The look of the place on an August morning is bright and pretty enough. The settlers seem to revel in their primitive mode of life, the younger portion leading very much the amphibious existence of unsophisticated tropical islanders. A mile beyond Sizewell Gap lies Thorpe Ness, a low, sandy point, at which the coast line bends somewhat, but which has little of the look of a promontory about it; near it nestle among the sandhills and on the low ground behind the cottages of Thorpe village. The broad beach is thickly strewn with huts, winches, and boats; the country behind is flat and dreary enough. To complete the gloomy effect, the green of the marshy flats is soiled by a meandering stream, with shelving, muddy banks and broad, stagnant-looking shallows, utterly useless for navigation, and a striking emblem of a diffuse, superficial, and unfruitful mind. At this point only a mile of the coast separates us from the ancient borough Aldeburgh, whose pile of houses, crowned by its flint church, forms an impressive object after our long stretch of low and blank coast. Aldeburgh has its points of interest for the antiquarian; but compared with the rest of our coast line it belongs to the region of the known, and, as our voyage is into the unknown, its curiosities must be left unnoticed. And here we may look at our modest tour of investigation southward of Dunwich as completed, and may pursue the line of coast to the north. Setting out from the cluster of boatmen's huts, we may follow the long curve of the bay either by the strips of sand on the low beach, if the tide is far enough out, or, adopting a more devious course, pick our way among the tracts of pebble and swamp behind the beach. By choosing the latter we may get a good idea of the unfamiliar weeds and wild flowers which flourish in these marshy regions by the sea, rank yet often handsome growths of which Crabbe gives us a picture. Here on its wiry stem, in rigid bloom, Grows the salt lavender that lacks perfume; Two miles, which will be certain to weary the feet more than six of level road, bring us to the mouth of a narrow river. The entrance is flanked by two rude wooden piers, which form the extreme point of the coast visible from Dunwich. This is known as Southwold Harbour. Sitting on one of the benches of the pier, and looking west, we have before us a scene which well repays the somewhat dreary two miles' walking. On the left bank of the stream, at just the right distance from the eye for distinct yet comprehensive vision, stands the strikingly picturesque fishing village of Walberswick. Its cottages, seen end on, show a queer outline, one side of the high roof being carried nearly down to the ground, as if to save walling. They cluster together in groups separated by grassy spaces. Closer to the river, connecting it with the village, is a yet more striking cluster of boatmen's huts, their black sides crowned as usual by bright red roofs. Near these are one or two high arched wooden bridges which span the narrow dyke-like ramifications of the river. Behind the village rise the forms of a windmill, never long out of sight in this region, and a fine square church-tower. On the opposite bank are strewn in picturesque disorder the débris of many storms, here a group of old anchors, covered with rust, looking weary of their years of tugging and straining, and there the shapeless hulk of a fishing smack thrown over on its side, dishonoured and abandoned of men. Higher up the stream is a small quay, marked by another group of tall sea-roofed buildings, and a single vessel in front with that slight lean in her mast which tells that she is resting on terra firma. The whole scene, the village and its surroundings, would be thoroughly Dutch-looking were it not for the noble tower. And on a moment's reflection we are pleased that that tower is there to check our paying the place a doubtful compliment by calling it" un-English-looking." Suffolk is the county of churches. As an old writer has it, " Norfolk exceeds Suffolk in the number of its churches, but Suffolk doth more exceed Norfolk in the handsomeness of them." And this Walberswick church is a very good specimen of their handsomeness. While the bulk of the church is reduced to a picturesque overgrown ruin, the high square tower stands sound and unimpaired, showing clearly its well-proportioned divisions, its carved parapet and turrets, and its long pointed windows. The church stands at the extremity of a fine sweep of heather-clad common. To the wanderer over these "walks," as they are sometimes called, in the evening light it forms a bold and impressive object. The varied outlines of tower and ivy-clad ruin are well defined against the soft grey sky which surrounds it and looks through its empty arched windows. The roof of a detached cottage or two not far from it just peep above the common, serving well to indicate the size and majesty of the tower. As the ray of the declining sun touches it, its grey stone takes on a purplish hue, its patches of ochre lichen grow ruddier, while the greens of the foliage overhanging the ruins brighten to a yellowish tinge. The effect is something like that of a faint flush of pleasure stealing over a venerable and wrinkled face at a child's caress. Here, too, the