The British Isles is often said to look like a kneeling man. If that is so then East Anglia where I’m currently residing is the buttocks and the town of Lowestoft, a small pimple on its arse.
That allusion is unfair though as with so many of the seaside resorts on our east coast, Lowestoft has seen better days.
It still has it theatre and it’s still big(ish) in its fishing, but the days when you could have two weeks holiday with candyfloss, kiss-me-quick hats, Mr Whippy ice cream, a bucket and spade and still have change for a saucy postcard to your nan are long gone.
Even if it’s living on its history, therefore, doesn’t mean that history isn’t beguiling. As I hope this ramble around its northern ramparts will reveal. Sad to report this stroll was well over Dog’s max of 4 kilometres – even he is beyond miles these days – but I may dig something out of the archive for you.
I parked near the station by the harbour – cue ship-pic – and headed along the pedestrianised shopping street towards the old town high street. You pass flying birds sculpture installed in 2006.
There are quite a fewthe old buildings, a sculpture or two and a rather defaced Banksy that, belatedly someone has covered in a Perspex sheet. Oh and an owl on the side of the Lowestoft tandoori celebrating the local bird life
There were also a large number of inserts in the paving, some better than others. I’ve not been able to identify who commissioned them.
Once we migrated from the functional modern to the old, via a large high street sign, we encountered the first of the passages that are a curious of this town.
Originally these were paths that led from the town and its inns and houses down to the coast and the fishing boats. The medieval pattern remains with these narrow paths, called ‘the Scores’, some less attractive than others but each with its own little piece of history.
Some were named after inns, some local landowners.
Some have a more interesting story. One was named Rant Score, after King George II escaped up it during a storm. We aren’t told what he was ranting about.
Or maybe you prefer Martin’s Score with its winding path, its embedded pavers depicting fishing boat types down the years and a wooden post that commemorates the victory, probably on away goals against the Spanish Armada in 1588. It is replaced every 100 years apparently. There’s also a curiously Banskyesque piece of street art too.
Or Mariner’s Score with its fine arch
Eventually though you reach Lighthouse Score that leads down to the park, a good place for a bite to eat.
Not forgetting the lighthouse of course. I do like Lighthouses.
The park advertised three small museums around its boundary and I fancied visiting one. That was before I was served a fruit scone the size of Dorset which changed my plans rather. Instead I had a decko at some sculptures, some sea debris and a plaque recoding the sea level in the 1953 floods. Sea defences are better now and this tragedy was a prompt that led to the Thames barrier being built but you can’t hold back the sea.
I was now on the coast, staring at the North Sea. It’s not the most attractive body of water and certainly not one that entices me to wild swimming. Personally I enjoy my holidays without cryogenically freezing my arse off at the same time.. My goal was to reach Ness Point, the most easterly part of these isles. You’d only know this because someone squandered a dollop of tax payers’ cash on this dial thingy. There are a few pictures, copies of something by JMW Turner and Lowestoft Man, a portrait painting on the side of a stone chimney. The dial has a number of towns on its rim, showing where and how far they are from this rather bleak little point. I couldn’t spot any, despite good visibility.
Turning away from the sea and wandering under the enormous wind turbine, one is hit with a sickly sweet scent. For many years the British have had to put up with a lot of sneering about the quality of our cooking, especially from our neighbours, the French. Though as my old ma would say, they only made great sauces because they were shite at preparing the meat. Our critics do have a point, mind you. We have foisted some right old crap onto the nation’s plates. Fish paste, luncheon meat, spam, primula cheese, ice creams where the one missing ingredient is cream, powdered coffee, powdered milk, powdered anything really apart from custard. And onto this extensive list I would put the humble and far from beguiling fish finger.
That was what was behind me. Bird’s Eye’s enormous fish finger factory. This place has been churning out these diabolical breaded sticks since 1949. Maybe they were developing the prototype fishmonger when George II can scurrying up the cliffs and offered His Maj a taste. Even though he was basically German and lived on pickled cabbage and sausages that look like so much bleached intestine, he would have been justified in having a bit of a rant.
Shuddering I hurried on, past the most easterly church (you can get bored with the most easterly every things) up the final Score – Herring Fishery Score – and back to the car. For all the slightly sour ending – and I understand many people love these fingers of fish – this was a grand walk.
And I still had time to take Dog to the beach for a scamper.
TanGental 