Dog 1 goes for a walk

The Naze.  Part One.

Dog 2 and Dog 3 are always strolling about, but Dog 1 usually remains at home.  He is getting on in years, 13 0r so of them.  His heart is still good and he will walk all day, but has gone deaf.

Walking on leads has never been a strong point, they do not get enough practice, they don’t need it.  Obedient, they remain with me and they are actually less trouble off a lead than on it in many ways.  Less time is spent straining at the end of it, or tying themselves in knots, problems every multiple dog owner is more than aware off.  The downside is, hearing is an integral part of knowing exactly where everyone is, without it Dog 1 has a tendency to set his own pace.  Effectively when Dog 1 goes for a dog walk, he is taking us.  If he wants to stop and sniff around, that is what he is going to do, no amount of shouting is going to bring him to heel.  If we stop, he is just going to keep going till he remembers to turn around and see where we are.  The issue being by the time that has happened a bend has often restricted sight-lines.  His deafness has lead to unintended disobedience and so his walking has become restricted.

Three is also an awkward number, only having been given two arms, with a hand at the end of each, it makes difficult picking up and generally looking after everyone.  On normal dog walks this is fine, it runs on rails, everyone knows where they are going, no harm beyond the unexpected is going to befall anyone, but the veteran of many walking holidays is getting left behind more often on the more adventurous travelling.

It breaks my heart really, he is my favourite dog, the most pampered of the lot, he has earned the right to be.  His image marches back years in the photo archive, younger and younger versions of himself strolling about in a variety of weathers and locations.

Today was going to be different though, a stroll designed for him.  Preparations were made, dog 2 can hear the sound of the dog walking coat go on at 30 yards so was running about in small circles.  This is the hint for dog 3 to start leaping about.  Dog 1 watches carefully, he knows what it means, but he has also learnt over these last 9 months or so, it no longer concerns him.  He went out onto the landing, as he does, just to see what was going on and began to realise something was different this time.  The joy as his lead was picked out of the tangled snake on the hook, he jumped and barked, charged down the stairs, charged up the stairs, barked, jumped.

Into the car, roadtrip, even more excitement, this was not just an unscheduled run-of-the-mill excursion.  We were off to a place special to Dog 1, a place where he went as a puppy with his sister.  His sister has been dead for a few years now, and so sadly missed, dog 1, actually staggered and nearly feinted at the sight of her lifeless body, it looked for a while like he was simply going to die broken hearted.  This place was the most special to her, actually squealing with delight when the car crunched on the gravel and the squealing did not stop for quite some distance.  It was a rare treat, too rare, now she is dead, the squeal haunts the area and the trips are even fewer.  One day I hope it will return to its natural state, a place my dog loved to run and where I imagine her spirit spends plenty of time.  Does dog 1 recollect, they never forget a face.

We are at the Naze, a bit of unprotected Essex coastline, the only question being when, how fast and what will be the consequences  when it disappear into the sea.  Years of campaigning to try and save it are only matched by the years of failing to do so.

Also I am hoping to take a photograph of a flower, an ulterior motive .  I can wander into the garden and take a picture, but I want a picture of a flower which has survived by its own wit and merit.  This strange compulsion having been put into my head by a competition one of the flickr groups I bombard with more determination than skill.  This month the competition is to photograph a flower, there is no prize, there is no acclaim, the effort is the reward.

The day is set fair(ish) clouds are bustled along by a stiff breeze which makes anything but the most bolted on headgear an entertaining proposition.  All around hands reach up to keep hats on heads.

Walking past a neat row of bungalows sitting close to the cliff edge, one house has a drained swimming pool.  The pool looks neglected, time has drained it off purpose.  I am reading Waterlog by Roger Deakin and have become more attuned to seeing the watery element in our landscape.  An odd discovery as I spend so much time by it, but it is always more foe than friend.

At the end of the houses is a wall, much older than the housing.  The wall ends with column (right word please) and on that column a weathered ball, the sort you see in country houses.  It is the last physical existence of Mabel Greville.  A grand house built on the cliffs in 1882.  It survived till 1984, at various times a retreat for the over-worked, a children’s home, a college for domestic service (the soon to be over-worked) and finally it ended life as a convalescent home.  Now it is gone, just an old wall and a breakwater named after it.

Stage One of the walk is dominated by the Naze Tower.  Built in 1721 by Trinity House, it is believed to be the only one of its type in the world.  A landmark to shipping entering Harwich harbour.  During the Second World War there were serious considerations to blow it up as it also was a rather useful marker for German aircraft, it appears conspicuously on German maps of the time.  The sea is eating into the coastline at around 2m a year, so the tower has a finite lifespan, by the looks of it one that will end before I do.  Some alarmists claim 20 years, I hope to see that, but it might be a metaphor for my own collapse by then.

The sea is encroaching in one direction and commercial venture in the other.  Most images show the tower in splendid isolation, it crops the ugly teashop.  The resultant tables chairs and sprawling humanity are not so easy to crop, best wait till they have gone.

The carpark nearby, also crowds the tower, it has not been given the space to breath it deserves.  I leave disappointed, there is no angle a photograph is going to do this justice today, the other angle reveals tedious warnings about the dangers of falling off the edge of a cliff.  Lets hope the tower still stands next time I see it and I can solve the puzzle of the photograph.

Marching on, leaving the car pound behind, we cross a grassy area much enjoyed by dog walkers, we get across this part as quickly as possible, it is featureless, we are heading towards a line of bushes.  Below on the sand are the remains of pillboxes, the waves lapping over the top of the seaweed coated concrete.

Originally the pillboxes were on the cliffs, part of a significant defensive system but have proved no defence to the sea.  This area has various concreted roads, part of a secret missile installation during World War Two, radar sat on top of the tower.

Way, way out to sea, a church lie under the waves.  An exceptionally low tide uncovered it once in the 20th century, perhaps the last time it will be seen.  Local tradition has it the bells can be heard on stormy nights, impressive, as the church had no bells when the sea finally claimed it.  It is a romantic conceit and I am more than happy to play along, I know it is not true, but equally in my heart I know it is true.

The sea claimed it in parts, the sea is rarely in a hurry, it has been around a long time, it sets its own timescales.  In 1748 the church tower collapsed, made of stone and wood, it had perhaps been standing for 500 years by this time.  The population were not going to let things go that easily and an extension was actually built onto the church despite the collapsing tower and clear evidence the sea was going to take it.  In 1798 roof collapsing meant the building was considered unsafe, over a period of 7 years it slipped into the sea.  The porch being the last to go and defiantly weddings were held in the porch to the last.  The cemetery was also lost to the sea, coffins sticking out of the cliffs.  Rumour has it the wood was used for odd jobs around the town and the occupants teeth came in handy as replacements for the living.

A fair bit of Elizabethan Walton slipped into the sea.  Everything has an air of waiting its turn, pipes and concrete jut out from the cliffs, much easier to see than the fossils the place is famous for.  Well famous in the circles in which fossils are famous.  At low tides the beach is combed meticulously by people searching for sharks teeth, a strange crouched pastime I see no attraction in at all beyond the discovery of a first tooth.

We reach the bush line and I relax a little, the prelude complete, the walk can begin.  So far no sign of a flower that will stop dancing long enough in the wind to have a reasonable likeness taken.