Rachel Travers, Pennant 102

Shingle shore

For nearly five decades I have walked this mile with those I love. Though some are no longer with me, I feel their presence when skylarks sing above the golf course or fierce waves crash against the sea wall. Together we see marsh harriers quarter the reedbeds, cormorants spread their wings on the ever shifting shingle islands, and crabs sidle down the slipway.

The tidal Deben produces treacherous currents at its mouth. Yachtsmen and fishermen treat it with respect as they thread between colourful marker buoys. Once there was a great harbour here - Goseford - where Edward III assembled his fleet before invading Flanders. Now the tiny hamlet of Felixstowe Ferry resists regular flooding with its low wooden houses standing on stilts. You can call the ferryman by waving a bat, or queue at the hut for freshly landed fish. I have struggled through a blizzard to drink at the ancient inn and wandered down on a summer evening to hear music in the tin church. But tourism encroaches and alien buildings outrageously dwarf their neighbours as if they did not know that wind and tides will sweep them away.

Two massive Martello towers dominate this mile, but their apparent permanence is illusory. Whilst sparkling boulders of Norwegian granite are intended to stem erosion, the fragile banks behind them continue to crumble. Sea kale, yellow horned poppy and the rare sea pea flourish amongst bleached shells and sharks’ teeth on the constantly shifting shingle. They will survive, unlike the ruined Roman fort which breaks surface at low spring tides.

I hope my grandchildren’s grandchildren will walk this way. Their path will have retreated further inland and the forest of distant windfarms will be denser, with fewer plastic-laden ships on the horizon. Children unknown will play by freshly painted beach huts, throw pebbles into the waves and hear skylarks sing as they wander towards the ferry crossing.