We do like to be beside the seaside, Small But Fierce of Ipswich and I.
Every time we go to where briny water meets land we sigh and say: “We should do this more often.”
We don’t, of course. What we do is talk about doing it more often. “Let’s go up the coast this weekend,” one of us will say. “If the weather’s nice. It’ll be lovely.”
And invariably something happens, like the weather isn’t nice, or there is some interplanetary conflict or sign in the tea leaves which means that it would be an inauspicious trip. The last time that we actually went and took in the salty air was on New Year’s Eve, 2009. It was dark.
So this week, while taking a few days away from the hotbed of provincial journalism that is the EADT, we decided to “go up the coast.” And we actually did.
We bundled up like a couple of polar explorers, with fleeces, hats, gloves, the lot. Even the dog had his coat on. He knew something was up, as hounds do. He doesn’t get many outings these days in the car as he’s knocking on a bit and with our considerably smaller vehicle has had to modify his banzai flying leap entry into the boot to something more appropriate for a greyhound in his 12th year.
What he manages to do is vault delicately into the tiny boot then instantly collapse like an umbrella into his space, wearing a disdainful expression: “How very dare you make me do that. Pft!” He presumably then spends the trip making faces at the cars behind, or holding up signs saying: ‘Help I’m being dognapped’.
It didn’t take long to get to Aldeburgh. We noted the ‘Warning - hidden dips’ signs on the road in but didn’t get as much as a sniff of hummus.
We wandered past the Scallop (we’re very much in the ‘like it’ camp here) up the seafront and along to the Martello Tower.
We watched as one of the beach anglers caught something other than seaweed; he was clearly very pleased because he kept looking back at us and grinning. Either that or he was worried that we were going to scoot down the beach and pinch it, like a pair of old gulls.
And of course we had fish and chips, accompanied by a fine vintage dandelion and burdock, perched on the wall, bathed in late, low November sunshine and gazing out at the chilly North Sea.
We then ambled back along the high street, pausing to peer into the estate agents’ windows - “That much? For that?” - to the car for a nap. It was great. All we were missing was a tartan rug and a Thermos.
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