Roger Deakin's Suffolk

Words by Joe Minihane & Illustrations by Marina Marcolin - first published in our England magazine.

“There was a time for us too when Suffolk and the whole of the Waveney Valley was terra incognita, like the hills, woods and ponds around Thoreau’s cabin at Walden.”

Roger Deakin, Notes from Walnut Tree Farm

I walk across Outney Common, boots squelching through churned up mud, as a herd of cows throws me nonchalant glances from fifty paces. There’s the caw of invisible ravens, the twirling song of a skylark, the silent wingbeats of a kestrel on high, watching something unseen in the tall grass.

I am here to swim in the Waveney, a river that arcs in a deep meander around this open space. It’s late April and despite the spring sun burning off the dawn mist, a chill breeze lingers. Where the river forks and a row of timber steps are nailed into an overhanging horse chestnut, I slip into the cool water. Wavelets slap across my chest as I tack out into the deep, enjoying the frog’s eye view. This is my favourite place, on the trail of a man who made this valley, this county, his home. A man whose writing gave rise to a new understanding of the natural world.

Roger Deakin was a swimmer, writer, woodsman, filmmaker and eccentric. He made his life at Walnut Tree Farm, a once-ruined Elizabethan farmhouse in the Suffolk village of Mellis. Surrounded by a medieval moat and acres of unkempt fields and woodland, it was a base for his adventures both local and far reaching.

In the years since his passing in 2006, Deakin and his works have become cornerstones of a resurgent nature writing scene in the UK. 1999’s Waterlog, an ode to the delights of illicit swims in the country’s hidden waterways, is now seen as totemic, kickstarting a wider appreciation of wild swimming. The posthumously released Wildwood revealed Deakin’s deep knowledge of and adoration for forests and trees, such passions also evident in his diaries, released as Notes from Walnut Tree Farm in 2008.

My own connection to Deakin came through a shared love of wild swimming. Waterlog was, and still is, my bible. The author’s impish sense of fun, love of outing rules and understanding of the natural world spoke to me at a time when I was struggling with anxiety. I made it my mission to swim in all of the places Deakin had visited, a project which became my own book, Floating.

“The Waveney is a secret river, by turns lazy and agile, dashing over shallow beds of gravel, then suddenly quiet, dignified and deep.”

Roger Deakin, Waterlog

In the three years since the end of my journey, I have missed diving into Deakin’s world. Hence I am here, swimming in a pool on the Waveney that he described as “a perfect pike pool”, all submerged tree roots and uneven banks. The water seems like the ideal way to see the world as Deakin did. He speaks of becoming part of the scene when swimming in rivers, of being at one with the creatures that make it their home, of gaining a sense of perspective unattainable on dry land.

From where I swim, the banks look impossibly high, the only sights a distant mansion and the course of the channel where it twists its way towards Bungay, Geldeston and the North Sea beyond. Low to the water, the breeze has dropped and the sun warms my back as I swim a lazy breaststroke. Deakin called this “the naturalists’ stroke”, all the better for the swimmer to see their surroundings. I can hear the whirr of gold finches. The kestrel I saw earlier drops, hovers and drops again, rising once more without prey. I picture pike hiding in the depths, waiting to bite, and make for the bank.

“This was the Wissey, a river so secret that even its name sounds like a whisper: a river of intoxicating beauty that appears to have avoided the late twentieth century altogether.”

Roger Deakin, Waterlog

Across the county border, on the edge of Norfolk’s sandy Brecklands, I follow the barbed wire fence of a MOD ring range. The late afternoon light is filtering through Scots pines and humanity seems to be elsewhere, disinterested, unaware of this spectacular little corner of England.

At a humpbacked bridge, where the paved road fades to dirt, the Wissey emerges from what Deakin called “the never never land” of the adjacent ring range, pouring into a swirling weir pool. I wade over slick, shelving pebbles into the white water, turn, and let its force ease out the knots in my back, before sliding into the shallows, willing myself to stay beneath the icy surface.

Because the ring range isn’t troubled by intensive farming and agribusiness, the Wissey has retained a magical feel, that same “intoxicating beauty” Deakin observed 20 years ago. I wade out yet again as a tawny owl glides overhead. Deakin had an unerring ability to find and share sublime locations, especially those surrounding his Mellis moat. The fact that so many remain pristine feels like a rare gift, unchanging calm in the modern storm.

