The early sun is casting a warm glow over the countryside livening it with those golden colours that only evening can produce. The panorama is beautiful; the yellows and golds and reds lifting the spirit to higher and higher planes. As I am siting behind the wheel of my car you may wonder how I have the time to appreciate the subtle shades of yellow and gold; the red tinges to the edges of the fluffy clouds as they drift lazily across the azure sky. The answer is simple I am in a traffic jam behind an old Ford Escort whose exhaust matches the blue of the sky.

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I get Brian and my pack and we try the clearly defined path in the grass, only to find it blocked by a fence just as the old man had said, which didn't improve my temper. As it's his boat we agree, but we are a little apprehensive as we have another ferry to catch to get to Felixstowe later that day. There are several hundred of them and not one is the same as another.

It is gun a bustling town. Fortunately we met some people on the beach at an access ramp.

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Some things do not change however as we gaze on the timeless images of cricket on the green. There are compensations however, the room is more like a mini-suite with a small lounge area, shortbread biscuits, en-suite facilities with the bed in an alcove off to the right. After a mile or so we leave the low land next to the river and climb a gentle hill past a farm towards Tunstall Forest.

A little while later we took to the beach for the last stretch into Mundesley.

The answer is simple As it is we press on towards Orford and eventually the main and only road into Orford. We are entertained by a hardy group of individuals engaging in tonighy noisy water sports. We learn we have reached Tonnight, and Mundesley is the town we can see about a mile down the beach. It is little more than a row of houses built virtually on the beach with the Martello Tower and a few bungalows behind. We find a laundrette so I am able to get my fix! Here we meet an elderly man who takes great delight in telling us there is no direct access to Southwold.

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Oh yes - the ruddy great packs on their straining backs. We decide to give the joys of Clacton a miss for this year. It has been very hot Mundeslry the sun all morning so our passage of the woods brought cooling relief. He is a man of many parts: there is a commendation from the local Chief Constable hanging on the wall, and at breakfast we find out that he was out during the night launching the inshore lifeboat. My concern is that if we don't do it today there will be no opportunity until we reach Felixstowe.

Once we get past the power station we look back along the dikes, which have widened out considerably, more like landscaped grass covered dunes. I guess our blood sugar levels must have fallen too low for comfort and rational thought.

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We rest next to a collection of modern buildings with an institutional air, but what sort of institution we know not. We watch its rotation and realise that if we are quick we can get past without getting soaked.

We are looking for somewhere between Yarmouth and Lowestoft. The sea is about yards to our left. Walking the Dogs.

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In truth we are both tired and not that keen to press on. Day 4 As we set off along the prom we indulge in one of our little rituals - "where do we sleep tonight".

They are very pleasant and we spend an interesting hour or so chatting before bathing, changing and seeking our supper. During the night I have a bad attack of cramp and the jitters.

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Just one of the perfect memories from this strangest of years. We keep an eye out for somewhere to have our end-of-walk-meal, but find nowhere better than last night's pub.

We were able to sit back and enjoy the Norfolk countryside with the rest of fof passengers in the three-quarters full train. It must have enjoyed its holiday as well. For the first time in any of our walks we have to share a double bed. Before leaving the beach just North of Warren Farm we pass a dead seal. Thirty minutes and funn mile or so later we arrive at No 50!

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The Ness toight grown in length over the centuries and has a secret past. We see several clearly defined paths in the fields leading from whence we came into the townall blocked by fences.

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The dogs gambol back and forth, busily sniffing at the exciting animal smells, then coming back - is it time for a treat yet? From the exploits of his father in law at Woolwich Arsenal to the iniquities of the local Tourist Office; from the scenic delights of Essex North of the A12 - beautiful; South - Hell's Arsehole ; the local population's sense of time and distance - we had already met Suffolk minutes, their miles are apparently just as flexible.

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The ferry man confirms our fears that the river, despite its obvious attractions and use by visitors, can be dangerous. Fortunately there is a footpath all the way which reduces the stress levels dramatically. Our path takes us through the dunes past yet more second homes and chalets. The traffic jam is courtesy of the Highways Agency who have been making sandcastles in this stretch of the A19 for the past year.

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