Walking the Suffolk Coast Path

When was the last time you woke up bright and early on a weekday morning, with no need for an alarm call, rested and impatient for the day ahead? My last time was a week ago, when I awoke in the Pier Hotel in Harwich, eager to walk the first bit of my latest hike, along the Suffolk Coast Path.

The Suffolk Coast Path runs for 55 miles, from Felixstowe to Lowestoft. Almost the entire route passes through an Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty. No ugly modern eyesores. Hurrah! As I gobble up my power breakfast (spinach and poached eggs – v healthy), looking out across the cold grey water, I plan today’s trek: along the seafront from Felixstowe, and then up the River Deben to Waldringfield, about 13 miles away.

I first got the idea of walking the Suffolk Coast Path a few months ago, when I staggered into the Pier Hotel, at the end of my trek along the Essex Way. In the Pier, saw a brochure for something called the Milsom Way. You spend the first night in Dedham, then walk to Harwich, where you spend a second night, then on to Waldringfield, with dinner, bed and breakfast at three hotels along the way: Milsoms and the Pier in Essex, and Kesgrave Hall in Suffolk. Milsoms transport your luggage. They can even pick you up en route if you decide you’ve had enough. I’d had a great time walking the first leg, from Dedham to Harwich. The second leg, from Harwich to Waldringfield, looked just as good.

Harwich and Felixstowe face each other across a broad bay where the Stour and Orwell rivers meet. The only natural harbour between the Thames and the Humber, you can see why this crucial confluence forms the border between Essex and Suffolk, and why it’s attracted successive waves of invaders – the promontory where Alfred the Great repelled the Vikings in 885AD is still called Bloody Point. To drive from Harwich to Felixstowe can take an hour. The quickest way is on the foot ferry which sails from the Ha’Penny Pier, in Harwich, landing on the beach in Felixstowe. The crossing, in a small boat, is thrilling, bobbing across the open sea.

I walk along the shingle beach, past Landguard Fort, a huge monolithic hulk built to guard the entrance to this historic strategic harbour. This is the site of the last seaborne invasion of England, by the Dutch in 1667. Rebuilt several times since then, it last saw active service in the second world war. Today it’s a museum and the surrounding headland is a nature reserve, a haven for migrating birds. Look out for Linnets and Ringed Plovers. The army left in 1957 and now nature has restored its sovereignty: the old gun batteries are rusting away; the old military tracks are cracked and blistered, buried beneath a carpet of Knotgrass and Saltwort.

Around the headland I’m in Felixstowe, surrounded by daytrippers soaking up the last of the autumn sunshine. It’s my first time here and I’m pleasantly surprised. All I’d seen of it before, from Harwich, were its rows of giant cranes, marching across the horizon, so I’d assumed it was all industrial. It’s Britain’s busiest container port, but the harbour is on the other side of the headland. Here, you’re in a traditional seaside town – a pier, an amusement arcade, a few refreshment stalls, and lots of brightly painted beach huts. ‘To you it may only be a shed but to me it’s a sanctuary,’ reads a sign.

The promenade is flanked by tidy ornamental gardens, relics of the town’s Edwardian heyday as a fashionable spa resort. The trendy bars and cafes on Beach Street are housed in old shipping containers. Children paddle in the shallows. Pensioners doze on memorial benches along the prom. I walk on and on, and Felixstowe slowly fades into open countryside. I pass a Martello Tower, built to repel an invasion by Napoleon which never came.

I stop to eat my packed lunch at Felixstowe Ferry, an antique crossing over the River Deben. Across the bay is Bawdsey Manor, a neogothic mansion which changed the course of British history. It was here, in the late 1930s, that Sir Robert Watson-Watt and his team of scientists built the first top secret receiver and transmitter towers for a new invention designed to track enemy aircraft, an invaluable asset in any armed conflict. During the second world war, RAF Bawdsey became the world’s first radar station.

Next time I plan to cross the river and walk on towards Aldeburgh, but this time I turn inland and hike upstream, along the Deben. The Saxons sailed up this river to conquer East Anglia after the fall of the Roman Empire. Why is this tranquil shoreline called Kingsfleet? Because this is where Edward III set sail for Flanders, to fight the Hundred Years War. Today the river is narrower and shallower, with mudflats on one side and reedbeds on the other, an ideal habitat for wading birds like Redshanks and Little Egrets. I don’t see any Redshanks today but I do spot a Little Egret, a speck of white, fishing for his dinner in a murky inlet. As I approach he flies away. Dinghies crisscross the languid river, tacking to and fro, eking out the best of the limp breeze.

The Deben is becalmed today, but it’s tidal all the way up to Woodbridge, and its ebbs and flows can be severe. This restless river is forever nibbling away at its marshy shore, and after a few miles I’m forced to head inland. This detour takes me through a silent hamlet called Hemley – a little cluster of cottages huddled around a medieval church, framed by two enormous, archaic oak trees. I lift the latch. The door is open. I step inside. The interior is plain and peaceful, a place of prayer for a millennium.

The footpath zigzags back down to the Deben. I walk along a muddy beach to the Maybush Inn, a pretty riverside pub in Waldringfield. Woodbridge is only a few miles away, and the Saxon burial site of Sutton Hoo a few miles beyond. I meet a nice man with a kind face out walking his dog. I ask him for directions, but he isn’t sure how to get there. I wander on for a while but the fragile footpath along the shore has been eaten away by the incoming tide. I turn back, retracing my steps to the Maybush. I plan to call Kesgrave Hall for a cab and sink a pint or two while I wait for it, but on my way back I meet that nice man again and we get chatting. I tell him I’m writing a piece for The Spectator. His face lights up. He loves The Spectator. He insists on driving me to Kesgrave. I ask for his address so I can write and thank him but he won’t hear of it. We arrive at the hotel and I invite him in for a beer but he waves me away. We say our goodbyes and I tell him I’ll buy him a drink in the next life.