River Deben from Felixstowe Ferry

It had been months since I had seen the sea. As we drove over the hill from Felixstowe towards the golf course, there it was - actually sparkling in some reluctant sunlight and blue(ish), rather than the more usual east coast brown. Blue or brown, it looked like an old friend. It said the world was still there, waiting to be explored.

Felixstowe Ferry was just stirring into its busy Sunday morning life. Lasers and Hobbycats, Darts and kayaks jostled for position around the road and the river bank, waiting for their chance to wet their keels. The ferry was just setting off on its crossing to Bawdsey with its consignment of masked passengers. The fish shop was not yet open, but already a long queue had formed outside, at 2 metre spaces, as though they were about to break into a strange kind of barn dance.

We took the path out on to the marshes, walking along the raised sea defence. The views stretched over the River Deben to our right, while down on our left a strip of wetland separated the river from the cultivated fields, some of which had already been harvested and re-sown with winter crops.

Two sailing boats were beating up the river beside us, carefully avoiding the expanses of gloopy mud left by the low tide. For a couple of miles they progressed at the same walking pace as us, nosing ahead on port tack, losing ground to us on starboard, as the wind freshened. At Falkenham Creek, a bend in the river gave them a better angle to the wind and they streaked away ahead of us, towards lunch at the Ramsholt Arms. On the opposite bank, the pub looked welcoming and busy, but was as inaccessible to us as the moon.

The church on the hill to the north of the pub completed a scene worthy of a watercolour. From this angle it is difficult to see that the tower is actually round: this is one of 38 churches in East Anglia with these unusual features.

We carried on towards Kirton Creek. As the sunshine became stronger, the colours in the water and the marsh plants grew more distinct. Greys turned to blues and dull brown/green of sedges contrasted with bright greens of algae, mauves of cranesbill and delicate white carpets of lacy wild carrot.

The most prolific flower, however, was a jet black plume thrown out by a tough-looking reed.

At Kirton Creek, the path along the river has been closed, so we followed an inland route along the side of a swishing poplar wood and up to the tiny village of Hemley. It's an unexpected place, welcoming and unpretentious, with its modest houses, stolid little church and stupendous distant views down the Deben.

After a quick look round the village, we followed the same path back down to Kirton Creek and up the other side of the inlet, climbing a steep hill to a point with such far-reaching views up and down the river that it is surprising no former lord of the manor built a castle on it, or contemporary architect a glass cube-house.

Following a track to the left, we walked along the side of a long, thin woodland, marked on the OS map as "The Belt", across an uncut barley field and back on to a track through Corporation Marshes to the river bank. Swans and egrets slinked among the marshes on one side, while a motley crew of gulls and crows patrolled the mudbanks, squabbling with the occasional wading bird. They looked as though they were on the hunt for fun or trouble rather than food.

Back at Felixstowe Ferry, Sunday afternoon was underway. The cafes have reopened and we were able to enjoy a long-awaited box of fish and chips overlooking the ferry mooring and watching the scenes of waterside life. More masked voyagers embarked for Bawdsey. A middle-aged couple struggled to secure a motor boat on to a semi-submerged trailer on the launching ramp (or, rather, she did, fighting with a winch line, thigh deep in cold Deben water, while he directed proceedings from the driving seat of a huge 4 x 4). The Harbour Master took paying guests for a trip around the anchorage and out to the sandbanks, in the hope of sighting a local seal. The ubiquitous jet-skier did his thing. The sun nearly shone. It was perfect.

By now the tide had turned and was racing back up the river, so that sailing boats coming in through the Deben bar made their entrance like corks from champagne bottles. They were accompanied by the seagull gang, joyriding noisily alongside them on the fierce current.