The Great Wakering Circuit – 17th August 2020
It being a Monday morning we are up for yet another bash at coast walking. 2 weeks ago we drove to Leigh on Sea in Essex and riding our bikes we fought our way through the crowds along the Thames Estuary as far as Shoeburyness, before enjoying the quiet of the Wakerings to the north of Southend.
On completion we thought this quiet area was worth a closer look, especially as bicycles only got us to within a mile or so of the tidal waters which lap around it. So today we are looking to walk the sea wall from Landwick Cottages, Great Wakering to the River Roach, before returning cross-country.
Parking up in front of a private house, we hope that no-one will object to our presence and that we won’t find the wheels removed on our return.
As we approach the access road that leads to Havengore Bridge and then across to Foulness Island, we are joined by a chatty local lady who is also in the process of stretching her legs.
She asks. “Are you walking the sea wall?”
“Yes.” I respond, rather monosyllabically.
“You’re not from round here are you?”
“No.” I respond.
“Oh it’s a lovely walk. I’m walking into Great Wakering. You are so lucky.”
The equally chatty Betty agrees with her, telling her we cycled the area last week and we have now returned for more. The lady continues to chat until the point at which she has to turn off, leaving us to continue alone. If she is anything to go by, we feel our car should be safe parked where it is.
A couple of hundred metres further on Betty needs to stop for her mandatory ‘wild wee’ after a long drive. She fortunately finishes just in time, as a noisy family group turns the corner. Not wanting to get caught up in the din of their perambulations, we decide to press on and quickly leave them behind.
Saltmarsh plants line the brackish ditches adjacent to low-lying fields of wheat
The local fields are dominated by honey-coloured, freshly cut wheat stubble, bordered by what appear to be tidal drains only some 60 centimetres below the soil surface level. These ditches are lined with saltmarsh species such as Poor-man’s asparagus, Cord-grass and Sea purslane. Any water within is doubtless brackish and of marine origin, so it is surprising to find wheat growing so close to it, although after the recent hot, dry spell most of them only contain sun-cracked mud. A strong, unpleasant smell emanates from the ditches, so we move on quickly.
With a dry summer the ditch has dried out
At the end of the track is a collection of farm buildings. The path passes between them and whilst we are checking our OS map a lady comes marching round the corner having an in-depth conversation with herself. I still find it strange listening to people chattering to themselves as they walk along, but of-course she is actually chatting to someone on her phone. This is proving to be a very popular place for locals wishing to take a walk.
Beyond the farmyard the sea wall looms ahead of us. As we top its 5 metre height, it is evident that our arrival at the coast corresponds with high tide.
Betty arrives at the sea wall
Ahead of us the extensive saltmarsh is drowned, with just a few tufts of cord grass poking above the water.
High Tide drowns the saltmarsh which stretches away towards Foulness
In the distance we can see Havengore Bridge stretching out across the channel separating the island of Foulness from the mainland. Beyond the bridge are the MOD firing ranges which are currently closed, with a tell-tale red flag confirming that members of the public are not welcome. We can hear occasional explosions, with an isolated puff of smoke in the distance confirming that they are probably using live rounds.
This is a very odd part of the world. The large Unitary Authority of Southend is only a couple of miles behind us and the busy Thames Estuary is off to out right, yet the MOD is chucking live ammunition into the adjacent sea and has been doing-so for over 100 years.
The Foulness ranges are in fact an archipelago of five islands (Potton, Rushley, New England, Havengore and Foulness Islands), with a sixth one – Wallasea Island to the north and west – now managed as a nature reserve by the RSPB.
Foulness is one of those places that deserves proper investigation at a future date, but we don’t feel too bad leaving it off our current itinerary since we are restricting ourselves to walking the mainland coast for the moment.
Yet another lady approaches, bearing a large bag of blackberries and the ever cheery Betty can’t resist asking her where she picked them. Alas it seems they were some distance away, but once again we feel it is refreshing that the locals appear to be quite pleasant towards outsiders.
