Yesterday afternoon, in bright spring sunshine and a cutting northwesterly breeze, I walked along the turf embankments that, for the last two centuries, have bounded the estuary below our house . On one side, lawn-like flats that will soon be ablaze with sea pinks (thrift) ran down to the water’s edge where boats restlessly tugged at their moorings as though eager for the sailing season to begin. On the other side were the level, rather wet meadows, studded with ewes and their new lambs, which the embankments had reclaimed from the sea all those years ago. A network of deep drainage ditches, almost too extensive to comprehend and now neglected and choked with tall norfolk reed, stretched into the distance.
Coming towards me I saw a tall figure, bent under the weight of a half bag of feed, and recognised him as the owner of the sheep. He limped slightly in the way that farmers in their sixties do after more soakings and heavy work than hip joints can stand. When we met he swung the sack to the ground and leaned on his stick while his dog gambolled round us. Evidently he was prepared to stop and chat.
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