sense of a veiled past takes possession of the mind. This stately tower clearly bears no relation to the queer little village hard by. It seems to belong to some extinct order of things, and looks lorn and lonesome at the edge of the common. Returning to the river, we find that our further progress is dependent on the goodwill of a venerable ferryman, whose arm is kept active in the summer months by the coming and going of visitors from Southwold, and whose task is by no means light when the spring tide gives added force to the current. This ferry, together with its ferryman, is perhaps the most curious feature of Walberswick. It happens to be a picturesque point of the river, and the view from the north bank, including groups of red-roofed houses of all heights, divided by masses of feathery foliage, and showing the church-tower behind, is a very pleasing one. A river with a ferry and such a background is a treasure to the painter's eye; and here may be found gathered, on a summer day, half a dozen or so craftsmen of the brush. Some of them are standing before their easels, giving ever and anon hasty sidelong glances at the opposite shore, but mostly intent on their canvas, now and then retiring a few paces and quizzing their work with head on one side and eyes screwed up. Others are sitting on camp-stools, bobbing their heads up and down in a comical manner. We have passed the place again and again, and can testify that cold winds are no obstacle to these indefatigable workers, and that they are wont to hold on with fierce tenacity till the gathering darkness blurs and confuses alike their subject and their picture. It has all the look of an art class working away at one model. It is clear from the look of the passers-by, who glance over the painters' shoulders, that they are at a loss to understand this enthusiasm for a low jetty covered with dirty sea-weed, a strip of a somewhat muddy stream, and a heap of tiled roofs. Our ferryman takes a more sympathetic view of the matter; for he himself is officially connected with this school of art, being its frequent and well-approved model. And well he may be, for he is a noble-looking veteran, with form and colour enough in his tanned and wrinkled face, his tender blue eyes, and his curled grey beard to kindle desire in any painter's breast. We are not sure that he does not think more than is good for him of his many portraits, carrying his fame far and wide; but he would be a severe moralist who grudges him this flattering reflection. This river, named the Blythe, is, in spite of its flat surroundings, well worth exploring. These Suffolk rivers, winding about in their broad plains, give one an odd experience. The church-tower or windmill, which was just now behind us to our left, presently starts up in front of us to our right, till by-and-by we have a giddy feeling that our surroundings are pirouetting about our heads. Here on the Blythe the tower of Walberswick church plays a number of these pranks with us. The scenery is tame till we reach a varicose enlargement of the stream, which takes the form of an oval lake with a chain of rush-grown islands for its axis. On one side dips the Walberswick common, its slopes covered with solemn pines, through an opening in which one spies a charming keeper's cottage. In these pines herons may be seen roosting in the evening, their gaunt forms silhouetted against the glowing west. A mile or two beyond this point the stream brings us to Blytheburgh, a village adorned with another of these handsome Suffolk churches. It is a lofty and elegant structure, with fine ornamental work on its tower, parapets, and buttresses. Its base stands some little height above the river; and seen from here, surrounded by the lowly cottage roofs, it is commanding and even awe-inspiring. Its facing of flint and stone give it a hardy aspect, and one fancies as one gazes up at it that storm and tempest will never impair its perfect, clearcut form. But this look of adamantine strength proves to be treacherous, for the roof is said to be so unstable that the worshippers are driven to seek refuge in some less inspiring temple. Here again one is struck by the disproportion between church and village. Blytheburgh is a quiet little place only a shade larger than Dunwich. Its retirement has not yet been disturbed by the contiguity of the tiny branch railway from Halesworth to Southwold. Quite an innocent invader this single line of tramway dimensions, which brings some ten times in the day its toy train, consisting of engine and two diminutive AmeriIt is an easy-going, leisurely vehicle, and is quite ready to stop in the most accommodating fashion if it happens to be in the way of a cart, or even a perambulator, on one of the level crossings. There is about Blytheburgh, as about Walberswick, a look of old age and decay. These stalwart towers, with their scant remnant of human habitations, are like those rusty anchors on the banks at the river's mouth, which lie and watch the vessels they once served break up and disappear. can cars. But we have strayed from our coast line, seduced by the placid current of the Blythe, and must retrace our steps. Leaving our aged ferryman and continuing north, we presently reach the town and