A little further on I spot a new kind of sea-side litter, a surgical mask. I suspect that these are likely to become commonplace during the current Covid-19 pandemic, as people either chuck them out of car windows, or they are carried off on the wind from nearby refuse sites.
As we walk the sea wall, 200 metres or so of Havengore Creek separates us from Foulness Island. Beyond are several large wind turbines but it is uncertain where they are located, since out here on the flat Essex marshes there is nothing to give any sense of scale or distance.
In the distance are several large wind turbines
Suddenly I jump as I hear a loud shout to my left. I turn, but I can see no-one. 200 metres ahead of me a man is gesturing at his dog and I realise it must have been his voice that somehow carried over the marshes to give the impression he was almost next to me. The wind can play strange tricks in the marshlands.
As he approaches he shouts to me. “Is that an OS Map?”
I respond “Yes it is.”
“I thought it was all phones these days.”
“No,” I explain, “you can’t beat an OS Map for getting a wider picture of the area.”
“You ex-army?” He asks.
“No ex-scouts.”
“Just as good. You’re not from round here are you? Where’s your accent from?”
I confirm his suspicions and reveal that I’m from Yorkshire. Since he is evidently a local I ask him about Foulness and the ranges. It turns out he actually once lived on Foulness, which surprises me as I hadn’t realised that people still lived there. It transpires that a couple of hundred people still do. It must be a pretty isolated place to live especially as there is no longer a shop, church or pub to be found in its only settlement – Churchend.
He is a mine of information, informing me that all the firing is artillery and advises me that the public can visit at weekends – should I wish to go over some time.
He adds. “You can get there along the Broomway, but it’s a bit dodgy – even though the MOD drive lorries along it.”
He is referring to the Maplin Sands which are exposed at low tide. The Broomway is an ancient trackway across the sands marked by what look like upturned besoms, or brooms. I ask him about the wind turbines, but he doesn’t seem to know where they are sited.
“Perhaps Wallasea Island?” I suggest.
“Where’s that?” He replies.
Apparently he has never heard of Wallasea, despite it only being about 400 metres from Foulness, where he used to live. I suspect the locals are very parochial in their outlook. We leave him to berate his wayward hound, as his angry voice carries miles across the broad flat lands of South East Essex.
The sea wall we are walking on is a substantial concrete-faced structure, some 5 metres high. Like other local sea walls, it was improved significantly after the 1953 floods when Foulness Island was completely inundated by the sea.
Further on the quiet of the saltmarsh is broken by the calls of seabirds, particularly black-headed gulls as their sneering cries punctuate the air. It is notable that no sound of breaking surf on shingle is to be heard in the saltmarsh, quite at odds with our Sussex pebble beaches. It is a very different and eerie environment to be walking in.
The locals keep parading towards us, as a woman of advanced years approaches walking her 3 large dogs. As they jump in and out of ditches in pursuit of doggy smells I wonder if she is able to control them, should they turn vicious. It’s a long-shot I know, but I’m afraid I never trust dogs.
Lots of gone-to-seed hemlock adorns the sea wall, with the ubiquitous bramble choking anywhere that is not trampled or cut by man.
Gone-to-seed hemlock adorns the sea wall
If there was ever a decision by the powers-that-be not to cut these paths, then we would quickly lose all access to the sea wall. It could easily happen if money is considered to be in short supply and local authorities lose still more funding. Actually I suspect the Environment Agency is responsible for its management, with the sea wall serving an important nationally strategic purpose, keeping out the sea and ensuring national food production. Nevertheless with the current erratic government and unpredictable Prime Minister I fear that they could easily stop it all at a stroke.
A miscellany of boat types make up the residential moorings adjacent to the sea wall
We pass a boatyard, which surprises me as there is no mention of it on the OS map. This is a downside of published maps which often struggle to stay up-to-date, by contrast the Google map on my phone tells us it is Wakering Boatyard.
