Another Sunday morning, another good old 10 km walk. I’m still in tattoo recovery mode. It may have been pushing 30° out there, but I was still wearing trackies with all my ink covered up.
There was a warm wind as I strolled out at a not-so-brisk pace along the estuary. The other rowing club were coming in to the sailing club hard. They looked rather majestic with an incredibly well-timed and synchronised oar action.
The mud along the muddy banks is extremely parched. Where you would normally not want to head out and stray along these parts through fear of sinking, you now have a cracked surface.
Out on the estuary distance I could see the sailing club yachts out racing. They had picked a good day for it with the right mix of warmth and wind.
In the AirPods, as ever, was Robert Elms on BBC Radio London. He dropped My Friend the Sun. I confess to having sung it maybe a little too loudly as I thought I was all alone walking through the shaded woods. I was caught out, natch.
A little further up towards the creek and the blackberries are starting to appear way too early in the season. Mother Nature is pretty much fucked around here.
There were some enthusiastic young bathers out along White House Beach. I was half tempted to join them, but my ink recovery mode means this is an absolute no-go.
I headed up towards Alresford when I reached the creek. I walked along the main road, past a man in black looking very much the North Essex persona of Johnny Cash waiting for a bus. He wasn’t exactly walking the line.
The final stretch is usually pretty hellish. It involves hugging the side of a main road and having to pull over into the hedgerow when a car approaches.
I had the brainwave of crossing the road to see what’s on the other side. Oh lookie, lookie over here. It’s only a footpath which has escaped my notice for the past sixteen years.
I blame the heatstroke.