borough of Southwold, pleasantly perched above a low cliff. Here again we are within the pale of civilization, and description must halt. But we cannot forbear to say a word about its busiest and most interesting suburb, the beach, which in places is a very thicket of boatmen's huts, winches, boats, and nets. Its shingle is ever rustling with movement. The most lively moment is when with the rising flood the returning boats shoot straight for the beach. The sea is merry with swiftly moving sails making for their respective berths. Men and boys lend a willing hand, and as soon as the boat grounds she is attached to a rope and hauled up high on the beach. Then comes the opening of the net and the sorting of the fish. It is as well not to accost the fishermen now, for peradventure they have toiled since daybreak, and have hardly anything to show but a few miserable little flounders and soles among a heap of rubbish, masses of collapsing jelly-fish, fierce little "wolvers" throwing out their inky, fan-shaped stings in a fine rage, and startled crablets making spasmodic movements in all directions on the chance of reaching less objectionable surroundings. One can easily forgive the look of disgust with which the refuse is cast back into the sea or trodden under heel. After all, these hard-working fellows take their disappointments as submissively as most people. A fine race of fellows these Suffolk fishermen, carrying in their very mien and attitude something of a noble gravity and philosophic composure which has been won from their perilous calling between the dark immensities of sea and sky. The Southwold cliff is a very short one, and just beyond the last huts on the beach the coast sinks again to a low common. Here we notice the extremity of another of those long tentacles which the river Blythe throws out over the flat, marshy ground. This ramification appears to pass behind Southwold, reaching nearly to the beach, a quarter of a mile to the north of the town. Then follows another and longer line of cliff, loose and crumbling like the other, and altogether wanting in interest (except, perhaps, to geologists), were it not for the ruin of a farm slanting on its edge. The building looks as though it had been cut in two by a landslip. This point is known as Easton Ness, though there is at present nothing to suggest beak or promontory. And here we may bring our little journey of discovery to an end. We have gone far enough, probably, to gain a rough idea of this flat Suffolk coast. Tame enough, no doubt, after the rocky battlements of Cornwall or the mountain barriers of North Wales, yet pleasing, too, in its unobtrusive fashion. And there is the fascination of history hanging about it. Everywhere we meet with echoes of the remote past. These archaic word-endings, "wick " and "burgh," these ruins of church and monastery, these relics of municipal dignity, carry back the mind to a far-off human life, other and more imposing than that which one finds now. Dull, desolate, triste, as it undoubtedly is to-day, we feel sure that it was once animated by a fuller and more energetic human life, that it was once shone upon by the ray of material prosperity. To what blighting forces has this former vigour succumbed to the tardy process of industrial change, with its unpredictable caprices and its fine contempt for locality, or to some sudden and violent catastrophe ? The answer to the question is suggested by the coast line itself. These marshy flats defended by stout earthen walls, these loose, dissolving cliffs, this ruined farm on the very edge of the cliff, these inappropriate names, Sizewell Gap, Misner Haven, Easton Ness, all whisper of the ocean's effacing and transforming might. With this presentiment in our mind we turn to the old quarto volume already alluded to. It bears the title An Historic Account of Dunwich, of Blytheburgh, and Southwold. Its date is 1754. Its author, Thomas Gardner, deserves a passing notice He was a salt merchant in Southwold who became so impressed with the ancient dignity and renown of the district that he devoted himself to the labour of compiling its history. And very thoroughly he seems to have done it, and very trustworthy is his record said to be. The good merchant historian lies peacefully between his two wives in Southwold churchyard. His tomb, with its quaint inscription, is worth a visit. A man who proves your noble lineage deserves your gratitude, and the Southwolders do well to be proud of their pious chronicler. This work, aided by one or two supplementary authorities, enables us to reconstruct the ancient configuration of this piece of coast, and to trace its successive changes. We learn that what is now an approximately straight line, shelterless and repellent, was some 400 years ago broken up into a succession of projections and havens. Then Easton Ness was indeed a beak, being the most easterly point on the whole coast.* The high ground at Dunwich ran some six miles further into the sea, making the southern arm of a goodly bay. The river Blythe, instead of emptying itself into the "Southwold Harbour" by Walberswick, turned and flowed southwards inside the pebble range, finding an exit near where the lower *This honour belongs now, we believe, to Lowestoft. |