The boatyard is similar to a number of others I have used in the past. A couple of interesting narrowboat projects are in progress in one area of it, not dissimilar to projects of my own – days long passed. It is hard to tell if they are permanently occupied or just a weekend project. As an ex-narrowboat owner I am intrigued by what they may intend to do with them. Will they take them elsewhere to cruise the canal and river system, or perhaps just pootle around the local creeks. On a good day you could go out to sea, but I wouldn’t fancy it. The Medway estuary and The Swale were quite enough for me.
Some of the moored vessels make for very substantial living quarters. I note that one large steel boat is close in size to our bungalow.
A vessel the size of a bungalow
It is then that I realise that I am only looking at the superstructure, beneath it is the main hull providing a truly massive home for someone. Taking such a boat to sea would probably require a crew, so I suspect it will sit where it is for the rest of its days. I wouldn’t fancy the challenge of working on such a large steel hull and addressing the ravages of rust from salt-water.
One of the charms of coastal walking is the range of working boats you encounter in places like this. The boatyard has plenty of them, with a mix of hoists, bollards and guard-dogs. One boat is being carefully minded by the latter and gets up from its snooze to tell me in no uncertain terms that I should be on my way. I of course comply!
Beyond the excitement of the boatyard, the sea wall stretches on until we come to a swing bridge.
The swing bridge
The OS map reveals that it is the access to Potton Island, one of the smaller members of the Foulness Archipelago. In fact we have gone past the smallest, Rushley Island without even noticing it. The road leading to the bridge is deserted, with the bridge itself looking like it is little used. I suspect it is only in position to let the odd large vessel pass up Potton Creek towards the Roach, since most of the smaller ones could probably pass under it. The cooing of pigeons carries on the wind. Doubtless they are holed-up on its massive riveted iron girders, only disturbed once or twice each week by the rumbling mechanism as the bridge opens and closes.
We hear a loud bang. It is not explosives this time, but thunder – as large black clouds approach. One advantage of walking along salt marsh coast is that you can see bad weather coming from a long way off. Unfortunately there is little you can do about it, since there is nowhere to hide. We are aware that rain showers are expected and hope that the thunder will stay up in the clouds rather than heralding cloud to ground lightning strikes ahead. As if by way of a reply, an artillery shell explodes somewhere beyond Foulness.
Looking at the sky it is obvious that we could be in for a good soaking. The wind gets up and the air feels different, whilst we look anxiously to the south. We can see a dark mass of cloud with hazy air beneath it over Great Wakering and hope it will skirt us. Betty suspects not and insists that we hide under a small hawthorn nearby.
Betty, ever the optimist, takes shelter from the oncoming rain
We quickly don waterproofs, with Betty’s 15 foot tall tree surprisingly contributing significantly to our personal protection. We are fortunate, with the main body of the squall passing us by. However, on leaving our tree, we are hit by yet another short unexpected shower, as it tracks over Southend and on towards Burnham-on-Crouch.
The coast does some complex twists and turns at this point, with Barlinghall Creek forcing us a mile westward, then south, before west again as far as Little Wakering. This long looping creek offers sheltered moorings to a few small craft, but it is largely just an obstruction to sea wall walkers like ourselves. Everywhere is water, with the sea wall being an elevated embankment between the sea and the borrowdyke on its landward side. A herd of marsh cows sit or stand chewing their cud, growing fat on the land won from the sea centuries earlier. How long before the sea takes it back I wonder?
We stop for lunch at the Little Wakering end of the creek, where at one time the locals would have used it as a vital highway before modern roads and railways were built. The piling and concrete wall at the end of the creek seem to serve little purpose now other than providing peace of mind for the locals, many of whom Betty suspects are gypsies – living in caravans and rearing chickens and goats.
Lunch at the Little Wakering end of the creek
This tail end of the creek appears long forgotten, with no boats moored here. One is tempted to think that it would make sense to cut off the creek, with a relatively easily maintained short section of sea wall across its mouth. However, I suspect that could well lead to much greater expense, since the long arm of the creek acts as a kind of pressure-release valve whenever the North Sea decides to push against Essex, as it did back in 1953.
