It might be bluebell time, but it is COLD here in Suffolk. It has been cold for most of the last month; so cold that the wild violets and primroses were late getting started and are still in flower along some shady verges. Even the odd daffodil is still just struggling into flower. The lilac is still tightly in bud, the cow parsley has yet to live up to its mayflower name and the hawthorns, though now fully covered in their beautifully shiny, brand new lime-green leaves, have barely a blossom between them.
I have been venturing out on my morning walks in full winter gear, mainly to combat the very strong winds which have been blowing relentlessly, often with a lot of north in them. After a fairly long period without rain, we are now being battered by wave after wave of dark grey cloud-fulls of it, unpredictable and sometimes sneaking up on you with an unsporting, ear-bashing bombardment of hail.
Despite it all, the Suffolk countryside is still inviting and freshly beautiful. The muted colours of spring are gradually being filled out by trees like this horse-chestnut, desperate to try its chances with its new crop of candle-flowers, which for now are keeping their heads down.
Although I am always happy to walk the same local paths around Boxford, Polstead and Stoke-by-Nayland and to admire the landscape which Constable painted, I often long for a view of the sea. A trip all the way round Mersea Island was the perfect tonic one sunny but very cold day.
This time, I managed to find the path which has replaced the sea wall path in the north-west of the island, which avoided most of the hair-raising stretch along the road from the Causeway.
It is difficult to take a photo which shows the wind, particularly in marshland, where there are no trees or tall plants to convey its force.
In places, Mersea has a wild and exotic feel and it is surprising to think that it is only a few miles from the centre of Colchester.
The sea eats away at Mersea as it does all along the East Anglian coast. Whole trees are swallowed by each extra-high tide, leaving fresh expanses of sandy cliff for residential development by the sand martins.
This year, it has finally carried away a section of the sea wall in the south-east of the island which was passable on foot just last summer. Our circum-ambulation this time involved a diversion inland to East Mersey village, where drivers are urged to beware an unusual hazard:
On we went, through a growing forest of mobile homes and into a labyrinth of "no entry", "private", and "keep to the footpath" signs (more likely if the owner of the sign actually indicates where the footpath is supposed to be), until we eventually emerged back on the beach near West Mersea for the final tiring trudge along the shingle.
The sea-front at West Mersea steadfastly retains the atmosphere of a proper maritime community. It has always avoided being tidied up, despite its great popularity with seafood-loving visitors, who flock to it in fine weather in almost unmanageable numbers.
The diversion meant that the full walk around the island took longer than usual and a late lunch on the West Mersea seafront did more than just beckon - it screamed "eat me". We rewarded ourselves with one of life's sweetest pleasures - fish and chips on the beach after a five-hour walk in the East Anglian wind and sun.
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