“I had come down the path along the disintegrating cliffs from the magnificent ruined church at Covehithe. Each year the path moves further inland across the fields because great hunks of England keep falling away in winter storms.”

Roger Deakin, Waterlog

The light patter of April rain echoes inside my hood. I turn my back on the mossy walls of Covehithe Church and follow the path around farm fields to where small cliffs slip onto the sandy beach. It is late morning, the day after my blissful Wissey dip.

Covehithe is the fastest eroding stretch of English coastline with around five metres claimed by the sea each year. As storms continue to batter Suffolk every winter, it’s likely the church and its 14th century ruins will be under the churning waves by the middle of the century.

Deakin writes in Waterlog of a ley line he drew from his moat to the coast just south of here. He stopped along its length to swim in pools near Eye and the lake in the grounds of Heveningham Hall. But instead I am drawn to this ethereal place, where Deakin swam in the now inaccessible Benacre Broad. Today, an electric fence tacked out around its perimeter protects ground-nesting birds. I walk along the beach, where fallen trees lay lop-sided, whitened by the sun, awaiting their futures as submarine habitats. As the rain intensifies, I give in to the water’s call and run towards the roughed up rollers.

Turning to look back to the shore, I see my first swifts of the year, their unmistakable whistle catching on the growing wind. The waves rise and a sharp slap of salty water brings me back into the moment. “One of the beauties of this flat land of Suffolk is that when you’re swimming off the shore and the waves come up, it subsides from view and you could be miles out in the North Sea,” writes Deakin towards the end of Waterlog. I feel that here, now, and wish he was with me to enjoy the dip, to bob as a seal, to revel in the water and light he so hymned.

Crabtree & Crabtree

Standing upon Bamburgh Dunes in windswept Northumberland, I watch three dogs bound over salt- softened grass to chase waves and gulls. In the distance stands Farne Island Lighthouse, a resolute silhouette before the late autumn sun. To my left are Holy Island’s ruins, and to the right, there’s nothing but boulders and sand. While there is a tea shop nearby, and a van selling cockles and whelks even closer, this isn’t the ‘pleasant pastures’ or ‘clouded hills’ version of England I dreamt of when, all those years ago, back in Australia, I first considered the romance of distant shores. But it’s one of the innumerable English scenes I now adore.

Although they’ve never been easy to pen, these editor’s letters typically come to me - unexpected and rough - in a particular location. For France it was while ensconced in a Champagne châteaux, Japan happened when seeking solace along the Kumano Kodō, and for Scotland, it was when battling sleet upon the Isle of Skye. These settings all seemed, in those moments, to capture the soul of our chosen country. Yet England was different. This may be a tiny island but it’s staggeringly diverse. It is sylvan, unpredictable, sublime, originative and contradictory - a land of eccentricity and ingenuity, a mix of worlds, practices and lifestyles all enriched and enlivened by an enthrallingly complex past. Travel here and discover more than you thought possible - and that defining Englishness is a daunting task indeed.

I mused on this opening while delving into Dorset’s literary history, tramping across the Peak District and plotting journeys to distant islands. It could have been Cornwall’s harbours, tales of Roman conquests, artistic movements born in seaside towns or star-filled skies that provided inspiration. But alone, in isolation, they never felt right, for England has many guises and no one scene, however iconic, quaint or quintessential it may be, entirely encapsulates this peculiar country. The land of hope and glory truly is the sum of its parts.

This extract from my England Editor's Letter was written while spending a glorious long weekend in Crabtree & Crabtree's Stewards House in Berwick-Upon-Tweed. It was my first trip to Northumberland - a destination that stars in the new England magazine, a place of gin, dark skies and wild spaces - and, faced with glorious September weather and a property I had no desire to leave, I could not think of a better introduction to this historic, fascinating part of the world.

The house itself is a feast of rose-coloured stone, homely furniture, sprawling gardens, vintage details and classically English soft furnishing. Downstairs, the spacious kitchen is ideal for those looking to show off their culinary prowess and mark use of the the region's exceptional produce (Chain Bridge Honey, for example, is just down the road). The kitchen leads on to the living room, complete with a tempting fireplace - and nearby is a wood-panelled billiard room, both perfect for cooler nights in. The upstairs bedrooms - all adorned with Farrow and Ball paints in muted hues and curtains that would make Laura Ashley proud - becomes yours the moment you pass through their doors. Should you be a fishing fan, this hideaway couldn't be more ideal, found upon a salmon river that separates England and Scotland. But the wonders of Northumberland, and Scotland to the north, all beg to be explored. Castles overlooking the waves, ancient fortresses designed to stir fear in the hearts of would-be Danish invaders, markets towns that have changed little over the centuries, wind-worn fishing villages, stone harbours and fields that appear to cascade on forever. If you're seeking an English escape somewhere sure to inspire, then perhaps a week at Steward's House would be just the trick

