I finally got around to watching a program I recorded in Feb this year. Robert MacFarlane was sort of doing a TV version of his book, The Wild Places. (youtube link to the program, 6 parts)
Sort of.
He was focusing in on one county to prove the point “wildness” is everywhere (well anywhere there are not a lot of people)
The county in question, Essex. MacFarlane speaks of Roger Deakin opening his eyes to the concept of wild. Or at least to appreciate a weed growing from a crack in the pavement has the elements of wild.
I am not really prepared to visit a toxic landscape by an oil refinery to be impressed by lichen on a grey wall even with MacFarlane egging me on. He does accept it is a wildness which makes you work pretty hard to appreciate it.
Hmmmm, well pupil is not ready to be master, so I am giving it a miss.
But in another segment MacFarlane is waterborne in an old wooden canoe willed to him by Roger Deakin. He is in Walton backwaters where there is a colony of grey seals. This looks to have more traditional elements of wild. Another book about wild places in Britain gives the backwaters high praise putting it in the top 50 or so places harbouring wildness.
I am cutting it fine for a trip to the coast, this is primetime seaside holiday period. Fine if you are a fat drunk conversing with your kids as if they are in another county via subtle variations in the F-word, not so great if you walk upright. Nothing ventured, nothing gained and Mr MacFarlane seemed to be having a very pleasant secluded time communing with seals.
The backwaters could be found behind a large grey shed of a building, The Columbine centre, built on a flood plain 200 yards behind a sea wall, its the local swimming pool, cinema, indoor bowling club, theatre, car park, eyesore, built in the municipal mundane style.
Behind it, beyond the overflow carpark, is a large earth embankment and once I got to the top of that, I was greeted by a small sewage works, some stinking mud and static caravans.
Image by Phil Gyford via Flickr
The stinking mud is what I had come to see it transpires. Given I saw MacFarlane gracefully paddling over limpid waters gazing at basking seals I was glad I did not take the oil refinery option. Gawd alone knows what mouth of Hades that actually is.
Oh well, I am here now. I walk along the top of the sea defence bank. Boats are languishing in the mud, the tide is out. Some boats look as if an incoming tide washes over them rather than float them. Neglect is the impression, this could be a tough sell.
The Twizzle snakes off to do its thing, whatever that might be. In fact the whole low lying area is snaked with water, my walk is taking my along the Walton Channel up towards nowhere much.
Once I am past the caravan site. which was not bad, just unexpected, things pick up. Flat and essentially treeless would be an uncharitable impression Across the farmers field, golden with crop, is a headland and a navigational tower. The tower is a focus of a lot of ineffective hand wringing. Coastal erosion is eating the cliff at quite the rate. Earlier versions of the town have slipped into the sea over the centuries.
It is a landmark tower, ancient and unique, maybe that will be the reason they get the sea defences they need. Probably not is my guess, there are a lot more things to throw money at than a social security hotspot.
Image via Wikipedia
The view is impressive, golden crops, green hill, deep blue sea water, a large ferry going into Harwich, a larger container ship going into Felixstowe. Bold colours for bold ventures.
The farmland is protected from the higher tides in the backwaters by an earth embankment which is strengthened on the seaward side by small concrete blocks, much overgrown. The bank is in excess of 12 foot I guess and there is quite a large drainage ditch which runs around the farmland, I guess that is where the soil came from. On top of the embankment is a low wall made of concrete slabs, much weathered and failing in a number of places. Perhaps this was put up after the 1953 flooding of the area. It is either carefully worked out or just something slapped on the top as an after thought. It looks very after thought right now.
Among the flotsam I spot a jam jar, it has paper contents. A message in a bottle, so more akin to jetsum. I go over the knee high wall on the top of the embankment, noticing it had yellow lichen on it. Within the bottle is the block capitals of phone number. Its from the far off shore of Dovercourt, maybe 2 miles away.
Still it might have age on its side if not mileage. I will contact him and he will remember wistfully the far off days when he had teeth and had thrown this jar into the sea.
The lid of the jam jar said, best before 2011.
Oh well, I bunged it into the mud where the next tide would set it on its travels, purposeful litter, sort of. I make penance by picking up the nearest 3 plastic sports drink bottles.
I notice a large blue tarpalin draped over the wall, could not miss it. Also a blue sleeping bag. Looks like someone has been wild camping and left in some haste. Bright blue is not the fugitive colour in this landscape, unless his quick exit was via police escort. Still I gather 7m of paracord and a tin of baccy. I want the tin, I could buy one for no money, but its got no memory, this one is better. My guess, rain stopped play and they headed back to whatever caravan they were meant to be in, suffering the banter of his mates/family, a future Ray Mears returning to mere mortal.
A beautiful Red Admiral sits on the low concrete wall. It is the butterfly all of its species should be judged by. The brightest of colours, it really is striking, but it is a shy beauty and refuses to be photographed. It will grow impossibly perfect in my memory, and why not. The baccy tin, gathers another association instantly.
Bird life is noisy and greedy, all manner of things are wheeling overhead and poking about in the mud. Specialist stuff by the looks of their beaks and all impressively clean. This looks like the sort of mud you dump bodies in. You would have to be daft to go out on it. Needless to say the coastguard cheats Darwin every so often and saves someone from the mud.
Moving along I see a duck boat lying in one of the many folds of the coastline, it is drapped in weed, unloved the tide must flow over it. Long low and built with purpose it seems a shame to be allowed just to rot into nothing. It has resisted the sea for quite some time for that much weed to have accumulated. It is part of a past we don't need now, but one day we will wish we had not been so neglectful of such things.
I look out over the grey mud with some grey sea running between it. No grey seals, but it is early yet and I've not got my eye in.
In part two, will I see a seal or will it just be a blubber stomached tourist floundering in the mud.
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