Many years ago, I cycled the length of Britain, from John o’ Groats to Land's End, and discovered one of the joys of living in a small country. Every 50 miles or so the landscape changes. I have been reminded of this as we travel around the coast of England.
Each year we do another two counties and, as we go, the scenery gently evolves. Last year, in Norfolk, tidal creeks and million pound second homes gave way to caravan parks and then the Broads.
In Suffolk, we are moving on to reedbeds, heathland, shingle beaches and some rather elegant towns.
We have opted for Covehithe as our first port of call. A few miles south of Lowestoft, it is a hamlet boasting little more than a few houses and a small seventeenth century church, sitting, rather oddly, within the ruins of an earlier, much larger church. It is a sobering lesson in coastal erosion – the once thriving town has, over the centuries, literally fallen into the sea.
We walk the half-mile down to the sea and see for ourselves the crumbling sand cliffs. In another hundred years, Covehithe will be no more. It has a pleasant, largely deserted beach and a reedbed bordering a small broad. I scan hopefully for bitterns, but only a few greylag geese are lounging around. To the south, we can see our next destination, Southwold, its pier reaching out into the