Crabtree & Crabtree have a range of self-catering accommodation offerings across Northumberland and Scotland - all properties coming with history, quirk and personality. The Cowshed, another Northumberland C&C gem, also appears in our England magazine - which you can order here. To make bookings or check out the C&C escapes available, click here.

Photographs taken by Angela Terrell while staying at Steward's House.

Rambling in the Lake District

Words and photographs by Athena Mellor

“I wandered lonely as a cloud”, proclaimed Wordsworth on rambling in the Lake District. Yet how often do you see just one single cloud? While a lone cloud may grace the skies on a clear day, more often than not clouds wander lonely yet together, drifting steadily east or west, north or south. Normally I am that sole, brave cloud drifting along - alone yet never lonely. But this time I was joined by another on my ramble. Two stoic clouds running up hillsides in one of my favourite English locations, the Lake District, on a bitterly cold January morning.

The Lake District is a hill-walkers dream. I am quite certain that it would take more than a lifetime to ramble every trail it has to offer, to explore those that are yet to be discovered, and to admire every view. But I will try anyway. Indeed, there are certain places that, no matter how often I visit, never become boring. The very nature of nature is that no two days spent outside are the same - the changing winds and seasons, the different cloud formations and sunbeams. And then there is seeing somewhere you have seen multiple times through new eyes - the eyes of someone who is experiencing it all for the very first time. This happened when I took my younger sister to the Lake District and we spent two winter days in jumpers and walking boots, hiking to hilltops and running down mountains.

Winding roads of Cumbrian gold; fluffy white clouds dazzling the sky and fluffy white sheep gracing the fields. We were en-route to Blea Tarn; I was in the driver’s seat squealing every time a slightly more confident driver squeezed between us and the drystone wall on the other side - with less that an inch between both. We laced up our boots on arrival, added a couple of layers, swung cameras over our shoulders, and wandered down to the waterfront. Blea Tarn is a small body of water nestled beneath high peaks. If you’re lucky, you may see a clear reflection of the Langdale Pikes in the tarn. But on this particular day, the wind was sending ripples through the water and the reflection was non-existent - but the scene remained beautiful nonetheless. This place always seems peaceful - there is no phone service, few other walkers and nature is allowed to flourish. Protected by the National Trust, Blea Tarn will always be the place I tell people to go when they first visit the Lakes and the place I will constantly return to, until I’m 90 I hope - with tea and biscuits, a picnic blanket and a good book.

The next day, I had something more adventurous planned. From the village of Ambleside, we headed up and up and up through thick yellow grass and alongside crumbling drystone walls, past Low Pike then High Pike where the wind viciously whipped the bare skin on our cheeks and tugged exasperatedly at our hair tucked beneath woollen hats. We were walking and talking incessantly like only sisters can do, until I realised that we might possibly be quite lost... By this point the wind was relentless, and trying to manoeuvre a map to a readable position was impossibly difficult as the sky seemed determined to steal it away. Our hands were like icicles and with difficulty speaking I had to admit to my little sister, who had trusted me wholeheartedly with route-planning, “I have absolutely no idea where we are.” So together we traced the line we were supposed to walk and realised we had taken a completely different but parallel path. We made a plan to descend away from the wind as quickly as possible, and then hurtled down the hillside as the icicles in our hands defrosted and our spirits rose once again; greedily consuming the beauty of the surrounding landscapes before it was time to head south once more.

There is something I find so alluring about the Lake District. Perhaps it is in the combination of homely, welcoming landscapes that become unforgiving in a single gust of wind. Or it may be the way the air whispers soft tales of times gone by, or thoughts of the writers and poets who have sat on these banks and taken inspiration from these hills. When I am here, I want to close my eyes and absorb all that beauty and hope and the fragility of nature - but these landscapes cannot be taken away. And so all I can do is come back again and again until I am 90 - to sit on these grassy hilltops with tea and biscuits, a picnic blanket and a good book.

You can see more of Athena's work here @athenamellor and here wildandwords.com.