On the Edge
The Suffolk Coast & Heaths Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty is a triangle of land of 430 square miles that is sandwiched between the A12 and the North Sea running from Kessingland, at the eastren edge, not far from Lowestoft to the Stour Estuary, where the port of Harwich stands at the mouth. There is one notable gap in this long strip of carefully nurtured landscape and that’s Felixstowe and its neighbouring villages. It seems as if Felixstowe has been ignored by planners or is just left as the largest container port in the UK and the end of the A14, the only arterial route that has dual carriageway that goes any real distance across Suffolk.
To local and regional planners this fine town is little more than the home of lorry drivers and a resort for those poor folk of Ipswich who cannot afford a holiday on the Costa Plenty.
Yet Felixstowe has more to offer than the trendier coastal villages found further up the coast. I have a friend who lives in Sussex who says she comes to see me but, in reality, she get more enjoyment rummaging around the large number of charity shops found in the town. That may seem to be something of a joke but it has serious intent. Felixstowe does have an attractive shopping centre, with several major brand names at its centre and a host of smaller shops, most of which are owned by local traders. I fail to understand why councils make us pay for car parks in such centres, yet allow retail sheds and supermarkets, often outside town, to have huge car parks. Such a help to glovbal warming, and to the heart of town communities!
That there are too many empty shops also has much to do with our system of calculating business rates. It is very difficult to become an entrepreneur and take a chance when huge bills plop on to the doormat before you’ve even taken a penny. It would be far more sensible to follow the system used in much of Europe, where shopkeepers are taxed on their profits, not just for existing, and are seen as a valuable local service.
There are advantages to be gained from living in a town that receives so many visitors. For me, being a fat foodie, it’s the host of little cafes and restaurants. My week needs to be carefully planned. On Monday I may visit Ann, my neighbour, who works in an old-fashioned teashop upstairs above the shops opposite the main Post Office. She brings me freshly baked cheese scones and a pot of tea together with a plentiful amount of cheery conversation.
The next day I stroll along High Street East to a teashop with a difference. This one mixes antiques and bric-a-brac with freshly cooked food, and you may browse through the books for sale as you eat. There's an interior design sho p next door, then the baker’s shop next door provides a fresh loaf and a wonderful home-made steak pie for my tea. That parade continues with the best butcher's in town, Michael's meat excels, is locally sourced and he provides friendly service. There's also an excellent chines takeaway, a newsagents and the Moove-In estae agency. A parade toi visit, with the butcher, the bake and the candlestick-maker.
Wednesday, and I need to slow down slightly but the temptations of Mrs Simpsons café along Undercliff Road East are always compelling. The Mrs Simpson, the American wife of one of our former kings waited in Felixstowe while he abdicated, in a building that once stood beside this café. The house was knocked down, probably as a poltically correct gesture. My good friend Gerry Eden ownes this establishment, which provides excellent tea and cakes and sea views.
Thursday and it could be time for a treat. One of my favourite places provides a great three-course lunch of simple good food for not much more than a fiver. As a single, if old, man I’m also attracted by the lovely waitress who always remembers me, and smilingly asks if I’d, ‘like a half of bitter with that?’ In my dreams I pluck up courage to ask her out for a meal, or something more exciting, although this fat foodie is daunted by her talk of playing squash, with a man eight years younger than herself, and of her swimming regularly and starting work at 7 am at the Orwell Hotel before coming to work six days a week at the restaurant. She clearly deserves a rich man to look after her, and I’m not sure I’m up to that. You can see I know a lot about this lovely lady, in fact I feel as if I know everything except strangely enough, her name.
Friday and it’s time to pull myself together. It’s a good stiff walk to the viewing platform down at the port. It’s marvellous walking along the promenade that stretches for miles at Felixstowe to watch the huge ships make their way into the port and then a scramble across the nature reserve (no, it’s not part of the ANOB – but it should be) to Languard Fort and Museum. I’m a member of the museum that has been lovingly put together by a wonderful bunch of volunteers, totally without my help I must admit. The Fort is part of National Heritage, so a little more austere, and quite expensive but its well worth visiting this old fortress, founded by Henry Eighth. It was responsible for repelling the Dutch invasion of our shores in 1667, the last time foreign invaders touched English soil. Once the viewing platform is reached I can relax, buy a cup of tea, and perhaps a slice of bread pudding, from the lovely lady who runs the tea stall. Have you noticed that all the ladies in Felixstowe are lovely?
Saturday and I really do need a long walk. I set off past the Spa Pavilion, a 900 seat theatre that should be better used and walk east along the promenade past the spot where the Duchess of Windsor, yes that Duchess of Windsor, waited for news of an abdication. It’s a pity it was pulled down some years ago as I’ve always fancied acting as the housekeeper for somewhere with grand associations. At the end of the promenade the Environment Agency have been tackling coastal erosion with a grandiose scheme, which frankly has not worked very well. From there on it’s a scramble along the beach over the huge wooden groins that seem to get taller every time I pass that way. As the beach erodes more of their foundations are exposed. How much longer will it be?
Soon I’m back on another promenade, strolling past beach huts and finally onto the sea wall that skirts along the edge of the golf club and two imposing Martello towers before reaching the Ferry. During the last war this golf links was used to release hundreds of balloons that drifted across the North Sea to Germany, often loaded with explosives and other dangerous devices.
At the Ferry I ignore the pleasures of both of the popular pubs and head instead for fish and chips at the café. This is housed in a rickety wooden shack but the food is satisfying and service is fast and efficient. Yes, there’s another lovely lady. This time her sweet smile seems to have remain unchanged for the fifty years I’ve been popping in here for a mug of tea, a full English breakfast or a slice of cake.
Full and refreshed I pop round to the artists gallery or dream over the yachts for sale then pop into the Fisherman's Shed for some fresh fish for tea. After the fish and chips for lunch perhaps a light snack of whatever has just been landed will suit me just fine. A slow walk back along the sea wall back along the other side of the golf links and walk back home past the grander houses of Felixstowe, admiring the shiny company cars that stand in the drives.
At the end of such a week I’m no longer worrying that Felixstowe is not worthy to be part of the ANOB or any other specially designated area. Having been largely disregarded by officialdom for so many years it is largely unchanged. It has a huge whelk of a housing estate stuck behind the port, and many of its traditional shops have disappeared. I may not like the amusement arcades along the front but in the summer the place is full of visitors, most of whom are happy enough just walking up and down the prom. If the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, then Felixstowe works for me, and I've not yet started to mention the evening restaurants. I'll save those for another time.
