entirely dissipated. By the time that I was looking for lunch I had begun to despair. The largest lunch emporium seemed to be McDonald’s, though there was a mini Subway in Station Road and a small Wimpy burger place nearby I really couldn’t find anywhere I wanted to eat in. 

Eventually I found myself pulled by the promise of ‘Pie & Mash”, which sounded suitably British and traditional. I ordered. There was no choice of which sort of pie, there was just (minced meat) pie (and mashed potato). I was asked if I wanted ‘Liquor’. I had no idea what that was so I said yes. Apparently it is supposed to be fish stock, flour and parsley, but was originally made from the remains of jellied eels and was very London working-class food . The green flecked liquid I ended up with looked, and tasted, more like flour and water paste. The pie was barely edible and distinctly reminded me of ‘Cut-Me-Own-Throat’ Dibbler’s dubious pies from Terry Pratchett’s ‘Discworld’ series of comic fantasy novels. It was, quite possibly, the worst meal I have ever eaten (well half of). Luckily I had bought two Banbury cakes (yes despite my recent diabetes diagnosis) and ate one with a very watery ‘Flat White’, while waiting for the train back to Colchester. I had been informed that, as a diabetic, it is very important to eat regular meals.

Tiredly I tramped that final eighth mile back to my lodgings with a huge sense of achievement.