WALKING FROM PAST TO PRESENT

I was thinking about the past today. It’s hard not to in a place like this, where, if anything the very air pulls you back there.

It’s a special resonance for me too, given that we used to come to Southwold when I was very young. Occasionally I’ll see a view of something and it will look vaguely familiar, as though I’ve been there in my dreams. 

The geography is that Walberswick, where we’re staying, is to the South of Southwold and the two are separated by a river, the Blyth. The Blyth flows heartily out to sea, in contrast to the rough waves that crash in, either side of it.

This means there are really only two ways to get from Walberswick to Southwold - over the Blyth, or around it: a journey that takes eighteen minutes by car. Today, I decided that I would go over the river, while Sammy decided she preferred to have a car the other side, and would meet me there. She was quite happy going around it.

So I walked. Present to past, I walked, ignoring the rowing boat ‘ferry’ and heading up to the footbridge.

The river was sparkling in the afternoon sun. A cool wind blew the grasses and rippled the trees. It was so nice to hear the clink and rattle of boats moored up. Years ago, there would have been all manner of trading barges and sea-faring boats, clippers and schooners and sails and spinnakers, jostling and billowing for room along the harbour wall.

I crunched along the path, leaping puddles in the sunlight. There were a few others walking, so we wished each other a good afternoon, though the weather was already providing it. I got to the footbridge and stopped by the sparkling river.

Behind the tall masts of yachts and sailing boats, Southwold was shimmering on the horizon. It has a distinctive lighthouse, nestled in the town centre. Between rows of cottages, it stands just above the roofline, ready to guide ships into the harbour.

We came here on camps. I would have been maybe six years old. Somehow those special years still mean a lot to me, forming as they did, a very particular softness. I think there’s something wonderful about the first time you do a thing, and childhood is by nature, a long sequence of first-things. We came back here quite a few times in those years, and it was enough to seal memories for almost four decades.

The other side of the bridge, the path turns back East so that you’re walking downstream towards the sea. The sun was much more in my eyes that way, and there were more people, crunching over the muddy, wet gravel. Soon, the footpath widened and became a road, alongside wooden shacks selling fresh fish and trinkets. The smell of delicious chips filled the air too, salty and sweet. I approached a large barn with picnic tables outside. Each was occupied by people in sunglasses and winter coats, eating fish and chips, chatting, drinking an early beer.

I imagined that these wooden buildings were here in centuries past. I pictured burly men hoisting barrels, twisting dirty rope around mooring posts, calling out to the tradesmen and dockers in the shadow of those shacks. Clouds of dust and fog and dirt would have obscured the sun, save a few diffuse rays of light. Perhaps the smell of fish and horses and steam and sweat would have clung to every piece of fabric and leather you carried, as you jostled along the noisy harbour.

Past the Southwold Sailing Club, I emerged on more familiar ground: the lifeboat museum we’d seen the day before, and happily, the car park, in which Sammy had parked, facing the sea. I walked up through the rows of shiny cars until I appeared in her rear view mirror. I waved and smiled. She smiled back. Then, we just sat and watched the green-white waves crash and roll onto the sand.

You only get to live in the present, don’t you? It’s always better to make the most of the now.