As we walk back along the north side of the creek, numerous little egrets flutter-by making calls that sound more like sheep ‘baaing’ than birds. These small white herons are new residents to the UK. They first bred in the UK in 1996 and within 30 years they have become one of the more common sights as we attempt to circumnavigate the British coastline.
The flat land of this area lends itself to a small landing strip, although this local airfield appears to have little by way of planes on it. I suspect the local landowner just uses it for his light aircraft, but has gone to the trouble of warning walkers not to trespass on his land, advising that you will answer to the Civil Aviation Authority if you do. The CAA would have had a much greater interest in this area at the back end of the 20th century had the proposed airports at Foulness or Maplin Sands come to fruition. Fortunately the birds won out and this is now a surprisingly tranquil corner of England because of it.
Barlinghall Creek – a haven of tranquility under the passing cumulus
Barlinghall Creek describes a wide arc as it sweeps north and eastwards, emptying its tidal waters into the Roach. The inland end of the creek is called Little Wakering Creek and has limited navigational value, but the seaward end retains water throughout the tidal cycle. Adjacent to Barling Hall a wharf has been created using a beached concrete barge. Next to this clever piece of improvisation numerous boating and fishing enthusiasts moor their small boats. One of these is busy making some alterations to his boat as we march along the sea wall. He pauses for few seconds, standing upright to exchange a ‘good day’ before returning to his labours. Sitting on the old concrete barge another man is enjoying the afternoon sun and throwing pebbles into the still blue waters of the creek. It is a tranquil scene which has probably been repeated many times over the centuries: blue skies packed with billowing cumulus, reflected in the tidal waters, whilst locals busy themselves with their boats or just enjoying being here.
It is too good an opportunity not to take photographs, in a vain attempt to capture the moment. The photos hardly do the moment justice, but you can’t fault us for trying.
The peninsular between The Roach and Barlinghall Creek used to be an area of marshland. The canny landowner obviously realised he could make a few bob turning it into a landfill site, or more accurately a ‘land-raise’ site since there is no hole to fill here. This is a common occurrence on the remote flat lands of South Essex. Over the last few years it appears hundreds of trucks have dumped waste at this and other sites in the area. At Barlinghall Marsh this appears to have now ceased, with a layer of topsoil currently being spread over the new hill of refuse. A network of pipes drains waste gases off from the mound, which may even produce sufficient quantities for economic extraction of biogas.
The Landfill Site – Barlinghall Marshes
A lone bulldozer chugs along the skyline and I can see a really interesting photograph. Unfortunately my very clever phone refuses to comply with my wishes, insisting on switching to the video alternative. In a rare moment of pique I actually throw the not-so-smart-phone to the ground. Talk about throwing your toys out of the pram! Betty attempts to make a helpful suggestion. I cut her short with “Say nothing!” I get over it – eventually.
Turning the corner, where the Roach and the Barlinghall Creek meet, we head inland again along the banks of the Roach, where a lone heron stands spearing frogs in a field of corn stubble. Beyond it the mountain of waste obscures views across to Southend and its towering blocks of flats. In an adjacent field over 100 Canada Geese honk to each other, before launching themselves skyward in groups of 4 or 5.
Canada Geese
The Roach here looks to be a popular fishing spot, but the recent 35 Celsius temperatures have made the bank vegetation tinder dry. There is evidence of a large fire having raged here a few weeks earlier, perhaps from a carelessly dropped fag end or a tea stove. Already new vegetation is growing to replace the lost – as nature heals itself, with fresh green reeds erupting out of the charcoal blackness.
Evidence of a large fire
By now we feel that we have done enough of the coast for one day, with the remainder of the Roach being more riverine than coastal. A footpath turns inland to Barling and on to the Wakerings, so we follow it before dragging our weary legs back to the car 14.5 miles of walking after we left it. Happy to say, it still has all four of its wheels.
The River Roach at its junction with Barlinghall Creek