A bright Sunday in this small village, a place loved by Margery Allingham.
There are few people about down at the hard small boats lay around like discarded shoes.
One is being prepared by her helm; outboard being checked whilst two others stand by watching and chatting. Sun glistens on the mud and the tide seems to slow on a Sunday.
We come here whenever we can, never staying long my dad and I. This is the edge of Essex the edge of the known world. Often time will go up onto the sea wall the defence against the sea’s nature, to protect the farmland here abouts.
In what might past for a boat yard one man dozes in a old chair, sun full on his face towering above him a huge wooden keel. From this part of England’s coast the sailors were recruited to crew the huge J class yachts for the rich men of Cowes. Once upon a time a small railway took oysters from here to London everyday.
Today barely a breeze moves as we return to the car.