Saxon Shore 5 : “I Saw Three Ships. . . . .”

 

"What will become of us?" Snowman titters nervously, hand on chin. Staring up at the sheer stone walls, of Chatham’s Dock Basin Number Two. Borne into the water unceremoniously, from a back garden grotto, by the force of storm Barra.

"We’ll be all right," guffaws Santa, in his booming 'ho-ho-ho' voice. "Let's swim over there ." He gestures firmly, with a raised left arm, as a swirl of current carries them down the dock . "I can see the children on the quayside . They’ve come to carry us home for Christmas.” 

 

Reassured, that a rescue is safely underway, I climb into the car. Venturing further from home than normal, for my Saxon Shore walk. Two hours later arriving in Suffolk. At Shotley Point, where the cocoa coloured waters of the Orwell and Stour meet. It is still hang-on-to-your-hat windy.

A bluff bowed Fisher Freeward 25 motor sailer, heels to the aftermath of the gale. Butting seaward through the chop. Over on the Felixstowe quayside, two diminutive tugs battle the breeze, to wrestle a world girdling behemoth in, beneath the waiting cranes.

Containers, filled with Christmas gifts from the East, are piled high on her decks. Adding to the windage of her salt stained hull. Deftly, the tugs tuck the giant ship between two others of her, ocean wandering, kind.

Ahead, an Evergreen-line ship, a sister to the ill-fated, Suez-Canal-blocking Ever Given, is already safely alongside. Whilst a gleaming red lightship, freshly repainted, and ready to be towed back to her station, swings at a mid river mooring. Marking the turn of the tide.

On the Harwich shore, Patricia, the Trinity House maintenance vessel, is moored beneath the spire of the cathedral. Distinctive 'lobster claw' derrick poised, above the refurbished yellow spar buoy, which is secured in her waist. Ready to place it precisely, at its charted co ordinates, once back on station.

The winter wind is keen. It funnels up the river Orwell. I think better of my plan to walk along its shore, to Pin Mill. Instead setting out, along a wooded path, on the more sheltered banks of the river Stour. Heading into Constable country.

Gulls ride the buffeting updraughts, at the water’s edge. Soaring and circling. The roar of the wind fills my ears. The tide is falling. Allowing me to drop down onto the foreshore. Following it deep into Edwarton Bay.

I round a corner. Before me, is a mass gathering of wigeon. Some swimming busily in the rills. Others dozing, heads cradled in their wing feathers. Warming in the midday sun. . . .

. . . . . their distinctive pale forehead blazes on display. I settle above the wild duck, seated on the sea wall, in the shelter of the windbreak woodland. Drinking a flask of coffee and eating a fruity wedge of Christmas cake; thickly marzipanned and richly fragrant with brandy.  Listening to the piping of animated avian conversation; and to the carefree, rippling, chuckle of the ebbing river.